The calendar said Spring, but Burton Hanks couldn't tell it. The wind that whipped around the North Sea felt cold and wet. Hanks ignored the chill, looking down at the laptop computer hooked up to a control console. All systems checked, just as they had the previous dozen times today, and the dozen yesterday.

    He switched off the computer program, then disengaged the laptop from the console, a unit on the outside of the massive oil rig than extended hundreds of feet below the North Sea's surface. The testing had dragged on all day today, lasting until an hour after sunset. In those 60 minutes, the wind had gotten stronger, wetter and colder. He could feel the big rig sway with the wind and the wave.

    His thoughts were interrupted by his supervisor. "Sorry for the long day, but the company wants to make sure nothing goes wrong next week," Curt McClain said, having to raise his voice over the wind. Beads of moisture were forming on McClain's heavy coat. "Looks like we'll have to stay here tonight. They radioed in a minute ago. Said it's even choppier closer to shore, wouldn't feel comfortable coming out in anything smaller than a frigate. And we got no frigates to ferry technicians back and forth."

    "Just great," Hanks said. "Good thing they provided cots in case we got stuck here. But do we have to keep testing tomorrow? All the seals are just as tight as they were when we first started testing. All the monitoring systems check out. Why can't the damn company take our word for it?"

    "They don't want another Valdez-type incident."

    "That was a ship. We're an oil rig -- an oil rig with some very expensive controls to prevent spills from happening."

    "You know that, I know that," McClain responded. "They just don't want anything to go wrong when we start pumping oil next week. C'mon. Jawing about it ain't going to change things. Let's get inside."

    The two men walked a short distance to the entrance to quarters that would house the crews that would work at the rig. They'd be assigned to work two weeks at a time, in shifts, 24 hours a day. There was plenty of room and Hanks felt good as he felt the heat of the living quarters.

            If  Hanks could peer about 30 feet below the surface of the choppy water, however, he wouldn't have felt so comfortable. In fact, he'd be rightly alarmed. Because what was occurring there would bring his life to an end at age 38.

    The scuba diver kept the light focused ahead. After 15 minutes of swimming at a steady pace, the diver felt anxious. Where was the damn thing? It was taller than most buildings, even if most of it was submerged beneath the surface. Finally, after agonizing seconds, the diver realized the oil rig was actually close. The diver paused, treading water. Then, the diver's legs whipped in a furious motion, moving like an automation that performed flawlessly every time. Upon reaching one of the main girders, the diver reached to a pouch on the weight belt and removed a small object. Again using the underwater flashlight, the diver made an adjustment on a small digital display. The readout said ":45." The diver put the object on the girder, its magnetized bottom keeping it in place. Immediately, the diver began swimming away.

    Raymond Lefever looked at the controls of the minisub, tapping his fingers and humming. He again looked at the watch. The operation had fallen a few minutes behind schedule, probably unavoidable. After all, the sub was made for the idle rich, who might use it to get back to nature. Lefever chuckled. He was getting back to nature, all right. Just not in the way the fool who sold him the craft imagined. Just to be sure, he looked over to the side and checked his oxygen tanks, the ones he'd use should something go wrong with the sub.

    Lefever began to fiddle with his graying goatee when he heard the exterior hatch opening. Lefever rubbed his nearly bald head, a gesture of relief. So it had gone off. But then, hadn't all of these ventures?

    A few minutes later, the chamber between Lefever and the dark, cold North Sea emptied of water and the diver emerged, taking off the mask and tanks.

    "Let's get out of here," the diver said. "We probably have less than a half hour. I had to swim against a current on the way back."

    "You worry too much," Lefever said, his voice with the tone of arrogance, of someone who got what he expected. "We'll make it." He turned on the engines and the sub lurched forward.

    "Don't be so damn sure of yourself," the diver said.

    "Don't tell me you're having self doubts," Lefever replied.

    "Raymond, you are infuriating. I don't know why I help you."

    "Because you believe in the cause. Even if I'm not the most likable sort." He chuckled again, a sneering sort of sound.

    McClain worked the remote to the television set. "One hundred fifty channels of nothing. Wait a minute, what's that?"

    "It's Bogart, leave it there a second," Hanks said. "What's with the bow tie?"

    On the television screen, a man seemed to be protesting to Bogart. "But I've been here for four years!"

    "That's my mistake," Bogart said, hurrying off.

    "Oh, I've seen this before. He's a newspaper editor, or something. He's riding in the back seat with some hood he's trying to expose, or some such. I think it's called Deadline U.S.A."

    "You and old movies," Hanks responded. "Just as good as anything else this satellite can pick up."

    The explosion prevented McClain from making any further comments. The two men began to panic as the room seemed to tip over. The TV and lights went out, the whole universe seemed to spin around. A table slammed into McClain's midsection, knocking him against a wall and knocking him out. Hanks, though, remained conscious for another minute or so when the icy waters began to flood the compartment as the oil rig fell over into the North Sea. He tried to scream as the water filled his lungs a minute or so before he died.

    It was a little nippy for early April but Napoleon Solo had left his overcoat at home, anyway. He was enjoying the feeling of liberation that came when you knew the winter was gone. As he walked to Del Floria's, he smiled inwardly as the sun peeked through the clouds. Throughout winter, an overcoat becomes a second skin one takes for granted. March normally is full of false starts for spring. But Solo finally felt he could put away the garment, unless he had to travel to inhospitable climes. That trip might come soon enough, but he knew he needn't worry on this trip to work.

    "Good morning," Solo said to Del Floria, who barely looked up from the pressing machine. Solo paused momentarily for a response and, after receiving none, walked quickly to the changing booth.

    The Asian receptionist already had the security badge ready when the security door opened to the reception area of the New York office of the United Network Command for Law and Enforcement.

    "Don't tell me," Solo said. "Mr. Waverly is anxious to see me."

    "He started asking for you at least 15 minutes ago," she replied.

    The agent arched his eyebrows but said nothing as he leaned over for the receptionist to attach the badge to his suitcoat.

    "Mr. Kuryakin arrived five minutes ago. I believe you'll find him in Mr. Waverly's office."

    "Duty summons."

    A few minutes later, the automatic door to Waverly's office opened. The Number One of Section One was studying a screen that had extended down from the ceiling. On it, was a still photograph of a smoldering wreckage of twisted metal, barely extending above the surface of some water.

    "Ah, Mr. Solo," Waverly said. "Now we can begin with the briefing."

    "The North Sea platform?" Solo said as he sat down next to Kuryakin. "Looks similar to the pictures on the television news this morning."

    "Correct, Mr. Solo," Waverly responded as he stood up. "Nearly one hundred million dollars up in smoke." The Old Fox, as Solo sometimes called him -- though never to the U.N.C.L.E. chief's face -- took a metal pointer and extended it to the screen.

     "The cause hasn't been publicly released however," Waverly continued, pointing to the water. "Some distance below the surface a very sophisticated explosive device was attached. Whoever did it was very well versed in engineering. It was placed in a spot that ensured maximum damage. Caused a huge chunk of the platform above the surface to sway and break off and fall into the sea. Two engineers were killed."

    "Has anyone claimed responsibility?" Kuryakin said.

    "No, not yet. Probably won't," Waverly said. "At least they haven't with the other incidents."

    "Other incidents?"

    "In France, production equipment at an automobile factory simply exploded. In Chile, explosives were detonated, sealing off a mine. In South Korea, a steel-producing facility suffered a massive computer failure. Some sort of computer virus is suspected as the cause. In all of those cases, there were no casualties. But this latest occurrence suggests the perpetrators -- ecological terrorists, if you will -- have gotten past any reluctance to take human life."

    "Ecological terrorists?" Solo said. "I thought Thrush had used the idea of ecological terrorism as a cover -- that business in Rome a few months ago. The Rome station chief, Mr. Cavetti, was quite keen on the theory, as I recall. But it turned out Thrush had something else in mind."

    "Well, as it turns out, these incidents I've just described were well under way," Waverly said. "While Mr. Cavetti was, indeed, mistaken, his error had a basis in fact."

    "Is this Thrush?" Kuryakin interjected.

    "No, we don't think so," Waverly said as he sat down and reached for a file. "We believe it's an entirely different kettle of fish."

    The U.N.C.L.E. chief placed identical photographs in front of both Solo and Kuryakin. The black and white photo showed a bald man, with graying hair and a gray goatee. The eyes almost squinted, and the man didn't smile. Instead, his face seemed grim.

    "This, gentlemen, is Raymond Lefever. He inherited a chemical fortune from his late father. He promptly sold the sold the company to a competitor. He invested the proceeds and made an even larger fortune. He has dedicated himself to environmentalism. Makes large contributions to various environmental organizations."

    "With all due respect, sir, that's not terribly unusual."

    "True enough, Mr. Solo. Except Mr. Lefever has an uncanny knack for being in close proximity to these calamities. In Korea, he even organized a protest the day before the steel plant's computers shut down. He accused the company of failing to take basic environmental cautions. The authorities attempted to hold him on suspicion but they had to let him go. He is currently in the United Kingdom. He has a place there and he's preparing to host a large fundraising event for several environmental causes."

    "It still seems like a large assumption," Kuryakin said.

    Waverly grunted, then dropped another photograph in front of the agents. "Perhaps, but Mr. Lefever also has some extremely unusual talent on his payroll. This gentleman, for instance."

    Solo looked at the photograph. The dark-haired man had an elongated face. His mouth looked like it was frozen in a perpetual sneer while his eyes oozed with hatred. Definitely not somebody you'd meet socially.

    "One Quentin Clooney," Waverly said. "Former Central Intelligence Agency operative. Discharged for being a bit unstable. Absolutely brilliant mind, but unsteady emotionally. Mr. Lefever has several other gentlemen of unsavory reputation in his employ, but this Mr. Clooney  seems to be Lefever's right-hand man. An expert in the use of explosives, among other things."

    Kuryakin and Solo exchanged glances, feeling like the school children just dressed down by the teacher.

    "Mr. Lefever is preparing yet another environmental fund raiser at the end of the week, this one in London," Waverly said. "I suggest one or both of you attempt to meet him socially. I'd suggest a cover that might cause him to react strongly. I'll leave the details to you but try and get over there as soon as you can. Now, if you'll excuse me, I have other work to attend to."

    "I think Mr. Lefever's yacht would be the envy of the navies of about two dozen countries," Kuryakin said, handing the report to Solo. "One hundred, twenty-five feet long. Currently in Portsmouth for repairs, according to this report from the London station."

    "Oh really?" Solo said, studying the dispatch. "Some problems with the engines, work crews expected to spend the better part of a week. Hmmmmm."

    Kuryakin began to eye his friend warily. They had spent most of the past two hours in a windowless conference room, studying a variety of materials about Raymond Lefever. U.N.C.L.E.'s London station had provided the most recent information.

    "Why do I have a sensation that I'm about to be subjected to one of your outrageous ideas for a cover?" Kuryakin said, as he buttoned up his dress shirt sleeve.

    "Outrageous ideas for cover identities?" Solo said, biting his lip to prevent from smiling. "What ever do you mean?"

    "Let's see. There was Dr. von Konigsburg, or some such nonsense. Oh, and there was that silly notion of myself as wondering artist, traveling the French Alps...."

    "One has to keep one's enemies off guard."

    "They usually don't prevent me from being struck in the head. What do you have in mind this time?"

    "Well, as you indicate, Mr. Lefever's yacht would rival the ships of a smaller nation's navy. Maybe it was involved in the explosion of the new oil platform. It apparently had been out for an extended journey."

    "There were no reports of any craft nearby."

    "All I know is you can hide quite a bit in a 125-foot vessel. Especially with fellows like the gentlemen Mr. Lefever likes to hire."

    "What do you suggest?" Kuryakin said.

    "Pack some work clothes. I'll contact the London station and see if we can sneak you in on the repair crew. You're quite mechanically minded. I'm sure they could use your help."

    The Russian glowered at Solo for a moment before speaking. "And where will you be in the interim?"

    "I think I may crash Mr. Lefever's fund raising party."

    "You're going to wreck it?"

    Solo chuckled. "I think I'll merely attend it. Mr. Waverly suggested a cover that might get a reaction out of Lefever. Perhaps I'll be the chief environmental officer of a major oil company."

    "Sounds like being the chief peace officer of a munitions company."

    "At the Boxxon Oil Company, we care about the environment, just like you."

    Kuryakin rolled his eyes. "I might have known."

    Raymond Lefever's fingers moved like a machine, each movement precise, not a wasted motion. As he played the piano, the melody filled the large room. He barely glanced at the keyboard, instead looking out the large picture window. It was sunny, unusual for London in the spring. He smiled in an almost grim way. He didn't feel happy often, and usually when it occurred when he was playing the piano. He needn't suffer the fools that complicated life.

    As he heard the footsteps approaching, Lefever grimaced. The respite from fools never lasted long enough.

    He sighed and looked over as two men entered the large room of the mansion. On the left was his perpetually unhappy security chief. The sneer on Quentin Clooney's face was more severe than usual. Lefever smiled to himself. The bastard looks really unhappy with me this time. Clooney wore an all black outfit -- shoes, pants, sports jacket and turtleneck sweater, all black. Lefever knew that Clooney knew his business but the rich man wished once more that the man wasn't quite so psychotic. Perhaps he ran out of flies to tear the wings off, Lefever thought.

    Clooney wasn't a short man, but the fellow accompanying him was at least four inches taller and wore a blank stare on his face. Ah, poor Gaspar, Lefever thought. What you lack in intelligence you make up in loyalty.

    "We gotta talk," Clooney said, not waiting to be acknowledged by Lefever.

    "You have a way of ruining even the simplest pleasures," Lefever said, as he continued playing. He only stopped when he completed the piece a few seconds later.

    "I told you you're not waiting long enough between operations," Clooney said irritably. "You're being to draw attention from the wrong people."

    "Am I?"

    Gaspar looked down at Clooney as the sneering man responded. "I still have sources. There's some chatter among intelligence agencies about 'eco-terrorists.' I told you that your damn ego would get us into trouble."

    "Spies? Don't make me laugh, Clooney. Spies spend too much time chasing imaginary enemies. They're far too busy with their hobgoblins to expend even the most casual mental resources on a problem like the one we represent. Besides, after this next little job, we'll make our point."

    "Your point, you mean. I only signed on for money."

    "And you've received quite a bit since I took you on," Clooney snapped. "You might recall your record at your previous employer wasn't very exemplary. Your future prospects were quite uncertain."

    Gaspar's eyes met Lefever's for just a second. The rich man could tell there was concern there, but shook his head slightly and Gaspar seemed to relax.

    "Listen you motherf--"

    "Oh, spare me the theatrics," Lefever interrupted. "I'm not going to change my mind and you're too greedy to quit. So are we meeting the schedule?"

    Clooney's eyes blazed for several long, uncomfortable seconds. He nearly began to hyperventilate but instead held his breath for a second, then slowly let it out.

    "No changes in the schedule. But there's one thing you should know. There is one particular agency that seems to be making very detailed inquiries. The U-N-C-L-E."

    "What alphabet soup are we talking about now?"

    "U.N.C.L.E., dammit. An international agency. They're goddam unpredictable and the word is they're asking questions about you."

    "That's what you're being paid for -- to make sure people like this U.N.C.L.E. don't interfere."

    "I'll take care of the operation. You take care of any obstacles, like this U.N.C.L.E. Now, leave."

    Clooney took a deep breath, let it out, then left the room. Lefever, however, motioned for Gaspar to stay.

    Gaspar stood, almost like a big dog waiting for instructions from its master. "My friend," Lefever said. "Maybe you ought to go down to Portsmouth and make sure the work crews are getting the yacht repaired."

    "He worries me, Mr. Lefever," Gaspar said slowly and deliberately, each syllable carefully pronounced.

    "I know," Lefever said. "One has to endure a lot to save the planet."

    The time spent flying from New York to Heathrow Airport seemed to pass by much quicker than the journey from the airport to London proper. Like other major European population centers, London was a paradox -- large, modern highways connecting to ancient cities, full of narrow streets and traffic bottlenecks. The slight headache Solo had made it hard to concentrate, but he guessed it had taken at least two hours to get to the small store specializing in first editions. As he and Kuryakin entered, there was only an elderly man at the front desk, reading Great Expectations.

    The older man looked up as the bell above the door rang. "Ah, can I help you blokes," he said in a thick cockney accent.

    "Yes, I'm looking for a first edition Raymond Chandler," Solo said, Kuryakin standing next to him with a bored expression.

    "Don't think we got too many of them potboilers."

    "Well, Mr. Chandler was one of your countrymen, I believe."

    "So he was," the clerk said. "You might try in the back and around to the right."

    Solo said nothing and he and Kuryakin went to the back of the shop and found a spot where there were bookcases on three sides. Looking straight ahead, Solo scanned and saw what looked like a hardback original of The Big Sleep and tugged at it. The two agents looked down as the floor beneath them began to be lowered.

    "He likes to be a bit theatrical, doesn't he?" Kuryakin said.

    "He's one of the newest members of Section One," Solo replied. "Prides himself on new ideas. Wanted to redecorate the London station."

    They went down one floor and faced a bare door, which opened automatically. The agents stepped forward to the desk of a woman receptionist.

    "Mr. Solo, Mr. Kuryakin, he's expecting you. Is this your first time since the change in station chiefs?"

    "Yes," Solo said.

    "Walk down the hall to the elevator. He's on three."

    The agents began to walk.

    "I can't believe he got promoted to Section One," Solo said softly to Kuryakin.

    "I believe the post could have been yours if you had wanted it."

    "Sure, I just don't want to be chained behind a desk. I do enough paperwork as it is."

    "Then you should not complain someone else sought and received the posting."

    "But him?"

    Kuryakin rolled his eyes as they got into the elevator. The Russian pushed the button to go to the third floor after Solo hesitated.

    As the elevator door opened, they saw a tall man, with short, thinning hair. "Ah, Napoleon, Illya. I heard you were on your way," Brian Morton said. "It's been quite some time."

    "Hello, Brian," Solo said. "How's the new boss?"

    "Why don't you go in and see for yourselves? Anyway, he's got me hopping on some other affair. I was just on my way to Heathrow to catch a plane to the continent. Just wanted to say hello. Now I'm afraid I do have to dash."

    Kuryakin waved as Morton entered the elevator from which the Russian and American had just departed. Illya then turned back to Solo. "I suggest we get on with it."

    Solo made a face but said nothing.

    The automatic door opened. Standing by the round conference table was another tall man, this one with dark hair turning gray at the temples. He wore a three piece suit, much like the one Solo remembered him wearing several years ago. The years, however, had not dulled Solo's feeling that this was one of the most obnoxious men he had ever met.

    "Mr. Solo, Mr. Kuryakin. It's about time," Paul Westcott said, his words coming slowly and deliberately. "I was beginning to think Thrush had abducted you or some such."

    "Mr. Westcott," Solo said, lingering on the last t. "Haven't seen you since that decoy business some years back. How is Mrs. Westcott?"

    "Oh, Fran is fine," Westcott said, gesturing for the agents to sit down. "She's been adjusting quite nicely since I got the promotion to this office. The cloudy weather bothered her at first but she's getting along well, now."

    "I'm happy to hear it," Solo said in a sarcastic tone. Kuryakin looked in another direction.

    "Well, now the niceties are out of the way, Mr. Waverly has instructed me to extend any assistance I can." Reaching under the desk, Westcott brought out a couple of clothing boxes, paused and reached under the desk before putting a shoe box on the desk. "Mr. Kuryakin, I think you'll find these work clothes are the right sizes, as are the work shoes." Westcott then reached into the breast pocket of his suitcoat and took out an envelope, which he tossed on the desk. "That contains your union card and any other papers you'll need to be part of the work crew. Better be down at Portsmouth around eight. They're working double shifts. You probably won't get off work until well after dark. I've also included some directions to the harbor where they're doing the work on the yacht."

    "Thank you," Kuryakin said.

    "I arranged for you to be on the guest list at that fund raiser tomorrow evening, Mr. Solo. I can arrange for a rental tuxedo, if you wish."

    "No thanks, I brought my own."

    Westcott smiled slightly. "Of course you did. So, do you still enjoy Section Two work?"

    "Of course."

    "I occasionally miss it. But Section One is full of new challenges. Who knows, maybe one day I'll be named to head one of the five regional offices. Maybe even New York."

    Solo glowered for a second but said nothing.

    A few hours later, Solo and Kuryakin met for a drink at the bar of their hotel.

    "I'm afraid I only have time for one," Kuryakin said as the bartender handed him the Guiness. "I have an early start in the morning."

    Solo looked at the bartender. "That is a double Scotch, isn't it?"

    "Of course, sir."

    "Good, get another ready before too long."

    "Why do you let Westcott bother you so, Napoleon?" Kuryakin said as the bartender walked to the other end of the bar.

    "He's only one of the most annoying men I've ever met, that's all. I liked him better when he was playing the role of a Thrush official."

    "Does it still bother you the Parsons woman ended up falling in love with him? As I recall, you did not have particularly deep emotions for the woman."

    "Well, yes, I suppose that's true."

    "But you're still annoyed she would choose him over you?

    Solo grimaced for a moment and took a deep gulp from his drink. "The prospect of working for him some day does not fill me with glee. It's almost enough to drive someone to defect to Thrush."

    Kuryakin strained to hold back a smile and took a drink from his beer.

    Solo spent most of the next day by himself. He felt a bit hung over when he woke up and had to draw heavily upon his willpower to get dressed and conduct a workout. The two-hour session sweated enough of the toxins out of his system to clear his head and he felt relaxed after showering. A nap recharged both his body and mind. By the time he began dressing for the black-tie fund-raiser, Solo felt he had shaken off the jet lag and the aftertaste of having to address Paul Westcott as a superior.

    As he tied the bowtie, Solo again concentrated on the business that had brought him here to London. Before leaving New York, he had again studied the available information on Raymond Lefever but had no real feel for the man. The agent hoped he could take some measure of his potential adversary.

    The mansion was nearly an hour outside of London, very large and recently refurbished. Solo thought back to the documents. Lefever had picked up the place when an old family with old money had run into bad financial luck and had to sell assets. Solo had arrived only a few minutes past the 7 p.m. time but already the place was packed. Some of those attending looked typical of these type events -- middle aged, well dressed, bringing their check books along for a good cause, whatever that good cause happened to be. For these types, he thought, the important thing was to be seen as charitable, regardless of whether that was their true personality or not. Others, though, looked less typical -- younger, going with more informal evening wear. Men wearing black tuxedo-like jackets, but no ties, only ornate brass buttons on their dress shirts. Solo had long ago stopped trying to predict the fickleness of fashion and went with basic styles he figured would outlast today's fads.

    There was still another type of person attending, and this one was more familiar to the U.N.C.L.E. agent. There were several men in tuxedos with very broad shoulders and grim expressions. He suspected if he looked he'd notice a slight bulge. Solo glanced for just a moment at his own left side, where the U.N.C.L.E. Special rested in his shoulder holster.

    Still no sign of Lefever himself, however. Solo took a glass of champagne from a waiter but nearly dropped it when he saw the dead woman from his own past.

Act II

"A Friendly Game of Poker"

    The red-haired woman in the backless evening dress stood perhaps twenty feet away, talking to a couple. It was still the same flaming shade she wore when they first met all those years ago, the same red hair he ran his hands through as he kissed her.

    Clara? Clara Richards? Solo thought. He tried to picture the small tombstone in the small graveyard in Terbuf. But he couldn't visualize that. Instead, his mouth turned dry as he continued to look ahead at the woman ahead of him.

    As if on cue, the woman stopped conversing, turned and looked in Solo's direction. It wasn't Clara Richards, of course. The woman was at least an inch taller, the hair a bit longer. Still, he felt dizzy for a second as he caught a glimpse of the eyes, the shapely figure and the smile. If not a twin, she could have been have the sister of the woman Solo had lived with for a short time and nearly married before his job at U.N.C.L.E. drove them apart.

    Solo shook his head slightly and blinked as the visions of the past faded. Clara's death had affected him deeply, putting him deep into a depression several months ago. He finally snapped out of it just as the affair in Rome involving a Thrush plot to seize control of the Vatican was reaching a critical point. He still thought about Clara but thought he had gotten on with his life. Until now, anyway.

    The woman then began to approach Solo.

    Illya Kuryakin wiped the sweat from his forehead and looked around the dingy engine compartment. The other dozen members of the crew were moving slowly. What had been intended as standard maintenance had turned into nearly a complete rebuilding of the engine. The electronic diagnostic device had failed to pinpoint why the four diesel engines were only producing half their expected power. Over the course of the day, the men had taken all four apart, discovering they were long overdue for a variety of procedures.

          There had been a two-hour delay as some replacement parts were shipped from a distributor for the engine maker. Kuryakin had hoped to use the downtime to look around, but four suspicious looking characters kept them under a tight watch and the lead man insisted the crew continue doing whatever work could be done until the parts arrived.

    Kuryakin knew it was evening only by his watch. Three of the four engines were now in place. One remained to be installed, at least another hour's worth of work, probably more. The Russian took in a sigh, then turned his head as the foreman of the crew spoke up.

    "All right lads," Duncan McAdams said. "I'd say we earned a quick dinner break. No sense falling down from exhaustion, it'll only lead to a sloppy job."

    "No, you'll finish the job," said a skinny man with thinning hair and a bulbous nose. "You're being paid very well to get this job done tonight."

    "And we will get this job done tonight," McAdams said. "But we've been working all day. We're hungry and tired, and so we're going to eat and rest for 45 minutes. If you don't like it, you can drag your skinny ass in here and finish the job your bloody self. Now if you'll excuse us, my crew and I are leaving for a bit."

    The skinny man's face reddened but he held his tongue as the work crew began to put down their tools and head for the ladder, leading to the deck above. "All right, but be back here promptly in 45 minutes!"

    As the last man went up the ladder, the skinny man looked around and went up himself, closing the hatch behind him. A few seconds later, Illya Kuryakin sat up from his hiding place behind one of the engines. He stretched for a moment, then climbed the ladder and tested the hatch. Finding it unlocked, he scanned around and saw no one on guard. He had hoped the security men would keep their eyes trained on the wandering work crew members.

    Kuryakin guessed that the forward part of the deck contained cabins for Lefever and his crew. He was more interested in what might be here in the aft portion of the deck. He walked a few feet and saw a plain cabin door. He pulled on the latch but saw that it was locked. He reached into his pocket and took out a key ring. Finding a black key, he inserted into the lock. It was a special U.N.C.L.E. skeleton key, which the technicians claimed could open virtually any lock.

    The word virtually kept repeating in the Russian's mind as the lock didn't yield for several seconds. Then, it gave way and Kuryakin slowly opened the door. It was large for a cabin and no wonder. In the center was a large pool of water. Suspended above it by a series of cables was a mini-submarine.

    The agent walked over to the pool and looked down. It was hard to see in the dimly lit space, but it looked like the pool reached down to the bottom of the yacht. An underwater hatch, no doubt, Kuryakin thought.

    His concentration was broken by an odd noise, further back in the cabin. He turned and saw a dolphin baying as it stuck its head above the surface of a transparent tank. When Kuryakin turned to look, the dolphin went back under the surface, swam to the other side of the tank, then came back and stared at Kuryakin.

    He walked up to the tank. The dolphin nodded and opened his mouth, small bubbles escaping as it did so. "What are you doing here, my friend?" Kuryakin said softly. The dolphin again went to the surface, took a breath and went under the water.

    Kuryakin eased away, went straight for the door and slowly opened it. Seeing no one, he looked for the nearest entrance to the upper deck to join the work crew. If anybody asked, he'd simply say he got lost looking for a toilet.

    Had he still been in the large compartment with the minisub, Kuryakin would have seen Gaspar come out from behind a control console. He was in the midst of double checking the console when the Russian had entered and chose to remain hidden as Kuryakin searched. Gaspar grimaced as he pondered what to do.

    "I'm sorry, but have we met?" the redhead said to Solo.

    He swallowed, trying to get up enough moisture in his mouth to speak. "Uh, sorry," he said. "You bear an incredibly strong resemblance to someone I used to know. For a moment, I thought you might be her."

    "Judging by your expression, she must have made quite an impact on your, mister..."

    "Solo. Napoleon Solo. Yes, you could say that."

    She extended her hand and Solo gently shook it. "My name's Laura. Laura DeVries. Sorry to put you on the spot, Mr. Solo. But I'm not used to people staring at me."

    "I apologize," Solo said, sounding more like himself. "The person you resemble is, uh, no longer with us, I'm afraid. That's why I acted as I did."

    Laura raised her index and middle finger to her mouth for a second. "I'm sorry. I, uh..."

    "Please, it's quite all right. So tell me what brings you here? The name sounds Dutch but you sound American."

    "My parents immigrated to the States from the Netherlands, but I'm an American citizen. My folks came into some money so I get to travel around. As to why I'm here, it's a pretty good cause, something we need these days."

    "Of course."

    "What brings you here, Mr. Solo?"

    "Please, Napoleon."

    Laura squinted for a moment. "Is that your real name?"

    Solo arched his eyebrows for a moment. "No. It's really Archibald Leach."

    "What?"

    "Sorry," Solo said. "An old joke. To answer your question, yes, Napoleon is my real name. Mother and father had big ambitions for me, I suppose. I'm an official of the Boxxon Oil Company."

    "An oil company? Here?" Laura said, smiling.

    "We're trying to clean up our image these days. New cleaner-burning formulas and such. Research for future sources of energy. The head office thought it might be a good idea to show up in support of the fund-raiser."

    "Well, you are an interesting fellow, Napoleon. Maybe you should buy me a drink and tell me more."

    Solo began to turn but stopped when a hand came down on his shoulders.

    "Well, Laura, who is this gentleman? I've never seen him before," Raymond Lefever said. "Although if I read the guest list correctly, you represent Boxxon. Is that correct?"

    Solo turned and looked up at Lefever, who was at least three inches taller than the U.N.C.L.E. agent. His blue eyes focused tightly on Solo. A few steps away, keeping a discreet distance, stood a sneering man dressed all in black. Solo thought that Quentin Clooney's dossier didn't do him justice. The man oozed with menace.

    "Yes, Napoleon Solo. I'm heading up an effort to improve the company's environmental record, perhaps establish some ties with the 'green' community."

    Lefever laughed dismissively. "You do have cajones coming to a place like this, especially with that tanker incident a few years ago."

    "Well, you have to start some place," Solo replied coolly. "By the way, does your friend shop from the Johnny Cash collection?"

    Lefever looked puzzled for a moment, then glanced backward at Clooney. "Oh, him. That's Mr. Clooney, my security chief."

    "Why does an environmental activist need a security chief?"

    "I am quite wealthy. Money sometimes attracts bad things."

    "Money can even generate bad things," Solo said.

    Lefever smiled broadly. "You are an amusing chap," he said. "Sorry, though I am from the States, I like to spend time over here and pick up English expressions." Then, looking past Solo, he spoke to Laura. "Where did you ever find him, my dear?"

    "Oh, you know each other?" Solo said.

    "Not that well," Lefever said. "Mr. Solo, I'm sure you're quite genuine in wanting to establish a tie to the environmental community. But I have to admit I don't have much use for oil companies."

    "You may not, but I suspect your car and your yacht do."

    "Only until alternative fuel sources are developed."

    "May take a while."

    "Well, you never know about these things. In any event, I would find it quite amusing if I could take more of your money than you had expected to spend -- beyond whatever donations Boxxon intends to make, I mean."

    "Oh? What might that be?"

    "How about a high-stakes poker game? In a private area, away from all this hustle and bustle. Just a game between you and myself. Might be fun, and certainly more interesting than this party."

    Solo squinted, then glanced at Clooney for a second. The security chief's eyes burned with hatred. Lefever's offer of a game of poker was hardly friendly. And if Clooney still retained intelligence sources, he surely had identified Solo as an U.N.C.L.E. agent. But Solo also knew it was a potential opportunity.

    "Very well," Solo replied. "Shall we play for dollars or pounds?"

    "While in England, one should play for pounds, don't you think?"

    "Of course," he said. Looking toward Laura. "Care to accompany us? I could use the moral support."

    "Sure," Laura said. "Raymond is right. It's surely going to be more interesting than the party."

     About an hour out of Portsmouth, Kuryakin first noticed the tail. To confirm it, he got off the crowded highway and began traveling a narrow country road. Sure enough, the BMW he thought he had spotted kept following. Normally, the Russian might have permitted himself a twinge of self satisfaction. The problem was Westcott had insisted Kuryakin check out the small Fiat from the U.N.C.L.E. motor pool. "Do you really think a laborer could afford the Jaguar? Please, Mr. Kuryakin."

    Kuryakin began to calculate the horsepower difference between the Jaguar and the Fiat but gave up on the mental exercise when the BMW touched bumpers. Not at all subtle, Kuryakin thought.

    He considered his options. The German car outclassed the Italian model in both power and maneuverability. And he wasn't about to trust Italian durability against the BMW's. So he turned off the deserted road as the BMW roared around and stopped in front.

    In the darkness, Kuryakin could only make out shapes, but he could tell two men were rushing him, including what appeared to be a very large man. The latter figure got to the driver's door first, opened it and yanked Kuryakin out like a rag doll.

    The man had to be several inches taller than Kuryakin and held up the Russian by the collar of his work shirt, shaking the agent. "What does a engine repairman do snooping around, eh?" the big man said.

    "Gaspar, be careful," the other man said. "He will provide no useful information if you kill him."

    "Bah!" Gaspar said.

    "I do not know what you are talking about!" Kuryakin protested.

    "I was in the compartment when you came investigating," Gaspar said, shaking Kuryakin anew. He then threw the U.N.C.L.E. agent to the ground.

    The other man took out an automatic pistol. "I think you should come back with us, my friend. Or Gaspar will do you great harm."

    Kuryakin didn't feel frightened or even concerned. Oddly, he felt insulted. He had been tortured and beaten by experts over the years. But it was clear that Gaspar was someone who operated by scaring people. An extremely childish attitude, he thought. Suddenly, it dawned on him that the large man might be mentally deficient.

    Kuryakin sighed and got up slowly. He wasn't one to give into emotion, at least not very easily. But the one man seemed barely adequate and Gaspar was too ridiculous a figure to take seriously. Normally, it might be appropriate to let himself be captured. But after a long day of working on the engine repair crew, Kuryakin didn't feel like playing by that strategy.

    The Russian seemed to get up meekly and hunched his shoulders as he stood up.

    "Get in the car, we'll take you back to the yacht," the man with the gun said.

    Kuryakin took a step toward the car, then stopped and kicked backwards, catching the gunman in the knee. He toppled and Kuryakin was on him in a heartbeat, knocking him out with a karate blow. Before he could move, however, Gaspar was on him, yanking the Russian up by the collar once more.

    "You bastard, I will..."

    Kuryakin's fists slammed into Gaspar's ears simultaneously. The large man screamed in pain, but Kuryakin ignored it, striking a karate blow to the neck with his right hand. He fell down as Gaspar crumbled to the ground.

    Illya brushed himself off. He suddenly felt oddly guilty, as if he were a bigger child who had just beaten up a smaller one. After feeling disgusted with Lefever's people, he now felt disgusted with himself. But he quickly shook off the feeling, knowing he could not undo the events of the past two minutes. So he simply walked back to the Fiat, started it up and drove away quickly. Gaspar revived just as the Italian car disappeared.

    Lefever had called it a study, but it was larger than most peoples' living rooms. Half the room was lined with bookshelves. Solo caught a glimpse of some of the titles and thought the first editions here probably rivaled the book shop that U.N.C.L.E.-London now used as a cover. He now sat at a large, wooden round table in the back of the room, his chair very soft and comfortable. Lefever went to a desk and took out a new deck of cards from a desk drawer.

    Lefever took out a long silver case from the breast pocket of his tuxedo jacket. "Cigar, Mr. Solo?"

    "No thanks."

    "Well, I might have one later," he said, putting the opened case on the table in front of him. "Five card draw acceptable?"

    "Fine."

    "No wild cards to start. We'll keep it simple at the start. Clooney, bring over the chips."

    The sneering man said nothing but brought over the poker chips in a plastic container.

    "Let's see, white will be 100 pounds, red, 500 and blue 1,000. An ante of 100 pounds I think will be acceptable," Lefever said, as he passed over the chips. "I assume your employer can cover any losses you'll incur."

    "I'm sure he can," Solo said deadpan.

    "All right, Mr. Solo. I'll let you, my guest, deal the first hand. Alternating deals. Let's begin."

    Solo dealt five cards face down, alternating between Lefever and himself, then tossed in a white chip as an ante. He looked at his cards. Three Jacks, an Ace of Clubs and a Two of Diamonds. Not bad, but not a sure thing.

    "Five hundred pounds to open," Lefever said, putting a red chip in the pile.

    Solo met the 500 pounds and tossed in one of his red chips.

    "I'll take two cards," Lefever said.

    Solo dealt two cards. "And the dealer takes one."

    He hoped to pick up another Ace for a full house, but no such luck. A Four of Diamonds. Still, he had the three Jacks.

    "Another 500 pounds," Lefever said.

    Solo matched the bet. "Let's see what you have, Mr. Lefever."

    The host grinned for a moment. "Just a pair, I'm afraid. Guess I'm no good at bluffing."

    That's an outrageous lie, Solo thought as he produced the three Jacks. You were bluffing quite nicely out at the party. It may be nice to win the first hand, but something is wrong. If he really wanted to bluff he'd have bumped up the pot more than that.

    Lefever shuffled the cards and offered Solo the chance to cut the deck. He did so and Lefever spoke once more. "Same game."

    Both men again placed their 100 pound antes and Lefever then dealt out the cards quickly. Solo looked at his hands. One lousy pair of Threes, along with a Ten of Spades, a Five of Diamonds and a Jack of Hearts.

    "Five hundred pounds," Solo said, tossing a red chip in the center of the table.

    Lefever squinted for a moment. "I'll see your 500, and raise you 1,000."

    Solo thought it was damn tempting to fold, but wanted to try his luck with some new cards. "Match your thousand," he said, tossing a blue chip into the pot.

    "Cards, Mr. Solo?"

    "I'll take two." I'd like five.

    Solo discarded the Five and Ten, getting a Jack of Spades and a Six of Diamonds in return. Two pair. Hands of poker had been won with less.

    "Five hundred pounds," Solo said.

    "I'll see the 500 and raise another thousand."

    Solo matched the 1,000 without comment.

    Lefever showed his cards. A full house -- three Queens and a pair off Sevens. Solo showed his two pair and sighed. He'd gone from being 1,000 up to 2,000 pounds down in just one hand, not counting the antes.

    Solo shuffled the deck twice and offered Lefever a chance to cut the cards He passed.

    Laura, who had been silently watching, placed her hand on Solo's shoulder. "You don't have to impress me, Napoleon. Don't lose any more than you can afford."

    Lefever laughed. "Don't worry, my dear. Mr. Solo has a very rich employer. Remember it's all for charity. This is a much more entertaining way of raising money for environmental organizations."

    Solo gave a quick grin, then concentrated on the deal.

    "By the way, I don't know if we specified, but there's no limit on the bumps. Shall we stick with five-card draw?"

    "Certainly," Solo said, as he began to deal the cards. When he was finished, he picked up his five. He showed no emotion on his face but his spirits rose a bit deep inside. Three Kings,  an Ace of Hearts and a Two of Diamonds. Just give me that full house, or better yet the fourth King.

    It was Lefever's bet. "Two thousand pounds."

    Solo was going to be damned if he folded at this point. He matched the pot.

    "Cards, Mr. Lefever?"

    "Two."

    Solo dealt the cards, and took one for himself. He looked at the hand. The new card was an Ace of Spades. He got the full house.

    "Another 2,000 pounds," Lefever said, tossing several chips in the pile.

    Solo felt confident. "I'll see your 2,000, and bump you another 2,000."

    "Match, and raise 5,000."

    Solo scanned the table. No, he was positive Lefever had to be bluffing.

    He tossed five more blue clips on the table. "Let's see your cards, Mr. Lefever."

    "Well, if you must know, I didn't even had a face card," he said as he showed the hand -- the Ten, Nine, Eight, Seven and Six of Clubs. A straight flush.

    Solo's mouth was agape only a second as he displayed the full house. He was now down 13,000 pounds. For the second time tonight, his mouth became dry.

Act III

"Red Hair and Vertigo"

    Clooney grunted and smiled for a moment before resuming the sneer.

    "Would you like a break, Mr. Solo?" Lefever said. "Or you could simply pay up now."

    Solo got up and stretched, trying to act nonchalant. "Just give me a second."

    Laura approached him but Solo waved her off and looked at the table. Drawing to a straight is pretty gutsy, a straight flush or royal flush even moreso. It was almost like...

    Solo bit his lip. Almost like he knew could draw to a straight flush...like he knew he'd get the very cards he needed.

    Solo replayed the game in his head in a split second. He won the first hand, but Lefever had restrained his betting. Lefever won the next two hands, betting aggressively. Of course -- he was cheating. But how?

    The agent stretched once more, taking in a deep breath. But he was really studying the table again, this time more intently. Then he again noticed the cigar case, still opened, in front of Lefever's spot at the table. He had kept the case in his pocket, then took it out to offer Solo a cigar. But he had never put it away, just keeping it there on the table.

    Solo fought the temptation to grin. In the good old days, cheats just marked cards or tried some sleight of hand on the deal. But Solo had dealt two of the three hands himself, including the last one where Lefever was most successful.

    What if Lefever had a modern, high-tech way of cheating? Solo wasn't sure how, but he was positive. Somehow, Lefever knew every card that was dealt or was going to be dealt. Lefever had something in the case -- God only knew what fancy infared reader or other device it could be -- that told him what the cards were. When the cards were against him in the first hand, he backed off. When he knew he could draw to the straight flush, he kept bumping up the pot. It had to be.

    But what to do about it? Solo put all thoughts of the mission aside. He just wanted to teach this arrogant rich man a lesson.

    "I suggest one more hand," Solo said. "Double or nothing."

    Lefever laughed once more. "Anything for charity."

    "Well if I'm going to play the role of Diamond Jim Brady, I might as well play the part," Solo said, reaching over the table and picking up the cigar case.

    Lefever froze for a second. "Pardon me, I..."

    "Oh, excuse my boarding house reach, but I thought this was a friendly game," Solo said as he began to take out a cigar from the case. He then fumbled both the cigar and the case, which fell to the floor. "Dammit, I'm such a klutz."

    "Wait, that case is made out of silver..."

    Solo stumbled. "Crap, I stepped on them both."

    Clooney began to stand up, but Lefever motioned for him to remain in place. Laura tried to restrain a laugh, but it still got out anyway.

    Solo picked up the case from the floor and stood up. "I'm sorry, it's bent a little," he said, handing the case back to Lefever.

    The lid, in fact, was dented inward. Lefever opened the case for a moment, then slammed it shut. "Those were six of the best Havanas you can buy."

    "As I said, I can be a klutz. So, as I said, double or nothing. Might as well stick with five-card draw."

    Lefever's eyes now narrowed on Solo. "My deal."

    "Your deal."

    Lefever put the dented case back into his tuxedo jacket pocket, and then dealt the cards.

    "It is a handsome case," Solo said. "I'd be happy to pay for any repairs."

    "You needn't bother," Lefever said coldly, looking at his cards.

    Solo now concentrated on his hand. His heart jumped. A King, Queen, Jack and Ten of Clubs, plus a Two of Diamonds. Now he was in the same situation Lefever was in just a few minutes ago. The safe play was to take two or three and try to make pairs of the King and Queen. Lefever could draw to a straight only because the game was rigged.

    Solo looked up at Lefever, who stared back. The agent suddenly felt he was going to have to go for the high-risk play.

    "One card, please."

    Lefever dealt the one card.

    "I believe it's double or nothing, correct?" Solo said, his new card still laying face down on the table.

    "Correct."

    "How about I raise you 5,000 pounds?"

    "I'll see it and raise you another 5,000."

    "I match it."

    "Fine. If you win, you get 10,000 pounds. If I win, I get 36,000 pounds. Does that sound about right, Mr. Solo?"

    "Yes."

    "I'll stick with these cards."

    Solo took his lone new card. There was no expression on his face.

    Lefever showed his cards. "Full House, Aces, over Kings," he said, showing the three Aces and the two Kings.

    Solo's face remained blank for a second, then he showed his original four, then added the last card he received -- the Ace of Clubs.

    "I believe a Royal Flush beats a Full House," Solo said.

    Clooney grunted again from behind Lefever, while Laura laughed, leaning over to hug Solo. "You have a way of living on the edge, Napoleon."

    Lefever's face was frozen in exasperation for just a moment. He had to take a deep breath before he continued. "You're quite a card player, Mr. Solo."

    "I have my moments."

    Both men got up. Lefever reached into a pocket, took out a checkbook and quickly scribbled on a check. "I believe this will cover it, Mr. Solo."

    Solo, in turn, took his money clip out of his pocket and handed Lefever a hundred pounds. "And that, I believe, ought to cover the cost of any damage to your case."

    "Perhaps not," Lefever replied. "I'll simply drop this in with the other donations tonight.

    Solo looked behind Lefever and saw that Clooney's eyes burned even more intently with hatred.

    Before he could say anymore, Laura took Solo by the arm. "I believe we were discussing you buying me a drink," she said. "I know you can afford it."

    The couple walked out of the room while Lefever and Clooney stared at them.

     The next 90 minutes went by quickly for Solo. The drive back into the city was unusually quick, with the normally heavy London traffic conveniently absent. Solo drove the Jaguar -- the agent had bypassed Westcott and talked a woman U.N.C.L.E. employee into providing the keys to the pride of  U.N.C.L.E.-London's motor pool -- to a French restaurant, one of the best in the city.

    The dinner with Laura seemed intoxicating. At first, he thought it was the combination of the champagne they had with the dinner and the exhilaration of extracting a victory from the card game. But he paused as he watched Laura smile. No, he knew the real reason. He still hadn't gotten over the resemblance of Laura to the late Clara Richards. The card game had pushed it to the back of his mind, but there it was, right across the table from him.

    "I haven't had this good a time in months," she said, still continuing to smile. "My problem is I don't meet more men like you."

    "What do you mean by that?"

    "You're very attractive, but you don't push it. Almost like you're very self assured without being arrogant. A neat trick. A lot of men I meet seem to be in love with themselves."

    "Oh, we all have our self doubts, we just don't show it."

    She reached over and held his right hand. "You didn't look like you had too many self doubts during that last hand of poker."

    "Believe me, I was contemplating a future of eating nothing but peanut butter sandwiches after my employer decided to dock my pay for the next hundred years if I lost. No, Laura, we all have our fears. The trick is to move on despite them."

    "Gambling and philosophy. You're quite a package, Mr. Napoleon Solo."

    He smiled. "I'm not sure this is the place for philosophy. What do you want for dessert."

    She returned the smile. "I'm really not hungry for that sort of dessert. Maybe you could escort me to my hotel for a nightcap. It's not far."

    Solo felt dizzy again, but knew it wasn't from the champagne. "Whatever the lady wants."

    Barely 23 minutes later,  they arrived at the Regents Park Marriott. Laura's room was large and comfortable, very Americanized in style, with two main areas. The front was more like a den, with a desk and table, the other a bedroom area with a king-size bed. The decorating style was indistinguishable from any other Marriott, whether it be in New York or New Delhi.

    "Hmmm, not very adventurous," Solo said as she let him in the room.

    "Hotels I don't leave to chance. I get my adventure in other ways."

    She reached toward him. Solo took her in his arms and kissed briefly once, then a second time longer and more passionately. "Is that what you had in mind?"

    "Not exactly. More like this." She pulled his face toward hers and kissed him with even more intensity than before.

    She stopped abruptly as the whine of Solo's pen communicator filled the room.

    "Sorry, it's my beeper," Solo said, reaching toward his breast pocket and touching the pen, flicking a hidden switch to indicate an acknowledgment of the signal. "Do you mind if I go down to the lobby?  It's kind of a private call."

    "Just use the desk there, I'll go powder my nose. Just don't stick me with a big long-distance bill," she said, walking to the bathroom without waiting for an answer.

    He waited for the bathroom door to shut, then extracted the communicator and set it up for broadcast. "Open Channel D," Solo said in a low voice.

    "Napoleon, I've just gotten back to the city," Kuryakin said. "Some interesting items aboard Mr. Lefever's yacht. A minisub and a dolphin. I think we should confer."

    "Uh, can't it wait till morning?"

    There was a pause at the other end. "Does it not seem unusual to you that Lefever would keep a minisub aboard his yacht?"

    "It makes me curious as hell, especially after witnessing some of his behavior first hand this evening," Solo said with only a hint of irritability. "However, it is late and I don't think we'll necessarily accomplish much now. How about in the morning?"

    "I will meet you in your hotel room."

    "OK, good. Solo out."

    He replaced the communicator in his pocket just as the bathroom door opened. Laura emerged, wearing nothing but a black teddy. "I, eh, hope you were able to get your business concluded."

    "It's nothing that can't keep."

    He walked toward her and they embraced once more, this time he could feel her tongue plunge into his mouth. Somewhere in the back of his mind, something was protesting this was all wrong. But he couldn't focus on the thought, instead, he concentrated on the smell of the perfume and the soft skin. One again he was dizzy, but it was definitely not the champagne.

    Raymond Lefever gently shook the glass, letting the ice rattle. He sighed, not looking anywhere in particular.

    A tall, bald man with a mustache entered the study. "Mr. Lefever, the last of the guests have gone."

    "Fine, Reeves. Send everyone home, we can clean up tomorrow."

    Reeves nodded and left while Lefever undid his bowtie with his free hand. He chuckled for a moment and took a drink from the bourbon and water. Then, in barged Quentin Clooney.

    "Just did some checking. That motherf--"

    "Spare me the colorful language and just provide me the information."

    Clooney sighed. "That fellow," -- he exaggerated the pronunciation, making each syllable sound distinct -- "is almost certainly an U.N.C.L.E. agent. I'll have final confirmation tomorrow but there aren't too many spooks who call themselves Napoleon Solo. Also, Gaspar just came up from Portsmouth. He's got something you should hear as well."

    "Send him in."

    Gaspar entered, looking scuffed up.

    "Tell him what happened," Clooney said.

    "A man sneaked around the yacht. He saw the sub and Princess in her tank."

    "Sneaked around? How?" Lefever said impatiently.

    "He was dressed in work clothes. He was part of the repair crew working on the engines. They didn't get done until the evening. During a dinner break, this one must have hid when we took the workmen out. I waited until the crew was done, then followed the little man."

    "Little man? What did he look like?"

    "Little blonde man. Spinner and I followed him, ran his car off road. But he fight like a tiger, knocked us out."

    "I checked that out, too," Clooney interjected. "Matches the description of another U.N.C.L.E. agent. Illya Kuryakin. Works with Solo. OK, Gaspar, you can go."

    The large man looked for a moment at Lefever, who nodded his agreement.

    Clooney walked up to the chair where Lefever sat. "Things are getting a little too hot. If U.N.C.L.E. can figure out what's going on, nothing is stopping the C.I.A. or British Intelligence from putting two and two together. Plus all the others."

    Lefever waved him off. "Intelligence agencies are too parochial to get in our way. They're too busy justifying their budgets to their individual governments to see the forest for the trees. Although it seems like Mr. Solo -- and probably this other gentleman -- will have to be dealt with."

    "I think we ought to cancel the operation."

    "No way. You're paid to carry out plans, not make plans. I'll add another million for you, another two million for your men. Call it hazard duty pay. But a chance like this won't wait."

    Clooney sneered. "You're a piece of work. You let an agent come in here, right under your nose. You're probably damn lucky he was a Boy Scout from U.N.C.L.E. If he was somebody tougher, he'd whack you on the spot -- at least that's what I would have done if I were in his place. And to top it all off--"

    "That's enough!" Lefever said as he interrupted. "I know what you're about to say. But in a way that's the saving grace. That's may be why this evening wasn't a total loss after all." He smiled and took another drink from his glass.

    Solo woke with a start. He sighed and looked down at the red haired woman sleeping beside him. He started to ease out of bed but stopped when he felt the touch of her hand on his back.

    "An early riser aren't we," Laura said warmly.

    He turned around and kissed her. "Sorry. I just have an early business meeting in the morning. I should probably get to my hotel so I can be ready first thing."

    "Who's Clara, Napoleon?" she said. "I didn't see a wedding ring but that doesn't necessarily mean anything."

    "I called you Clara?"

    "Just once, during a particularly passionate moment," she said, sitting up in bed, the teddy long gone. "I was enjoying myself too much to let it ruin it."

    "She was somebody I knew a long time ago. We almost got married, but you know... She passed away several months ago."

    "Was she pretty?"

    "Look in a mirror. Not an exact match, but I'd hate to try and make a living on the difference."

    "I'm sorry, I shouldn't have pried." She paused for a moment, then glanced at the clock. "You know, it is only one-twenty."

    "Well, my meeting is a bit...well, it's not that early." He leaned over and kissed her once more. For just a second he felt disoriented as if he had vertigo. But the sensation passed quickly.

    Solo glanced at his watch as he put the plastic key into the slot of his hotel room. Five minutes before six. He smiled for a moment, remembering the events of the past few hours, then eased his way into the room. As he closed it, Solo's senses were suddenly alert. He eased the U.N.C.L.E. Special out of his holster, then switched on the lights.

    "Good morning, Napoleon," Kuryakin said, sitting at a desk in the front part of Solo's room. He wore one of his trademark black suits, having traded in the sweaty work clothes. "I thought we'd get an early start."

     "What?" Solo said, putting his gun back in the he holster. "I was thinking of something a bit more reasonable, like nine."

    Kuryakin shrugged his shoulders. "Well, I do occasionally trip over your American slang. Perhaps I did not make myself clear."

    Before Solo could counter the remark, the telephone rang. Solo went up to the desk, and picked up the receiver of the phone there.

    "Hello? Oh, Laura. Didn't expect you to call....my bowtie? I, eh, must have left it there I was...in a bit of a hurry. Lunch? That's possible. Actually, yes. I know that restaurant. Twelve-thirty then. If something comes up, I'll try and telephone. Yes. I had a wonderful time, too. Good-bye."

    Solo put the receiver down slowly and deliberately, saying nothing, just waiting.

    "Laura who?"

    "DeVries."

    "Is she perhaps the reason why you wished to delay our debriefing of one another?"

    "Maybe."

    "I believe our orders were to investigate Mr. Lefever and his associates, not seduce his girlfriends."

    Solo sighed. "It wasn't like that. There was something special and unusual about her..."

    "Isn't there always?"

    The American gave Kuryakin a dirty look. "Besides, she wasn't Lefever's girlfriend."

    "How do you know?"

    Solo started to speak and suddenly he felt the same sensation of vertigo. Actually, he didn't know that much about her. But he wasn't about to admit that to Illya.

    "I just know. Anyway, I'm sorry."

    Kuryakin, feeling he had pressed the issue as far as he could for now, said nothing for a moment. Then he changed subjects. "Well, as I mentioned, the yacht has a large lower compartment. Inside is the mini-sub. It is suspended over a chamber of water. I suspect there is some sort of opening in the bottom hull that would permit the submarine to be launched underwater without anyone observing. Then, there was the dolphin. It was a good sized tank but still somewhat small to keep a dolphin for a prolonged period of time."

    "Hmmm. For someone who fancies himself an environmentalist, seems odd he would keep one of God's creatures cooped up like that."

    "Cooped?" Kuryakin asked.

    "Contained in a small space."

    "The dolphin was quite friendly from what I could tell. But I do not understand what role it plays in all this. What of the party?"

    "Mr. Lefever quickly took notice of a representative of an oil company. He suggested we play a private game of poker. If he won, my 'employer' would make an extra large contribution to the environmental fund raiser."

    "And?"

    "He cheated but I figured it out in time. He had this cigar case that really was some sort of device. Not sure how it worked, but the cards must have been marked somehow. There probably was some kind of readout of the cards. I, eh, accidentally broke the case reaching for a cigar."

    "You occasionally display signs of being accident prone," Kuryakin said.

    "I'm open to suggestions what we do next. It sounds like we should keep that yacht under surveillance."

    "I need to run a few errands first, but I was planning on getting back down to Portsmouth today."

    "Good idea. Whatever it is he's planning, it's probably soon. I'll try and check out possible targets. Though I'll be damned if I figure out how that dolphin you saw has to do with it all."

    "Perhaps Miss DeVries has some ideas," Kuryakin said, holding back a smile.

    "Yes, mother."

    "I'll make contact by this afternoon," Kuryakin said, ignoring the gibe. With that, he left the room. Five minutes later, he got back into the small Fiat, parked along a narrow side street near the hotel. Then, he took out his pen communicator from the breast pocket of his suitcoat.

    "Open Channel D. Kuryakin here."

    "Channel D is open. U.N.C.L.E.-London here."

    "Patch me through to the research division, please."

    Several seconds passed. "Research. Go ahead, Mr. Kuryakin."

    "I need everything you have on a Miss Laura DeVries. I'm afraid I don't have much of a description. Probably strikingly beautiful. Currently domiciled in London. I'll be in the office in an hour or so. Kuryakin out."

    After a two-hour nap, Solo showered and changed clothes. He walked down to the hotel restaurant, bought a copy of the International Herald-Tribune and scanned it over breakfast. Several items were mildly interesting. Repair work had begun on the oil platform damaged by the "eco-terrorist" explosion. The British Prime Minister, during a short talk in Parliament, said the attack would not stop the continued oil exploration in the North Sea. However, some chemical companies confirmed they had beefed up security at their facilities. One of the last stories he read indicated that Prince Charles intended to play host to the leaders of the Seven leading industrialized nations on the royal yacht tomorrow, as a sort of preliminary gathering to their annual summit.

    Could Lefever go after the leaders of the industrialized countries? He and Kuryakin had foiled similar assassination plots the past 18 months. Solo dismissed the thought. So far, the "eco-terrorists" had struck at specific targets that had been criticized in the past by environmental groups. Even if Lefever wanted to attack the politicians, could he get close enough? Solo knew the Royal yacht, as a precaution, was equipped with sonar. And there would be several security boats, no doubt.

    Solo chuckled. You're letting your imagination get the better of you. His thoughts instead drifted back to Laura DeVries. His mind replayed certain events, some repeatedly. He looked forward to lunch. He thought about the next meal so much, he barely ate any of the breakfast on his plate and instead only sipped the coffee and drank the orange juice.

    The U.N.C.L.E. enforcement chief spent the next couple of hours at the London station. He spent most of his time trying to avoid Paul Westcott. He briefly ran into Illya in the hallway but the Russian didn't talk much so Solo didn't think much of it. A few minutes after twelve, Solo exited out by way of the bookstore and hailed a taxi.

    Twenty-five minutes later, Solo paid the cab driver. Laura was outside the restaurant, the green dress setting off her red hair. She kissed him twice but did so mechanically.

    "Well, Laura you can do better than that."

    Laura flinched, and instinct caused Solo to draw the U.N.C.L.E. Special from the shoulder holster. But before he could turn around, smoke bombs were going off. He could feel his throat fill with mucous and he coughed as the knockout fumes entered his lungs. He couldn't see anything to get off a shot and then felt a karate blow on his right arm. Suddenly, in front of him, was a man dressed all in black with a gas mask. Although the face was obscured, Solo could feel Quentin Clooney's sneer through the mask just before another karate blow struck him in the neck. As he went down, he heard screams as pedestrians scattered and it looked like another man was grabbing Laura. He tried to reach out in her direction just as everything turned black.

Act IV

"Princess"

    Kuryakin took off the tinted glasses and rubbed his eyes. The research documents had turned up little else about Lefever's background or present resources. A feeling of dread began to envelope him. The woman, though, was the largest unknown in all this. He began to stack the papers on the conference room table when the intercom buzzed.

    "Kuryakin here," he said, with only a trace of anxiety.

    "Research here," a woman's voice said. "It took us a while but we have what you asked for. We have a few pictures."

    "I'll be right there."

    He got up, straightened his tie and grabbed the suitcoat that was hanging on the chair. It was only a short walk to a room full of personal computers, whose cable modem connections were much faster than telephone lines.

    A blonde woman got up from one of the computers and handed the agent some printouts. "Background is a bit unusual," she said.

    He took the tinted glasses from his pocket and examined the materials. The picture on top immediately grabbed his attention. No wonder Napoleon was attracted to her, he thought. What had Napoleon said? Ah, yes. There was something "special and unusual about her."

She could almost be Clara Richards' twin sister.

    Kuryakin quickly scanned the other material. Laura DeVries. Attended Harvard University, honor student, member of the swim team, attended multiple graduate schools, studying marine biology.

    He took off the glasses. Expert swimmer? Marine biology? He read a bit further. Member of Greenpeace, Sierra Club....Inherited good-sized fortune when mother and father killed in accident. Were part of a Greenpeace-led group that tried to stop an oil tanker by running small motorized rafts in the path of the craft. The DeVries'  raft got too close, tanker unable to avoid it.

    Kuryakin licked his lips. It was the same oil company that owned the destroyed oil platform in the North Sea. "She and Lefever are kindred spirits."

    "Pardon?" the researcher said.

    "I've got to contact Mr. Westcott."

    "You won't find him. He and his deputy are away today. They've been called in to help plan security for the G-7."

    "G-7?"

    "The leaders of the seven largest industrial countries. They're having their annual summit. They're getting in tonight and are supposed to go out on Prince Charles' yacht tomorrow. They won't be back till later, maybe not till tonight."

    Kuryakin said nothing, instead he left the room and headed toward the nearest exit.

    A half-hour later, Kuryakin had gotten the Fiat out of the worst of the London traffic and traveled southwest toward Portsmouth. He took out the pen communicator and tried to contact Solo. But he couldn't establish a connection. Then he slapped his forehead. He was meeting her for lunch. He looked at his watch. It was now after one.

    He considered what to do next. Call Waverly? With what? He'd treat the fact Solo was missing as serious but to say to work through Westcott. And what evidence did he have? The sub was suspicious, but not illegal. Kuryakin also kept thinking about the dolphin.

    It was past mid afternoon when Kuryakin arrived at the docks at Portsmouth. He found a secluded spot to park the Fiat and walked three-quarters of a mile to the area where Lefever's yacht was docked. There was minimal activity on deck and no sign its owner was near. He edged closer, staying close to stacked crates where he could. Unfortunately, the area closest to the 125-foot craft was clear and nothing was being loaded on at this moment. In fact, it looked like the yacht would be getting under way soon.

    The footstep wasn't loud, but Kuryakin could tell it was close. He spun around and saw the hulking Gaspar right behind him.

    "I hoped I might see you again," Gaspar said.

    The large man moved much quicker this time, connecting with a punch to Kuryakin's jaw. The Russian staggered and bounced off one of the stacks of crates. Gaspar pressed his advantage, grabbing Kuryakin around the waist. The agent tried to strike a karate blow but was off balance and unable to connect with much force. Gaspar then hoisted him up and threw him into the stack of crates.

    Kuryakin bumped his head hard but was still conscious. But only long enough for Gaspar to strike another punch. He felt dizzy as the day turned into night.

    It was the groaning that caused Kuryakin to open his eyes. He saw a blur of light and shadow and felt a surge of pain in his jaw. He blinked his eyes twice and the world began to take shape. The light was somewhat dim, but he could make out the basic details. He was lying on the top bunk of a berth of a yacht. A berth? Then, he could feel the gentle rocking motion. Definitely, a vessel of some sort, moving on the water.

    The Russian took a deep breath. The groaning came from underneath him. He checked and saw he was unbound. Moving very slowly and unsteadily, he tried to climb down, nearly falling off before catching himself.

    "Laura, watch out..."

    He steadied himself before looking down at the bottom bunk. It was Napoleon Solo, his tie askew and his suit somewhat wrinkled but surprisingly not too much the worse for the wear.

    Kuryakin tapped the shoulder of his friend. Solo awoke suddenly.

    "Laura! Get away!"

    He froze, his eyes locking on Kuryakin's.

    "Laura, where is she?"

    "Napoleon, I believe I have some bad news, though I haven't officially confirmed it yet."

    "What happened? I was meeting Laura for lunch, then we were attacked -- knockout gas. How long..."

    Kuryakin looked to where his watch should be, but it was gone. "I didn't get to the Portsmouth docks until around three. You've been out for a few hours, I would guess."

    Solo sat up. "Just what did you mean by bad news?"

    "I conducted a security check on Miss DeVries. I think she..."

    Just then, they heard a thump on the cabin door. "We're coming in. Freeze or we'll blast any goddam thing that moves!" Solo instantly recognized the unpleasant voice of Quentin Clooney and rolled his eyes.

    Clooney burst in, a rifle ready to fire, then moved to the side as Raymond Lefever and Laura DeVries entered.

    "Mr. Solo, glad to see you're awake. You too, Mr. Kuryakin," Lefever said.

    "May I sit up, if your associate doesn't mind?" Solo said.

    "Yes, but only very slowly and carefully."

    Solo swung his legs over the bunk onto the deck and took a deep breath. "Let me guess, Illya. You were about to tell me something about Ms. DeVries's background?"

    "Something like that," Kuryakin replied.

    "It sounds as if your friend was about to tell you that Laura and I are two peas in a pod," Lefever said smugly. "We both care very deeply about this planet and are quite unsatisfied with the current pace of addressing environmental concerns."

    "Killing people seems a rather extreme way of venting your frustrations," Solo said.

    "Is it, Napoleon?" Laura interrupted. "You didn't see your parents die, crushed by an oil tanker."

    Solo looked up at Kuryakin, who was standing by the bunk. "Was this part of what you were going to tell me?"

    Kuryakin nodded, but said nothing.

    "And what about you, Mr. Lefever? I don't recall any mention in the file about any close relatives of yours perishing. What happened? Did your dog, Spike, fall down an abandoned oil well, or something?"

    "Quite droll, Mr. Solo," he said. "No, my motivation is a bit more complicated. Some people have religious epiphanies, where they are born again. In may case, I realized everything I had was built on the misery of others. Of numerous communities whose water supply was contaminated by chemicals seeping into the groundwater. Of uncountable children exposed to unhealthy air. Of reckless tampering with the very ecosystem that gives us life."

    Solo's eyes widened.

    Lefever continued. "There was no particular stimulus, Mr. Solo. It just came to me one day at Harvard, just before graduation. A first-class education. More money than I would ever need. I didn't deserve any of it. I wept, Mr. Solo. Wept. For an hour, alone in my apartment. I vowed to change all that, I would become the richest environmental supporter I could."

    "Did writing checks become boring?"

    Solo heard Clooney grunt, glancing over to see him tightening his grip on the he rifle.

    "At first, writing checks was quite satisfactory. Still, to most I seemed the idle rich heir, someone to hit up for money. I knew to make a real difference, I was going to have to grow my resources. That's why I sold my chemical stock. I got an MBA. But instead of going to Wall Street, like so many of my peers, I invested my funds -- just in time for a prolonged bull market I might add. Sooner than I thought, I had the resources I'd need."

    "You didn't answer my question. When did blowing things up become important?"

    "I saw that money wasn't enough. I was acquainted with Laura's father. He helped introduce me to some people in the environmental movement. But they always seemed to spend much of their time fund raising. I knew that a more direct approach was needed -- especially after Laura's father and mother died. I knew then that only force -- direct force -- was the only answer. It's the only thing that petty bureaucrats understand."

    The two U.N.C.L.E. agents glanced at each other for a moment.

    "You may think me mad, Mr. Solo, Mr. Kuryakin. To me, it is only determination, mixed with the resources to make it possible."

    "Why tell us all this?" Kuryakin said. "Why not simply kill us?"

    "My associate Mr. Clooney would love to do that. I'm not sure why, myself. Laura is part of the reason. No, we're not lovers. But we are committed to this cause."

    "You're a participant in this from the beginning, Laura?" Solo said, with only a hint of wistfulness in his voice.

    "I was the one who planted the explosive on the oil platform," she said. "We thought the platform would be evacuated by evening but I guess the weather got too rough. I regret the two deaths, but it was something that had to be done, Napoleon."

    Solo glowered but stayed silent. His face became flushed.

    "I suspect Mr. Solo is too much the gentlemen to ask," Lefever said. "So I'll answer his unspoken question. No, Laura did not set out to seduce you. She was genuinely attracted to you. It turned out to be quite an advantage. None of us were aware of her resemblance to this...what was her name?"

    The cabin was silent for nearly a full minute. "Clara," Solo said coldly.

    "A total coincidence. You probably don't believe it, and I'm not sure I do, either," Lefever said. "But it's true. Kept you off balance just long enough we could act."

    Why is it these fellows always need an audience? Kuryakin mused. "I suppose this is where we inquire about your plans and you tell us something preposterous."

    "Preposterous?" Lefever said, smiling. "What's so preposterous about assassinating the heads of the seven industrialized nations? If I do say so myself, I suspect it will attract a great deal of notice."

    Solo and Kuryakin looked at each other for a moment. "Come again?" Solo said.

    "Wait a minute," the Russian said. "Miss DeVries has studied marine biology. That dolphin in the tank..."

    Lefever's grin only got bigger.

    "You've trained that dolphin to kill?" Solo interjected. "How?"

    Lefever giggled but Solo could only stare at Laura, whose expression was considerably more somber.

    "Oh, no point in me spoiling the surprise. You'll see soon enough in a few hours. Actually, I think that's the real reason I kept you alive, Mr. Solo. I don't like to lose. I think you and Mr. Kuryakin should stew in your failure for a while."

    Clooney let out a small grunt as the sneer on his face became even more stern than before.

    "Don't worry, Clooney," Lefever said to his lackey. "You can feel free to kill them if they should try and interfere. But you and Gaspar removed all their little toys." Turning to the agents, he continued: "This is really a game for grownups, now, gentlemen. No more cowboys and Indians."

    "Laura, how can you do this?" Solo said sternly, looking past Clooney and Lefever. "You can't really believe this."

    "It has to be done, goddamit," she said, nearly yelling. "I'm no good at theatrics. I'm sorry about us, Napoleon. But this has to be done. There have been too many words, not enough action. Yes, I'm a part of this. He and I aren't really alike. But we really do believe in this. And I'll do anything -- anything -- to accomplish it." Her eyes moistened and she turned from the cabin and left.

    "I believe that's my cue," Lefever said, as he began to leave, Clooney keeping his weapon aimed at the U.N.C.L.E. agents. "It will be quite a show."

    The cabin door shut.

    Kuryakin sat down in the lower bunk next to Solo. "She studied marine biology?" Solo said.

    "Expert swimmer, also," Kuryakin said.  "Although I didn't know for sure she was involved in the oil platform explosion until that last display."

    "Any more bad news you wish to impart?"

    "No, I think that should be plenty for now."     

    "I don't suppose you have any idea where we are?"

    "Not the slightest. I woke up only a short while before you. Knockout gas?"

    "Uh-huh."

    "Must have been quite strong."

    "Yeah."

    "How is a dolphin going to kill the heads of seven countries?"

    "Don't you know?"

    "Haven't the slightest."

    "Oh, no," Solo moaned, covering his eyes with his hands for a moment.

    "What is it?" Kuryakin asked.

    "I think I might know."

    "And?"

    "I read in the paper that Prince Charles is entertaining the seven leaders on the royal yacht."

    Kuryakin snapped his fingers. "Yes, Westcott and his aides had to attend a meeting about the security."

    "Uh-huh. Security will be pretty tight, I'd guess."

    "Probably have the yacht surrounded with naval and security vessels," the Russian said.

    "But if Flipper were to swim up, nobody would think twice."

    "Flipper?"

    "Name of a popular TV show about a dolphin."

    "But what could they have trained Lefever's dolphin to do?"

    "I don't know. You saw the dolphin. You tell me."

    "Well I know one thing," Kuryakin said.

    "What's that?"

    "If they're successful, Westcott will never let you forget it."

    Solo made a dirty face at Kuryakin, motioned for him to get off the bunk and laid back down.

    "Now what are you doing? This is no time to relax."

    Solo pointed toward his head. "I want to put this extremity to use for a while. Besides, I'm sure there's a guard just outside that door, all tensed and ready to fire. Might as well let him stay tensed up for a few hours."

    Kuryakin rolled his eyes, but seeing nothing else to do, climbed up on the top bunk and laid down.

    As it turned out, the rest did Kuryakin good. He was still a bit woozy from the beating by Gaspar. The rocking of the yacht was relaxing and soon after, it had turned dark outside. He fell asleep, which was peaceful at first until he had a vision of swimming underwater with a school of dolphins. Somehow he heard a ticking noise underwater, just as the dolphins were ready to explode...

    "Illya." It was Solo's voice, sounding calm and emotionless.

    It was morning, Kuryakin guessed, though he wasn't sure.

    "What great thoughts have you pondered?" Kuryakin said, sitting up slowly.

    "Enough," Solo said. "Time to take inventory. Did they leave any of the standard escape devices?"

    Kuryakin patted down the suit pockets and checked the heel of his shoes. "I'm afraid not, however," he said as he extended two fingers into his mouth, "in these complicated times, simplicity is sometimes the best answer." He flexed his jaw after removing the lock pick. "Started carrying it again recently, though I'm not sure why."

    Solo looked at the door, then back at the lock pick. "It'll have to do." He then gestured to the door. "Care to have at it?"

    Kuryakin took a handkerchief, wiped off the lock pick, then climbed down off the top bunk. At the same time, Solo stood up, took off his belt and began to wrap his hands around each end.

    "After that affair in Rome, I understand you recommended the ordinance section issue new Class A belts with razor sharp buckles," the Russian said as he knelt down and began to work the lock. "Any luck?"

    "It's under study. Unfortunately, this is a plain belt."

    "The hard way, then?"

    "The hard way."

    Kuryakin squinted for a minute, then arched his eyebrows. "That should do it."

    Solo pulled the belt tight between his hands. "All right, open it up. Let's see how alert our guard is."

    Illya stood, held the knob for a moment, then turned it and pulled the door open. He kept behind the door. They heard a grunt from outside, then two gunshots reverberated through the small cabin. The guard, still holding his rifle, came in, concentrating on the empty bunk. Before he could turn, Solo had the belt around the guard's neck. The man choked but not before he got off another shot that hit the inner hull. The guard's face turned red just before Kuryakin came up and administered a karate blow. Solo let go as the man tumbled to the deck, then turned and held the door shut.

    Kuryakin checked the man and found a Browning 9 mm semi-automatic pistol. Solo grabbed a bedsheet and began using it to tie up the man. Illya took a pillow case, tore it and made a makeshift gag, which he stuffed in the man's mouth.

    "That won't hold him long but we can get a good start," Solo said. "You take the rifle, I'll take the Browning."

    Kuryakin said nothing as the agents edged out of the cabin.

    "You check forward, I'll check aft," Solo said quietly.

    Laura DeVries stroked the dolphin as it was being hoisted from its tank to the large pool.

    The dolphin quivered in the harness. "Don't be scared, Princess," she said. "This will only take a second."

    One guard, a large, bearded man with thinning hair, stopped the winch, keeping the dolphin just above the tank. Another, thinner man, walked slowly, holding a round, flat metal object, about the size of a Frisbee, but somewhat thicker. A strap hung from the metal disk, almost like a football helmet strap.

    Laura took the disk, placed it on the head of Princess, then adjusted the strap so the metal object fit snugly. Princess let out a noise of protest.

    "It won't be long, I promise," she said to the dolphin. Laura then motioned to the winch operator who began to lower Princess into the pool. As the dolphin became immersed in the water, her harness began to slacken. Princess quickly wiggled out of it and began to swim around the pool.

    Laura looked down, watching Princess intently. The winch operator brought  the harness up out of the water, then swung it out of the way. The red haired woman continued to look at the dolphin for another minute before speaking. "Open the hatch," Laura finally said, not much louder than a whisper.

    The large man understood and flipped a switch. All anyone could hear was the hum of the underwater hatch opening. A minute later, Princess swam away.

    Kuryakin held the rifle gingerly, walking as quietly as he could. A circular stairway leading to the upper deck lay ahead. Just then, however, the man called Gaspar came down, spotting the Russian almost immediately. The passageway was narrow and the rifle was a clumsy weapon. Kuryakin got off a shot, just missing Gaspar, who was now rushing like a rhino. The rifle flew out of Kuryakin's hands as Gaspar swatted at him, sending him to the deck.

    The agent pushed away at his legs as Gaspar attempted to stomp him. Kuryakin kicked, hitting Gaspar in the right knee. The huge man barely let out a grunt, grabbing at Kuryakin and wrapping his large hands around the Russian's head.

    Gaspar's face contorted as he began to squeeze, hard. Kuryakin's vision clouded, sounds now seemed distant. He summoned all the strength he could muster and broke the hold, causing Gaspar to stumble to his knees. But the large man continued to attack. Illya's vision began to clear, but he knew he couldn't take this for long, so he put his remaining strength into a karate blow that connected square in the big man's Adam's Apple. Gaspar grabbed him again and Kuryakin couldn't resist. But as the Russian blinked, he could see Gaspar was turning blue and starting to choke. Gaspar's grip weakened and Kuryakin stepped backward. Gaspar fell to the floor, his eyes starting to roll upward but still acting as if he wanted to crush the Russian. He flailed for another minute until he stopped moving. Kuryakin went to one knee himself as he tried to steady himself.

    Solo kept to the side of the corridor when he heard a faint hum.  There was a cabin door ahead with no markings. Before he could get closer, a thin man emerged, a look of alarm on his face the second his spotted Solo.

    "Prisoner!" the thin man yelled into the cabin just before Solo clipped his head with the butt of the Browning. The thin guard fell to floor at Solo's feet and the agent had trouble stepping away. A large bearded man, moving much quicker than it seemed he should, emerged, knocking the pistol out of Solo's grip.

    The thug connected with another blow but Solo responded by kneeing him in the stomach. The agent then struck a karate blow, but hadn't gotten much leverage. The big man wrapped his arms around Solo, slamming him into a corridor wall. Solo backhanded him across the face, causing the thug to loosen his hold.

    Solo took a deep breath, then managed to knee the thug hard in the stomach once more. As the man fell to the deck, Solo connected with a karate blow, causing his opponent to lose consciousness.

    The agent felt at the corner of his mouth, where he felt a trickle of blood. He froze, suddenly sensing yet another presence in the corridor. Then, standing just outside the cabin door was Laura DeVries, aiming the Browning Solo had dropped in the fight. She held the gun in a two-hand grip.

    Solo only briefly glanced at the legless orange scuba suit she wore. He looked longer at the green eyes, which seemed intense and unforgiving.

    "You can't stop it," she said calmly. "Princess made it clear. She's on her way."

    Solo wiped the drop of blood with his index finger, then rubbed it against his thumb. "Laura, you'll accomplish nothing except senseless deaths. Too many have died already."

    "You don't get it, do you? Napoleon, don't count on my feelings stopping me from what I have to do.  Please just give up."

    "I can't do that."

    Her finger tightened on the trigger. He looked into the green eyes once more. Not even a hint of doubt. He glanced down. Two unconscious men lying between him and her. No chance to rush her.

    "I'm sorry, Napoleon. Believe me. But I won't let you stop us."

    Solo tensed. Could he duck? The gun was aimed squarely at his heart. Even if he could move in time, he'd still likely be hit in the chest.

    "Good-bye, Napoleon."

    As the shot rang out, Solo dived to the other side of the corridor. He paused for a moment, wondering why he didn't feel the pain of the shot ripping through his lungs or chest. Then, he looked up. Laura still held the gun but the eyes no longer seemed cold and steely. Instead they were glassy. Then, a trickle of blood came down her mouth. The eyes opened wide for a second, then, she fell, a gaping red hole in the back of the wet suit.

    Solo looked up and saw Kuryakin standing there, holding the rifle. The senior agent then stepped over the unconscious thugs as quickly as he could and kneeled by Laura. He did a quick check but knew she was dead. He felt an intense sensation of vertigo for a minute, bombarded by the memories of, not one, but two women -- now both dead. He breathed shallowly for several seconds, then finally inhaled deeply, held it, then breathed out.

    Kuryakin approached slowly. "I am sorry, Napoleon. I had to stop her. I only had a second to react."

    "It's....all right," Solo said slowly. "I should be thanking you." He wanted to linger but knew he could not. He took the Browning from her hands, checked it, then stood up, glanced into the large compartment. He could see the minisub but the tank in the rear only held water.

    "The dolphin is out," he said. "She called it Princess."

    "Now what?"

    "If I had to guess, I'd say Lefever is having his biggest theatrical moment yet. Let's go."

    Quentin Clooney looked at his employer and thought the man was almost giddy. Raymond Lefever wore white pants and jacket, with a black shirt and black tennis shoes. All extremes, nothing in-between. Clooney sneered, figuring that pretty well summed up the man.

    The yacht's captain, a first mate and two of Clooney's security men huddled near the controls at the yacht's bridge. Lefever was off by himself, constantly studying the console in front of him. Clooney edged forward for a look. In the center there was a switch. One side was labeled "home," while the other -- the side the switch was now on -- said "target." The console let out a beeping noise. There was also a small monitor but the only thing Clooney saw was a series of wavy lines, impossible to tell what they meant.

    Lefever suddenly noticed his security chief. "Don't you ever get tired of dressing in all black?"

    Clooney only sneered.

    "Won't be long now," Lefever said. "Princess is swimming quite quickly. Probably will get there within ten minutes. Curious how it works?"

    "If it makes you happy."

    "I suppose I am a bit overcome by all this," Lefever replied. "This device is sending signals, telling Princess where to go. There is a receiver, surgically implanted, just below her skin. She'll keep going until she reaches the target."

    "So how does the dolphin blow up the boat?"

    "Laura strapped a mine to the head of Princess. Once Princess cleared the underwater hatch, we activated it. When Princess gets to the Royal yacht, the mine, which is magnetized, will stick to the yacht. Princess will slip out of the strap. I'll turn the switch to send a beacon signal home. Within minutes, the mine will blow up."

    "Shouldn't that bitch be back here by now?"

    Lefever was about to dress down Clooney when the security man's words hit him. Where was Laura?

    Before Lefever could say anything, Clooney whipped out a gun and began firing at a side door to the bridge. The sneering man rushed forward but fell backward when the door was forced backwards into him. Suddenly Napoleon Solo entered the bridge. Simultaneously, a scuffle broke out behind Lefever. Somehow the Russian U.N.C.L.E. agent had gained entry and was shooting into the bridge area.

    Lefever tried getting back to the console but held back as Solo and Clooney were engaged in hand-to-hand combat. Clooney tried striking Solo with a karate blow, but the U.N.C.L.E. agent blocked it. But Solo couldn't press a counterattack. Clooney grabbed him and they spun to the console. Both men bounced off the controls. Solo landed on the deck first, using his leverage to throw Clooney into the air. Lefever felt panicked. His breathing was rapid and he could feel several beads of sweat forming on his forehead.

    He turned as a shot rang out. One of Clooney's men was on top of Kuryakin. But the security man, larger than Kuryakin, lay limp. The Russian scrambled to get out from under the corpse.  He then sprung up and knocked out the captain with a karate blow.

    As Lefever's eyes darted back and forth, the one thing he didn't look at was the console. During the ruckus, the switch had been flipped to the side labeled "home."

    As the security boat made a slow circle around the Royal yacht, Commander Royce Nicolson felt it was a waste of time. It was like babysitting. If all went right, you spent a few hours of boredom. The alternative meant minutes, perhaps hours, of white knuckles and raw emotion. He saw little possibility of that, however. Two other boats were pulling the same duty as his vessel, probing under the North Sea with sonar. Two helicopters circled overhead as well, and a rather impressive member of the Royal Fleet cruised nearby. All for a bloody party, Nicolson thought. Hope those politicians are enjoying the bloody prince's company.

    "Sir, I am picking up something," the operator of a small sonar set yelled to Nicolson, who stepped away from the bridge to the aft portion of the craft.

    "What is it?"

    "It's nothing. Just a bloody fish. Maybe a dolphin, judging from the size of the thing. It is coming straight for the yacht, however."

    "You sure about it being a fish?"

    "Can tell by the way it moves, sir. No, it's got to be a fish or a dolphin."

    "Still seems like a damn funny coincidence."

    "Well, sir, I'm pretty sure it's nothing. Turned away just now. Seems to be going the other way."

    "All right. But keep a close eye out, will you Carson?"

    "Aye, sir."

    Clooney finally knocked Solo to the deck of the bridge. However, Solo had the presence of mind to whip his leg around, tripping the security man. Clooney fell backwards and stumbled into Lefever. The U.N.C.L.E. agent, scrambled over and hit Clooney once, twice and a third time. The former intelligence operative grimaced but still could grasp Solo by the throat. Solo headbutted Clooney, finally knocking him unconscious.

    Solo looked up and lunged for Lefever, grabbing him by his white jacket and hoisting him up. The agent glanced over and saw that Kuryakin had just put down the last of the men on the bridge he had been fighting.

    "All right, Lefever. It's over."

    "How unoriginal, Mr. Solo."

    "Don't you understand? Laura's dead. Other people on this yacht are dead. This whole stinking plan of yours ends now," Solo said coldly.

    "Laura's dead?" Lefever turned white.

    "This is it. No more."

    "No, I don't believe you. Besides, you're too late..."

    Lefever's mouth dropped. Solo looked in the direction Lefever was staring. He saw the control console.

    "Illya, check that thing out."

    Kuryakin, rubbing his jaw, looked at the console. He checked the readout on the monitor. The beeps were getting very loud. Then he looked at the switch and a look of alarm came over his face.

    "Princess is almost on top of us," Lefever said. "That switch..."

    "The one that's flipped to the label that says home?"

    "If that got switched before Princess made it to the target, she still has the mine."

    "Napoleon, we've got to get off. Immediately."

    Solo let go of Lefever who just stood, staring. He glanced around and saw some of the men starting to stir. Then he glanced at the console, where the volume of the beeping became ear-shattering. He felt Kuryakin tug at his suitcoat. The agents moved out one of the side doors. Solo glanced back for a second and saw Lefever, still staring. Kuryakin already was over the side and Solo dived in behind him.

    As he hit the water, Solo tried to swim as deep and as far away as he could. For long seconds, he saw almost nothing but felt the chill of the North Sea waters. He kept swimming ahead before he felt the concussion of the blast. He exhaled precious air, unable to help himself. Dizzy from the shock of the explosion, he couldn't tell up from down.

    Then he felt something slick and smooth. He held on as best as the object -- no, not object -- moved. Whatever it was, it was moving to the light.  As he broke the surface, Solo took in a deep breath of air. He still felt disoriented but relaxed for a moment and began to tread water. Over to the side, Kuryakin began to swim in his direction.

    Just then, Princess surfaced, letting out a series of noises, sounding almost triumphant.

    "I might have known," Kuryakin said as he approached.

    "What are you talking about?" Solo said.

    "I thought that was a female dolphin."

    Princess quickly dived below the surface and swam away as the sound of a helicopter could be heard in the distance.

    The next 24 hours were hectic as authorities from seven countries all tried to assert their prerogatives and attempted to debrief the U.N.C.L.E. agents. Solo and Kuryakin were unaware of this, because they were taken to a hospital for observation. Solo had a ringing in his head that wouldn't quit for a few hours, and slept much of the rest of the time. They were released the following morning. They were taken out a side entrance and the normal procedure of a ride in a wheelchair was dispensed with. Several reporters were outside the main patient discharge area, having heard rumors that people involved with the mysterious explosion near the Royal yacht were at the hospital.

    The agents were led to a limousine where a solitary tall man sat in the back seat.

    "I only have time to give you two a lift to the office," Paul Westcott said as the door shut and the limo moved forward. "Mr. Waverly will debrief you himself. I've got some bureaucratic fires to put out."

    "I guess Section One has its own fights," Solo said.

    "Yes, and they're often not as satisfying as the Section Two fights. At least you have a better idea whether you've won or not."

    Kuryakin stayed silent, sensing the two men were putting aside their rivalry at least for now.

    Westcott spoke up again. "Eventually, we'll have to set up something where representatives of the seven countries can ask you some questions. It's been hell keeping them off your backs until now. But Mr. Waverly insisted you talk to him before anyone else."

    "Thanks for the help, Paul."

    "It's easy to say that when you've had all the fun."

    Solo looked ahead for a moment, seeing the image of a red haired woman. "Sure. All the fun."

    "And you're sure that's all, gentlemen?"

    It was two hours later. A secretary took notes even though there was also a tape recorder on the conference table. Alexander Waverly fiddled with his pipe, but didn't light it.

    Kuryakin looked at Solo, who seemed drained from the debriefing session. "Yes sir, I think that's about it."

    "Just one moment, sir," Solo said, not looking at Waverly. "I think we need to discuss a personnel matter as the result of this affair. I think--"

    "Just a moment, Mr. Solo," Waverly said, switching off the recording device and taking out the cassette tape. "Miss Crowley, could you transcribe this and type up your notes?"

    The woman looked confused for a moment but said nothing as she took the tape and left the room.

    "Go on, Mr. Solo."

    "I think I should tender my resignation."

    Kuryakin nearly bolted from his chair. He stayed quiet but his eyes widened. Napoleon had said nothing of this.

    "Why is that, Mr. Solo?"

    "My work on this affair was inexcusably sloppy, sir. I became involved with a woman for personal reasons, because of her, eh, resemblance to a former.." He let the sentence hang in the air, then started anew. "I failed to perform a basic check of the woman's identity."

    "Is that so?"

    "While the people we dealt with had massive resources, they were amateurs, essentially. Mr. Kuryakin turned up key things about her background after he performed this procedure. Had I done so, I would have had at least the suspicion that Ms. DeVries was involved with Mr. Lefever's plans."

    Is Napoleon serious? Kuryakin thought. But he could tell by Solo's eyes that he was.

    "I see," Waverly said.

    Solo reached into the breast pocket of his suitcoat and took out a letter. "It's handwritten, sir, not very formal. Did it in the hospital when I woke up. I'll be glad to have it typed up."

    Waverly took the letter, glanced at it for a moment, then tore it up.

    "Sir?"

    "Mr. Solo, if I think you've performed inadequate work, believe me you will be the first to know. I'm not going to lose one of my best men just because he's overwrought following a difficult assignment."

    "But, sir..."

    "See me when you get back to New York. If you really want to resign, we will discuss it. I suspect, however, it won't be an issue."

    Waverly stood up and walked to the door. "Good work, gentlemen. Take the rest of the week off. Be back in New York the following Monday. Now, if you'll excuse me, I have plenty of other work to do." He closed the door and was on his way.

    It took three days before Solo and Kuryakin actually got any free time. As Westcott had indicated, securities services of the seven industrialized countries wanted their own debriefing. The agents provided edited versions of the truth -- Solo's relationship with Laura was among the material left out. Each agent was questioned separately and they didn't see each other during that time.

    A few days later, after things began to cool down, Kuryakin had a chance to walk around London. He went to a pub that he and Solo both knew about, hoping he might spot Napoleon there. His instincts were proven correct when he saw Solo sipping a Killian's while seated in a booth. Kuryakin ordered a Guiness and sat down next to his friend.

    "We leave the day after tomorrow for New York. You haven't told me what you're going to say to Mr. Waverly. Do you really want to quit?"

    Solo sighed. "No. I probably won't even mention it."

    "So why did you say what you did?"

    "Remember when we found ourselves prisoners aboard Lefever's yacht? I said I wanted to do some thinking before we moved."

    "Certainly."

    "I sat there for hours thinking of how I screwed up this mission. How I let myself get caught up with Laura as if I were re-enacting my relationship with Clara Richards. Because of me, people were going to be assassinated. I determined I would stop it, then quit U.N.C.L.E."

    "You have made mistakes before. We all have. Why so critical? We did accomplish the central objective."

    "I felt like I let everyone down. You. U.N.C.L.E. Laura."

    "The woman? As I recall she was allied with Lefever."

    "I don't know, it just seemed like it should have been different somehow. If I hadn't become involved with her, perhaps we would have accomplished the mission sooner. With less bloodshed."

    "My friend, she had taken the wrong path, years ago, when she swore revenge for an accident. She had helped kill two men when she and Lefever blew up the oil platform. Unfortunately, we cannot save all who need saving. We do the best we can and move on."

    Solo sighed. Do you always have to be so damn right all the time, Illya? He thought of a dead woman, who looked so much like another dead woman. Both had become his lover and both were now dead. And what of Lefever's men, knocked out or tied up, unable to save themselves when the boat blew up? Did they deserve to die?

    Then again, Solo lived in a world where life and death decisions occur in a moment. You make choices and hope they work out. Like you say, Illya, we go on.

            Solo looked up and clinked his glass against Kuryakin's.

    "To doing the best we can," Solo said. Both men finished their drinks and ordered another.

THE END

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