Act I
“A Pleasant Visitor”

Somewhere in San Francisco


    The first thing Sherri Yamaguchi noticed about the visitor was his manner. Each step was very precise, like a man with purpose. Physically, the middle-aged man wasn’t imposing. A bit on the short side, somewhere between five-foot-five and five-foot-seven. She couldn’t see his eyes thanks to the tinted lenses of his glasses, but she thought the white beard appeared neatly trimmed.
    “May I help you?” the receptionist said.
    “Is this MPI?”
    Sherri glanced backward briefly at the large sign that read, “MPI, San Francisco Divisional Headquarters.”
    “I am sorry,” the man said, no particular accent but the tone quite pleasant and polite. “How silly of me. Of course it is. I am here to see Mr. Densmore. He is the top financial executive here, is he not?”
    “Yes.”
    “Good. I represent an Avery Stewart.”
    “Avery Stewart?” Sherri frowned for a second. The name was familiar, but where had she seen it. Then it popped into her head. One of the dot-com people....overnight millionaire who survived the shakeout. “Oh yes, I have heard of him.”
    “Mr. Stewart already has insurance through MPI but wishes to greatly increase it in light of his changed circumstances.”
    The man raised up the large briefcase for a moment. “Mr. Avery is not as comfortable as others are with electronic transfers. So I have been commissioned to strike a sizable deal.”
    It was an odd way of doing business but the man was so nice, Sherri couldn’t help but like him. He was just a pleasant little man.
    “Of course, I’ll see if I can get Mr. Densmore right away,” she said, picking up the receiver of the telephone. After two rings, she got an answer.
    “This is Densmore.”
    “Mr. Densmore, this is the receptionist. There’s a gentleman up front. Says he represents Avery Stewart.”
    “Stewart? The one with the Internet portal?”
    “Yes, sir. He says Mr. Stewart is looking for a big increase in coverage. But he has no appointment I know about.”
    “Just a second.”
    Densmore touched the keyboard of his personal computer. A quick check verified that Stewart did have an MPI policy.
    Densmore bit his lip. The timing wasn’t the best. But it wouldn’t do to ignore a good piece of business. Afterall, to most employees, like the receptionist, this was an insurance office, nothing more. They might think it odd that a large account was being passed up. He glanced at his watch. Maybe I can get this done quickly.
    “All right, Miss Yamaguchi. I’ll be right out.”
***    
    A few minutes later, a hefty man with a sagging jaw came out and greeted the visitor, shaking his hand.
    “I’m Dennis Densmore. And you are?”
    The visitor extracted some neatly folded papers from his suitcoat pocket. “I believe you’ll find these papers in order, Mr. Densmore. Mr. Stewart wants to conclude this transaction quickly. I take it you do have some place where I can safely deposit one-half million dollars?”
    Densmore cleared his throat and took a quick look at the papers. “That is a large increase in coverage. But why a cash payment?”
    “Mr. Stewart does not confide in me, I’m afraid,” the man said. “I realize this is a bit unusual but I am nervous carrying around all this money. Could I deposit it first and we then discuss the details in your office?”
    Densmore couldn’t help but smile at the man. “Of course, sir. Here, follow me.”
    The executive and the visitor went down a hallway, past the executive offices. There was a small vault room manned by a single security guard. Densmore motioned for the security man to open the door. It had no combination lock. Instead, the guard punched in a ten-digit code on a keypad. A minute later, he had the heavy door open.
    “This, of course, is not our main financial center, that’s out in the suburbs,” Densmore said. “But we do have a need to keep a limited amount of funds and securities on hand.”
    “Certainly,” the visitor said.
    A large rectangular table sat in the middle of the vault room. The polite man gently put the large briefcase on top.
    “Excuse me,” the visitor said, reaching into his breast pocket for a pen.
    The man smiled for a moment, then quickly raised the pen to his mouth. Densmore was puzzled but only for a second. The man blew into the pen and a small dart flew out. Densmore’s left hand touched the spot on his neck where the dart hit. Before the security guard could react, he was hit with another dart. Seconds later, both men lay on the floor unconscious.
    The man closed the vault door most of the way but left it open a few inches. He then went back to to the table and opened the briefcase. Inside was a jumpsuit, which he quickly put on, as well as a pair of gloves. He swiftly scanned the vault’s layout, then shoved as much money as he could find inside the briefcase. Then, he paused, spotting some papers. There appeared to be a stack of documents next to a small pile of bearer bonds. The man scooped it all into the briefcase. Before closing it, he extracted one last, circular object. He twisted it and immediately, the room began to fill with smoke. He opened the vault door, peered out, with smoke not yet seeping out. About twenty feet away, he saw a fire alarm and activated it.
    Two minutes later, smoke waffled through the office and MPI employees were already streaming out. The man in the jumpsuit calmly walked out amid the confusion, carrying the briefcase. The 50 office employees were now outside the suite and lining up to head down the nearest stairway. The jumpsuit man walked by all of them, walked up to the elevator and pushed a button.
    Sherri Yamaguchi, just before heading down the stairs, glanced and saw the man.
    “Wait! Don’t go down the elevator. It’s not safe!”
    It was then she saw it was the visitor she had seen mere moments before. He waved briefly, then entered the elevator.
    As the elevator descended from the 40th floor of the office building, the man tore away the fake beard but left the phony mustache. He also removed a toupee, revealing his own balding pate. He stuffed the objects in the pockets of his jumpsuit. After a few minutes, he arrived at the lobby and walked calmly out.
    The man hadn’t noticed a brunette woman in a conservative dress. She touched a small brooch when she saw the curious man go by. She glanced at him for a moment but before doing anything else, the MPI office workers emerged from the stairway entrance.
    The brunette woman’s attention was now focused on the men and women, whose faces were flush.
    “Thank God, we made it,” an African American man said, one of the first to leave.
    “What’s going on?” the brunette said.
    “There’s a fire in the MPI office. It was all smoky.”
    The brunette frowned, and walked away as the office workers began to congregate in the main lobby.
    She calmly reached into her purse and removed a pen. “Open Channel D,” she said.
***
    Thirty-five minutes later, the Dodge Neon pulled into the parking lot outside the dingy apartment building. The short man, now casually dressed, took a laundry bag from the trunk and made the short walk to his apartment. The glasses were gone, dropped into a trash can en route.
    Once inside, the man made sure he hadn’t been followed, double checked the locks then went to his Spartan bedroom. He removed the briefcase from the laundry bag, then laid the contents neatly on the bed. He separated the money from the papers and made a quick count. At least $250,000. Not really that much, but then pure monitary gain wasn’t the primary motive of the exercise. The bearer bonds, stacked among the documents, were worth another $100,000.
    He then began to sift through the remaining papers. The third sheet he scanned caught his eye. Near the top was the word “decoded.”
    The man read the document more closely.
    He ended up reading it twice, word for word. Then, he arched his eyebrows.
    It took an hour to read all the papers, some of which were very detailed, others of which consisted of diagrams, lists and other information.
    “Thrush?” he said quietly to himself. “Fascinating.”
    Lewis Avery Filer began to smile. Oh, this is going to be much more involved than trying to outwit McGarrett, he thought. How many years had it been? Never mind. This is a much more deadly game.
    “The kind that makes life worth living,” Filer said to himself.
***
Somewhere else in San Francisco

    The office girl -- not the politically correct term in the United States but most proper in Japan -- poured the strong coffee into the small, round cup. Seiho Cho paid her no attention as she completed the task and hurried out of the office. It was good, strong and hot, just the way Cho liked it. One sip of the potent brew snapped one to attention and provided a jolt of energy.
    He looked out the office window. The Transamerica building was close by and the other skyscrapers gave the city a more cosmopolitan feel.
    It had been a good year for Cho. Thrush had entrusted him with rebuilding operations based in the West Coast, and there were a number of interesting projects due for completion over the next six to eight months. Very promising. A number of successes could earn him that elusive position at Thrush Central. And why not? He was very methodical. He had to be to heal the damage the organization had suffered the past few years. If it wasn’t U.N.C.L.E., it was other intelligence or police services. The police rarely pierced beyond the cover identities of Thrush operatives but they had disturbed things enough that his predecessor endured a most unexpected retirement. Thrush had sent Cho as a replacement, an apparent recognition of the job he had done patching together what was left of Thrush’s Japan operations after the unpleasant business with Solo, Dancer and the woman scientist some months earlier.
    Cho sipped the coffee. I wonder if anything was ever left of my predecessor’s body?
    Then the telephone rang. The special, scrambler telephone.
    “Cho here.”
    “It’s Densmore. We’ve had some trouble.”
    “Trouble?” Cho didn’t like the man’s tone. “What kind of trouble?”
    “The temporary holding area...”
    “What about it?”
    Densmore gulped before speaking again. “The vault was robbed.”
    “Robbed? That’s an administrative center. If someone wanted to rob the company, they should have targeted the suburban center. What is missing?”
    “We’re still evaluating, sir,” Densmore said. “But we know it’s more than just money.”
    Cho’s voice had a chill to it. “Mr. Densmore, if this should endanger what I’ve accomplished here, it will be very bad. And not only for myself.”
    “I-I-I know, sir.”
    “I want a full accounting of what is missing. Do you understand? And I want it promptly.”
    “Yes, sir. Of course.”
    Cho hung up the phone. The only visible sign of his anger occurred when he formed a fist with his right hand, which then trembled for a moment. Cho then looked back outside the window, trying to calm himself even as he could feel the blood rushing throughout his body. Again gazing upon the skyline, he noticed many clouds, something he hadn’t seen just a few minutes earlier.
***
New York, N.Y.

    Napoleon Solo had guessed wrong.
    April had been a confounding, alternating series of days. Chilly, almost winter-like, one day, followed by a couple of days of sunshine, what spring was supposed to be. Solo thought he had the rhythym down -- backed up by the weather forecast -- and had figured today he wouldn’t need the overcoat. But it had turned out at least 10 degrees colder than forecast and the trip from his apartment to Del Floria’s had been most uncomfortable. The chilly wind had cut through his suit straight to the bone while walking to the subway station. The train was hardly any more comfortable. Solo tried to vary his route every day -- routine and predictability was the enemy in the intelligence profession -- but today he made sure he went to the stop closest to the U.N.C.L.E. security entrance.
    Solo was almost shivering when he finally entered the familiar tailor shop. He barely glanced at Del Floria, who seemed too preoccupied with his work to take much notice. Nevertheless, the hidden door opened when Solo pulled on the hook.
    The weather outside matched Solo’s mood. Mentally, he had a hangover from the recent affair in Venice. The whole business was more of an emotional strain than a physical one -- disillusionment and disappointment, followed by a brief moment of satisfaction and then emptiness. While a certain amount of melancholy sometimes occurred after assignments, no new challenge had emerged for Solo to dive into.
    “Mr. Solo?” the Asian receptionist said, interrupting his thoughts.
    “Hmm?”
    “Your badge?”
    Solo took the security badge instead of bending over and having her pin it on the suitcoat lapel. He quickly pinned it on himself and headed for his office. Just before he reached his destination, Solo saw the familiar blonde man.
    “Ah, Napoleon,” Illya Kuryakin said. “Mr. Waverly wants to see us right away.”
    Solo glanced at his Rolex. “I’m five minutes early. Not even time for coffee?”
    Kuryakin frowned.
    “I’m kidding,” Solo said. “Let’s go.”
    In reality, Solo’s spirits rose. He needed an assignment to immerse himself in, something to test his wits. It was the one aspect of his job that kept him going. It was as addicting as nicotine or alcohol, but much more rare. The danger was part of it but so was the unpredictability. And working for U.N.C.L.E. usually meant the stakes were high, the goal important. Many people in mid-career complain about burnout. But, for Solo, his work was what revived him. It was part of the reason he had not sought out promotion to Section One. As the chief enforcement agent, Solo had enough of a taste of administration, enough consulting about deployment of manpower and such.
    Solo and Kuryakin entered through the automatic sliding doors. Alexander Waverly stood at the round conference table, tapping his pipe on the ashtray.
    “Sit down, gentlemen,” Waverly said, without looking up.
    Moments later, a screen came down from the ceiling. Projected onto it was a digital image of a middle-aged man in a jumpsuit. The angle indicated the picture was taken by some kind of miniature camera. The focus was reasonable, though not spectacular. How hastily was this photograph taken? Solo thought.
    “This photograph was taken by one of our agents in the San Francisco field office,” Waverly said. “Now...”
    The Number One of Section One flipped a switch on the control console on the table. Now, a more focused, clear version of the same image appeared.
    “Using computers to enhance the image, we have a reasonably good picture of a man who apparently robbed a divisional office of a company called MPI.”
    “Why does that concern U.N.C.L.E., sir?” Solo asked. “Seems like a matter for the police.”
    “Under most circumstances, that would be true. Except, we suspect, MPI is a front for Thrush. That’s why one of our operatives was in the vicinity. We’ve been keeping the company under observation, trying to confirm those suspicions. Then this robbery took place. This gentleman was walking away from the MPI lobby when this photograph was taken. Our operative took his picture as a precaution. It turns out he is the prime suspect in the robbery.”
    This time Kuryakin asked the question. “Do we know what was taken?”        “According to the police report, some money and bearer bonds. Somewhere in the hundreds of thousands of dollars. But that may not be the whole story. According to Ms. Workman in San Francisco, there has been a great deal of activity since at MPI. Almost at a crisis level. In addition, there were signs of renewed activity in other Thrush outposts in the Western United States. All of it taking place after the MPI robbery.”
    Solo glanced at the file. “Who is this Lewis Avery Filer?”
    “Ah,” Waverly said, flipping another switch. “We ran this picture through the various data bases. No direct matches with the facial hair and glasses. However...”
    A second image now appeared next to the first. It was a picture of a man, probably in his 60s, clean shaven, bald with a leathery face. “The computers estimate there is a 70.5 percent probability the man is Filer.”
    “Well, let’s see,” Solo said. “Former insurance investigator, considered one of the best in his field. Used to work for...Mid Pacific Industries?”
    “The former name of MPI,” Waverly said. “They made MPI the official name a few years ago. More recently, there was a change of ownership. That’s when we think it came under the control of Thrush.”
    “The company, according to this dossier, has numerous clients and real estate holdings around the Pacific Rim,” Kuryakin said.
    “Making it a particularly attractive front for Thrush,” Waverly said. “It would provide a base of operations all around the Pacific.”
    Solo frowned.
    “Yes, Mr. Solo?”
    “He picked his cell door with a spoon? Is this correct?”
    “Yes, but don’t get ahead of yourself,” Waverly said. “Mr. Filer worked for an insurance company taken over by Mid Pacific Industries. He was furloughed around the time his wife passed away. So he proceeded to rob a number of robberies of Mid Pacific holdings or its clients. He almost taunted the authorities near the end when he was finally apprehended. The first time, that is.”
    Waverly cleared his throat. “Then he broke out of prison and among other things picked his cell door lock at Oahu State Prison with a spoon. He then proceeded to play a rather elaborate con game with some gangsters. Almost made away with a few million dollars but was caught again. And, until recently, was a model prisoner at  a federal penitentury on the Mainland United States before being released with time off for good behavior. And that, gentlemen, is all we really know.”
    Solo glanced at Waverly. He always had the feeling the old fox never quite told everything that he knew. The U.N.C.L.E. chief’s mind worked longer and harder than any computer. Solo wondered if he could ever see as many angles as Waverly did.
    The agent decided to take a stab at it, anyway. “Sir, I take it you believe Mr. Filer took something other than just money.”
    “The level of Thrush activity suggests just that, Mr. Solo,” Waverly replied. “I want you fellows to find out what it is. You’ve worked with Ms. Workman, the station chief, before.”
    “Yes sir,” Kuryakin said, an edge to his voice.
    “She requested your presence and I concurred. But this Filer character is not someone to be trifled with. His record indicates he is adept at using disguises and he has a strong working knowledge of electronic devices.”
    “According to this he made his own telephone at the prison workshop when he escaped from the Oahu prison,” Kuryakin said. “Hmmm.”
    “Precisely, Mr. Kuryakin. In any event, I want you out in San Francisco first thing tomorrow. You may be joined by someone else, as well.”
    “Someone else?” Solo said.
    “Never mind, Mr. Solo. It will be obvious in due course. Now, gentlemen, I have other pressing matters.”
***
Somewhere Over the Pacific Ocean

    The crew had become acclimated to humm of the B-52’s engines. The Army sergeant  unbuckled himself and wandered back to the main compartment. That section of the plane had been converted into an office, with a magnificent maghony desk secured in the center. The V.I.P. had just unbuckled himself and began to pace. He was tall, perhaps six-foot-two. His posture was erect and ridid. To the sergeant, the passenger projected rigidness. This was not a man who gave in very easily, if at all.
    “Sir, it’s going to be a long flight,” the sergeant said. “Is there anything I can get you? It’s on the house, so to speak.”
    The passenger turned. His dark brown hair was thick but showed only a few flecks of gray in the sideburns.
    “Hmmm?” the man said.
    “Do you need anything, sir? Mr. Kaye left instructions you were to be taken care of.”
    “I bet he did,” the passenger said, a hint of annoyance in his voice. “No, sergeant, nothing for now. Thank you, anyway.”
    “Yes, sir.”
    After the sergeant departed, the man took off his suitcoat. He placed the suitcoat neatly on one of the seats and stretched his arms. Only then did he take off the shoulder holster and extract the .38 revolver it held. He checked the safety and the cylinder, then replaced it in the holster. Finally, in an attempt to relax, he undid his tie and stretched out in one of the seats.
***
Somewhere in San Francisco

    Napoleon Solo and Illya Kuryakin arranged for their luggage to be sent directly to their hotel, then hailed a taxi. The ride from San Francisco International Airport to the dingy section of the city just off downtown took approximately forty-five minutes. Solo thought he detected a grimace on the face of the cab driver as the U.N.C.L.E. agent paid the fare and a tip.
    The adult bookstore looked virtually the same to Solo as the last time he’d been here. He glanced around and noticed that he and Kuryakin were only people within eyeshot who wore business suits. Several of the people walking on the block wore grungy clothes, and a couple of the men were unkempt and unshaven.
    Solo fought back the temptation to sigh. This place held bad memories for him. An assignment, while successful, had led to a death. A death, Solo still believed, that could have been avoided had he reacted a split-second faster. For a moment, the image of a woman with frosted hair came to mind. Next time, I’ll accept good advice when it’s offered, she had said to Solo just before she died. He frowned at the memory. Solo hadn’t been back to San Francisco since.
    “Come on, we’ll be late,” Kuryakin said.
    “Coming,” Solo muttered.
    He saw the same heavy-set clerk behind the counter that Solo remembered from the previous visit. The only change from last time was that the fat man was reading a book instead of a magazine.
    “Crime and Punishment?” Solo said. “A little highbrow for this establishment, don’t you think?”
    “I see you’re still a smartass,” the clerk said, his eyes still looking ahead at the book. “You know the drill.”
    The agents walked to the rear of the store, through the entryway with the “Adults Only” sign. Within minutes, they were being scanned by security devices and approached the security entrance to U.N.C.L.E.-San Francisco.
    The African American receptionist had their security badges ready. “Mr. Solo, Mr. Kuryakin, you’re quite prompt.”
    “We try,” Kuryakin said. “Is Ms. Workman here?”
    “She’s expecting you and eager to see you.”
    Solo and Kuryakin nodded and walked toward the office of the station chief.
    “Ready for another chat with your biographer?” Kuryakin said quietly.
    Solo frowned. “As I recall, that most recent revision of the official U.N.C.L.E. history talked glowingly of your exploits. Made it sound as if you stopped that killer bee operation single handed.”
    “You exaggerate,” Kuryakin replied.
    “What made you want to talk to her anyway? I thought you prefer to concentrate on the present and not talk about the past.”
    “If it matters, I thought you needed some time to yourself after the conclusion of the business with the Lady of the Five Moons,” the Russian said testily. “How did I know she’d interview me for four hours? It was supposed to only last over a lunch. As the conversation dragged on, the waiter gave us the dirtiest look. But all she could do was keep asking about assignments of years gone by.”
    Solo glanced at Illya. “I didn’t realize. Thank you, I guess I wasn’t up to talking to her about old assignments.”
    “Well it’s your turn this time, my friend.”
    “Quiet, there she is now,” Solo said quietly.
    The short blonde woman  came out of her office beaming. “Howyadoin,” Candace Workman said, extending her right hand. “Mr. Solo, glad to see you again. And Mr. Kuryakin, thanks again for your help on the revision to the official U.N.C.L.E. history.”
    “Certainly,” Kuryakin said, stony faced. Solo arched his eyebrows.
    “Come on into my office,” Candace said. “We’ve got a situation here.”
    As the automatic doors opened, Solo spotted a tall brunette woman. Her hair was up and she wore a conservative black women’s business suit along with a white turtleneck sweater. Solo thought he saw her eyes squint for a second. In any event, she gave the impression of being remote.
    “Mr. Solo, Mr. Kuryakin, this is Helen Lyons, one of my agents,” Candace said. “She was the one who got the picture of Filer outside MPI.”
    “Pleased to meet you,” Helen said. The coolness of her voice told Solo that she wasn’t.
    “Yeah,” Candace said, picking up on Helen’s tone. “Well make yourselves comfortable.”
    A few seconds later, they were all seated at the round conference table. “Ms. Lyons here has been heading up the investigating on our end. She’s had the MPI office under observation for a couple of weeks now. She happened to be around the lobby when the MPI office staff comes flooding into the lobby. She had a miniature camera the size of a brooch and  got some pictures including Filer.”
    “Why do you need us?” Solo said.
    Helen squirmed in her seat, her face frowning for a second.
    “Because the subsequent Thrush activity indicates this is a big one,” Candace said. “If Filer only took money, Thrush would be mad but not anxious. Not like this. Thrush operatives have been moving around all up and down the coast. There’s been a big increase in the number of Thrush communications that we’ve been able to detect. No telling how many more we haven’t been able to detect.”
    The San Francisco station chief paused. “Anyway, I decided I needed to have the best working on this one -- no matter whose feelings were hurt.”
    Solo and Kuryakin looked at each other for a second. Well, that explains the cool reception from Ms. Lyons, Solo thought.
    “Why not simply raid this MPI?” Kuryakin asked.
    “Because while MPI is a front, we don’t know how far Thrush’s influence extends,” Helen Lyons said. “At some -- probably most -- of MPI’s employees think they’re working for an ordinary insurance company.”
    “And,” Workman interjected, “we probably wouldn’t get the top Thrush officials in this area. That’s who I want.”
    Just then, the intercom buzzed. “Excuse me, Ms. Workman,” the voice said. “That V.I.P. has arrived.”
    “Oh good,” Candace said. “Send him in.”
    “V.I.P.?” Solo asked.
    “He’s a bit of a Filer expert,” Candace said, rising from her chair. “Understand you’ve worked together, sort of.”
    Solo squinted for a second. Wait a minute. Filer escaped from Oahu State Prison. Some of his crimes were in Hawaii, according to the dossier. Oh no......
    The sliding door opened revealing a tall, dark-haired man, who stared for a second at the group. “Mr. Solo, eh?” Steve McGarrett said. “With all this cloak and dagger stuff, I should have known.”


Act II
“An Uneasy Coalition”

    “Who is this gentleman?” This time, Helen Lyons’ voice wasn’t subtle at all.
    “Ms. Lyons,” Candace began icily, “this is Steve McGarrett, head of a Hawaii State Police unit known as Five-O. He has twice captured Filer. I figured we needed all the help we could get.”
    McGarrett grinned. “Filer? And U.N.C.L.E.? And you are...?”
    “Candace Workman, I’m chief of the San Francisco station. I believe you know Mr. Solo and Mr. Kuryakin.”
    The policeman pulled up a chair. “We’re acquainted.”
    “Did you have a pleasant trip?”
    “Under the circumstances, I suppose so,” McGarrett said. “But I don’t appreciate getting rushed out here. A Jonathan Kaye of the Pentagon told me it was a major security matter. Mr. Filer, while very clever, is just a thief. A very intelligent, canny thief, granted. But still just a thief.”
    “Well, Mr. McGarrett, we think Mr. Filer has just upgraded his status,” Candace continued. “If you’ll be quiet long enough -- and if I don’t have any more interruptions -- I’ll explain.”
    Solo had to fight the temptation to groan. An overly jealous U.N.C.L.E. field operative coupled with a my-way-or-the-highway policeman? Maybe doing paperwork wasn’t all bad, he thought.
    He glanced over quickly at Kuryakin. The Russian, as usual, betrayed none of his thoughts.
    Candace provided McGarrett with a quick summary of events. The policeman squirmed as she talked. Finally, when she was done, McGarrett spoke up.
    “If you expect me to catch Filer for you, I’ll have to have a complete dossiers on everyone assigned to me -- their fields of expertise, strengths, weaknesses. Mr. Kuryakin, as I recall, is rather adept at disguises. That may be of some use....”
    “No, Mr. McGarrett,” Candace interjected, with a hint of strain. “You’re not in charge here. You’re a sort of, well, consultant.”
    “Consultant?” he replied testily. “That’s not the way I work!”
    “On this affair, it will be,” she said firmly.
    “Then, you’d better get me on the next flight to Honolulu.”
    “I’ll be glad to call the Governor of Hawaii for you. This is what he agreed to, with a little prodding from Jonathan Kaye. I believe you flew over on the B-52 assigned to Mr. Kaye’s personal use.”
    “Listen, lady...”
    “You can call me Ms. Workman, you can even call me Candace,” she interrupted. “But ‘lady’ won’t cut it.” She paused for a moment then continued. “Mr. Solo and Mr. Kuryakin will coorindate this affair. If they want you to do more than consult, that’s up to them. And everyone assigned to this station is also at their disposal.”
    Helen Lyons fumed but said nothing.
    Solo thought he caught a twinkle in Kuryakin’s eye. It was almost as if the Russian were saying. You’re the chief enforcement agent, I believe.
    Solo cleared his throat. “I think I’d like to hear from Mr. McGarrett some first-hand observations about Filer. His dossier makes interesting reading. But I think a more personal observation would also be useful.”
    McGarrett strummed his fingers on the conference table. “All right, what do you want to know?”
    “Let’s start with his personality and attitudes.”
    McGarrett got up and started to pace. He snapped his fingers before talking. “In his own way, Mr. Filer considers himself an honest man.”
    “Honest?” Illya asked, skepticism in his voice.
    “During our second encounter, he stole a few thousand dollars from the warden’s office during his escape from prison. But he left an I.O.U. And he absolutely meant it -- he intended to pay back the money.”
    “Did he?” Solo asked.
    “That was his downfall,” McGarrett said, grinning at the memory. “He ripped off $4 million from some local racketeers and arranged it so we’d arrest them. All he had to do was catch a flight under an assumed name and one of his trademark disguises. But he insisted on sending the warden his money back. Didn’t trust the mail, so we nailed him through the delivery company he hired.”
    McGarrett paced for a moment then continued. “He’s smart -- and he wants you to know it. I called him a thief, but that doesn’t quite do him justice. He must have been a hell of an insurance investigator. That’s the one thing I regret. But he had this urge to get even with the company that laid him off.”
    “Interesting,” Solo said, beginning to rub his chin.
    “Do you have a plan?” Candace asked.
    “Not yet,” the chief enforcement agent replied. “But if Mr. Filer is as clever as Mr. McGarrett indicates, he probably already knows he has something of value to Thrush.”
    “You can bet on that,” McGarrett said.
    “The trick,” Solo continued, “will be to use Filer’s intelligence to our advantage.”
***
     Filer neatly folded the photocopy and inserted it into the envelope. He then sealed the envelope and lay it down on the table next to the other one. He put two stamps -- perfectly in alignment -- on each envelope.
    He paused for a moment. Should make interesting reading, I expect, Filer thought to himself. I’m sure MPI, or Thrush, will realize what’s at stake right away. I’m sure this address for U.N.C.L.E. is nowhere near their actual headquarters, probably some sort of processing office. From what I understand, they like their privacy. So be it. If they want to be so hard to find, that’s their problem.
    Filer ran everything through his mind one more time. He could run, but no doubt Thrush would be looking for just that. No, the trick would be to keep Thrush off guard. He didn’t know that much about the criminal group, but what knowledge was available didn’t paint an alluring picture. No, they were deadly all right.  Still, they were no deadlier than those gangsters in Honolulu. More sophisticated, certainly. But still with the kind of avarice and single-mindedness that could be manipulated. And, if indeed U.N.C.L.E. could be enticed, he could keep both organizations off guard. One of the hazards of bureaucracy, if one knew how to do it.
    Filer grinned, picked up the envelopes and left the apartment. He spent the next fifty-six minutes, using a combination of cabs and buses to reach a post office branch far from his apartment. Filer glanced at the envelopes one last time and dropped them into the postbox.
***
 
    Within twenty-four hours, the two letters reached their separate destinations.
    The one addressed to MPI said, “Attention: Seiho Cho, personal and confidential.” Within the MPI complex, the letter was automatically routed out of the ordinary mail system to a small room near the main mail room. There it was routinely scanned. A man with thick glasses studied the scanner. He was one of a few employees in the mail center who knew the truth about what MPI really was. A communication from Thrush would have been routed through a nondescript office on the executive floor that was really the primary communications center.
    Still, this letter clearly was something out of the ordinary. It was from none of the companies that conducted routine insurance business with MPI.  Cho, as an officer of Thrush, simply did not have personal mail, as such.
    The man took a letter opener, slowly slitting the envelope. He gingerly removed the contents and scanned them. He instantly recognized the Thrush document on the photocopy. He replaced the materials and picked up the nearest telephone. A few seconds later, he instructed Cho’s office to expect a particularly sensitive piece of correspondence. He knew this was far above his level and was glad to have the message routed to Cho.
    A slightly different process took place elsewhere in the city. All mail arriving at the U.N.C.L.E. San Francisco station from the post office box was scanned before being sorted. The letter from Filer was merely addressed to the “Station Chief.” The security staff quickly received the letter. It was scanned a second time to ensure no explosives were inside. Upon inspection, a woman member of the security staff also recognized the appearance of a Thrush document on the photocopy. After re-reading the accompanying letter, she called Candace Workman’s office that something required her immediate attention.
***
    “It is genuine, Mr. Densmore?”
    Densmore swallowed hard. Seiho Cho’s face betrayed no emotion. But Denmore, knowing Cho’s displeasure over the entire matter, could feel his heart pumping within his own chest.
    “Yes, sir. It appears to be a copy of one of the missing documents.”
    “You’re quite sure?”
    Denmore swallowed again. “There is no mistake.”
    Cho breathed deeply, then strummed his fingers on the desk, very slowly and methodically. For a few seconds, there was no sound except the tiny noise of each finger coming down, one by one, on the desk. Finally Cho spoke. “So, if the accompanying letter is correct, the man who stole these documents -- not to mention a few hundred thousand dollars -- from us is asking for an additional twenty million dollars. Is that about right?”
    “Yes sir.”
    “You say we have a tentative identification.”
    “Yes sir.”
    “This Mr. .... Filer? Some disgruntled employee of some sort?”
    “Yes, sir. This occurred before Thrush took over MPI.”
    “His grievance against MPI would appear to be quite strong.”
    Densmore cleared his throat. “Yes sir.”
    “Although,” Cho continued, “I see the man is quite capable. It would appear the previous MPI management made a grievous mistake.”
    Densmore’s mouth was now dry. He could barely continue to look at Cho but felt it would only be worse should he look away.
    “I can see a special operative will be needed for this matter,” Cho said after a few moments of silence. “Mr. Densmore?”
    Densmore trembled for a second. “Yes?”
    “You will be assigned to work directly under someone I am about to send for. Do you understand?”
    Densmore fought the temptation to cry out in joy and strained to hold in the jubilation he suddenly felt. “Yes sir,” he said.
    “Good day, then.”
    Densmore got up quickly and walked away as quickly as he could without breaking into trot. As he departed Cho’s office, a tall Asian woman came in, glancing at Densmore briefly.
    The woman frowned for a moment. “I am a bit surprised Mr. Densmore is so...”
    “Ambulatory?” Cho interrupted.
    “Yes.”
    Cho moved toward his computer and typed for a few seconds at the keyboard. “He will not be nearly as happy in his next assignment.” Cho grinned but just for a moment.
***
    Napoleon Solo glanced over the reports. Cities along the West Coast had been inundated with Thrush operatives called in from various locations, including several here in San Francisco. U.N.C.L.E. was pursuing routine methods of trying to track Filer down but Solo guessed that was futile based on the criminal’s record. No, Solo guessed, he’d have to let Filer make the first move. That burned into Solo’s psyche. Normally, he liked to initiate the offensive. But the background material indicated that Filer wasn’t to be trifled with.
    Still, Solo had an idea for playing with Filer’s mind. Maybe I’ll give McGarrett his wish...
    Illya Kuryakin walked into the conference room that had become the New York agents’ makeshift office.
    “How’s our guest?” Solo asked.
    “Like the proverbial caged tiger,” Kuryakin responded. “He paces constantly, snapping his fingers. Hardly the ideal conversationalist.”
    “I would think you two would get along well, then.”
    Kuryakin rolled his eyes as he sat down. Before he could respond, the telephone rang.
    “Solo here.”
     “Mr. Solo, Candace Workman. I think we’ve got our first break. Come into my office and bring that pain-in-the-ass cop with you. I think he’s going to flip when he hears this.”
    ***
    “Amnesty? He wants amnesty? I suppose you’re going to give it to him.”
    McGarrett’s voice cut through the office. Solo was used to it and sat back calmly in his chair and Kuryakin’s normal reserved manner remained in place. Candace Workman, though, had just turned the slightest shade of red. She wasn’t used to being second guessed like this.
    “We haven’t decided anything,” Candace said coldly, asserting her hold over the meeting. “Filer wants a meeting. Tomorrow, eleven a.m., Fisherman’s Wharf. He’s given us directions to a specific spot.”
    “Well, good luck,” McGarrett said. “If he wants a meeting in a public place, he’ll likely be in disguise -- and have a quick getaway ready if needs it. You’ll need a lot of manpower in place if you hope to catch him there. He won’t make it easy.”
    “Actually, Mr. McGarrett,” Solo began, “I had something else in mind.”
    McGarrett squinted. “What might that be?”
    “I think you should meet Filer.”
    “Me? I thought this was your show, Mr. Solo.”
    Solo glanced at Candace momentarily, then returned his gaze to the policeman. “That’s right. But I doubt Mr. Filer is expecting such an old friend to meet him.”
    “More of your games, Mr. Solo?”
    “Not exactly,” Solo replied. “Mr. Filer is rather clever. You’re living proof he’s not infallible. It wouldn’t hurt to remind him of that. Plus, Illya and I will be nearby observing.”
    “Observing? You’re not going to try and catch him?”
    “This is an initial meeting. Based on his letter, I don’t think he’s looking to cut the final deal. I think we have a little leeway to play mind games with him.”
    “Bit of a risk isn’t it?”
    “Perhaps,” Solo said. “But it’s one way we can make Filer just a bit less sure of himself. And given Mr. Filer’s tendencies, we could use every edge we can get.”
    Solo arose. “Besides, you were complaining about not having anything to do. I’d say this is the cure for that.”

    ***
Fisherman’s Wharf

    The morning fog had been slow to lift, the first wisps of blue sky beginning to show through. Helen Lyons bent over and retied the athletic shoe. She had picked the jeans and sweatshirt for practical reasons. It was uncertain how much walking she’d have to do to keep the subject under watch.
    The agent glanced ahead. McGarrett was looking at a crab on display. Lyons thought the policeman was like the proverbial caged tiger, hemmed in but ready to pounce if the opportunity presented itself. McGarrett was the ultimate wound spring. Lyons hadn’t’t seen him relax in the slightest since she first saw him at the meeting in Candace Workman’s office.
    Lyons kept walking, occasionally looking at the displays of oysters and crabs with tourists walking past. The area was filling up with people.
    Helen wanted to bite her lip. This was her operation until a few days ago. She had discovered the leads, she was the one who had developed evidence that MPI was a Thrush front. Suddenly, it was as if a cyclone had blown through and she had been aside  by it. Workman had brought in Solo and Kuryakin and she suddenly was a junior agent, a flunky.
    She paused for a moment. The smell of the fish -- no matter how fresh -- caught in her nostrils and throat. She swallowed hard, hoping it would get rid of the taste now threatening to overwhelm her senses. The vibration of the communicator broke through the sensation.
    “Lyons here.”
    “Any sign of contact?” It was Solo’s voice, very calm. Damanably calm. Did the man ever show sign of anxiety?
    “No, none,” Lyons said. “Wait a minute. I see a short man, looks like a tourist. But he doesn’t match any of the descriptions of Filer.”
***
    McGarrett was pacing, keeping as close to the designated contact spot as he could. His gut was beginning to gurgle. He had been on stakeouts many times in the past. He knew the patience that was needed. But on those other occasions, he had been the one in control. He knew where very officer was stationed, who was on duty, who could be trusted. The key operatives were his men, people he could trust, and he knew how they would react.
    Control. That was the one thing McGarrett almost always had. Until now. Damn Jonathan Kaye for getting him into this.
    “Excuse me sir, do you have a light?”
    McGarrett froze for a second. The voice, so eerily serene, almost mocking. The policeman turned around and saw a short man in sunglasses and a goatee. He had a San Francisco Giants baseball cap, a lightweight jacket and khaki pants. He could have been anyone of thousands of tourists.
    Lewis Avery Filer smiled. “I thought it was you, McGarrett,” he said. “A little off your beat, aren’t you?”
    McGarrett grinned. “You’ve been a bad boy, Mr. Filer. Again.”
    “What’s it you, McGarrett? Whatever I’m doing -- and for the record I’m admitting nothing -- it doesn’t concern the Hawaiian authorities.”
    “Let’s just say as soon as U.N.C.L.E. found out who they were dealing with, they decided to find themselves a Lewis Avery Filer expert. So I got elected.”
    Filer glanced around for a few seconds. “I know U.N.C.L.E. wouldn’t leave you here alone.”
    “Undoubtedly not, Mr. Filer. But they are under the impression I have some sort of rapport with you.”
    “Seems a bit extreme, hauling you out here from your island paradise and all that.”
    “Definitely extreme, Mr. Filer. I think someone is trying to deliver a message.”
    “Ah, yes,” Filer said. “Something to the effect that if U.N.C.L.E. is willing to bring in the one lawman to capture me it must be taking this entire matter very seriously. Or something like that.”
    “Take it however you wish,” McGarrett said. “I’m just a consultant in this matter.”

.
    The older man looked at McGarrett. Poor McGarrett doesn’t look too happy to be here, does he? But someone at U.N.C.L.E. must have a sense of style. Trying to show how well they know me and all that. I’ll have to be even more on my toes than I planned.
    Filer chuckled. “Very well, you’re a consultant. Do you have U.N.C.L.E.’s response to my request?”
    “If it were up to me, Mr. Filer, the answer would be no.”
    “Ah, but the answer isn’t up to you, I can tell by your body language. So what is the response?”
    “I’ve been instructed to tell you it’s under consideration. But they’ll need another sample of the product before granting amnesty.”
    Filer glanced around before talking again. “Whoever is pulling your strings at least has a sense of style, McGarrett.”
    “Nobody is pulling my strings.”
    “Whatever,” Filer grinned. “You let U.N.C.L.E. know there will be no more samples. They have enough to know what I have is quite genuine. But Thrush also is quite interested in getting the material back. I’ll be in touch.”
    “Filer, wait..”
    “You just stand there, McGarrett, I’d rather not get nervous. You may recall the sound amplifying device I used on those gangsters back in Hawaii. I have an improved model in my pocket. Things will get quite messy if you should try to follow me.”
    Filer tipped the baseball cap and quickly turned. McGarrett tensed but Filer had already blended into the crowd. As the policeman tried to scan the area, he didn’t notice an Asian man in a late-model Chrysler Concorde putting down a pair of binoculars.
***
    A block away, Illya Kuryakin turned down the receiver of the listening device. “It doesn’t sound like Mr. McGarrett is very happy.”
    Napoleon Solo stretched while sitting in the passenger seat of the Chrysler 300M. “He’ll get over it. I hope agent Lyons and her crew don’t crowd him too much.”
    “I doubt she will. She seems fairly professional, even if a bit annoyed at our presence.”
    “She’ll get over it, also.”
    Suddenly, McGarrett’s voice could be heard again. “Solo! What the hell did all that accomplish? I hope you’re happy.”
    Solo took his communicator and rigged it to send to the small earphone McGarrett was wearing. “That was most adequate, thank you, Mr. McGarrett. Walk to the designated pick-up spot and Ms. Lyons will collect you and bring you back to U.N.C.L.E.-San Francisco.”
    The agents heard the connection go dead.
    “So what did all that accomplish?” Kuryakin asked.
    “From what I’ve read about Mr. Filer, he likes to play games,” Solo said. “The more elaborate, the better. He likes nothing better than to prove how intelligent he is. He was expecting something a little more straight forward. I just thought we’d show him that U.N.C.L.E. can play games also. Plus, using McGarrett as the contact demonstrates to Mr. Filer we’re aware of his record.”
    “We could have attempted to ensare Filer,” Kuryakin said. “Sometimes the simplest measures are the best.”
    “If we had, we might never get our hands on those Thrush documents.”
    Kuryakin started up the car. “I’m not certain we’re any closer to our goal than before.”
    “Maybe,” Solo replied. “But Mr. Filer rarely does anything in a straight forward manner. Catching him is going to require some unorthodox thinking, I imagine.”
***
Thrush Satrap, San Francisco

    Seiho Cho picked up the telephone receiver. He listened intently for two minutes before speaking. “Excellent. Could you make a positive identification?” A pause. “I see. No, it likely was Solo. I’m not at all surprised the U-N-C-L-E would dispatch Mr. Solo on business like this. Thank you. Good-bye.”
    Cho replaced the receiver and made another call. “Has the operative I asked for arrived yet? Excellent. Put her on.”
    A pause. “Good day, was the trip pleasant?” Cho said.
    “A little harried but a pleasant alternative to where I was staying.”
    “It would appear our interception of an U.N.C.L.E. communication proved useful. We had a man observing Filer’s meeting with that organization. One Napoleon Solo was observed nearby.”
    “Napoleon, eh?”
    “Yes, I understand he is an acquaintance of yours.”
    “One whom I owe quite a bit.”
    “I know you only arrived a short while ago, but any recommendations would be helpful.”
    “Do you know where the U.N.C.L.E. station is?”
    “Oh, yes.”
    “Grab Solo. Keep the U.N.C.L.E. security entrance under surveillance. Get him when he comes out. He’ll probably be with Kuryakin. That might throw U.N.C.L.E. off balance a little. U.N.C.L.E. agents claim to be expendible but they look out for each other. Give them a complication to deal with.”
    Cho strummed his fingers on the desk once more. He knew the woman’s dossier and that she probably had other reasons for the suggestion. But the reasoning seemed sound.
    “Very well. Organize it. Utilize Densmore. Perhaps he can rehabilitate himself. If not, then too bad.”
    “Sounds delicious. I’ll get on it right away.”
    Cho’s face brightened. This Filer dog will soon be dealt with.
***
U.N.C.L.E.-San Francisco

    The artificial light in the conference room was harsh, giving the quarters a stale, unappealing feel. Then again, maybe it was the tension of the participants than the light itself. Solo reflected how the mood had never lightened since this group was first introduced.
    Helen Lyons oozed resentment, Solo thought. Her face looked tight, almost as if you could see the veins in her forehead gradually rising. Then there was McGarrett, still a tightly wound spring, still the caged animal wanting to lash out. Off to Solo’s right sat Illya, as hard to read as ever.
    Solo’s left wrist was sore so he took off the Rolex. To hell with it, Solo thought. “You’re quite sure it was Filer?” he said to McGarrett.
    “No question,” the policeman replied. “I’d know that voice anywhere.”
    “Did he seem the same as before?” Kuryakin asked.
    “Oh, yes. As cocksure of himself as he’s ever been.”
    Kuryakin began to fumble for his reading glasses. “This electronic device he referenced. Could he construct one?”
    McGarrett grinned. “One of the byproducts of him taking some rudimentary electronics classes at Oahu State Prison,” he said. “Made himself a crude telephone. And he did use a sound device. He trapped one gang boss and two of his hoods in an elevator. Practically made them deaf as part of a demonstration. They were more than willing to fork over four million bucks they were carrying.”
    Solo took a deep breath, then let it out. “We’ve got to keep him interested.”
    “If he doesn’t cut a deal with Thrush first, you mean,” Helen Lyons said, an edge to her voice.
    McGarrett’s eyes darted. “No, I don’t think he will. At least it won’t be his first choice.”
    “And what makes you so sure, shamus?”
    “Amnesty is the way he wants to go,” McGarrett said. He got up, started to pace and snapped his fingers. “With amnesty, he stays alive. He’s no fool. But...”
    “But what?” Solo said.
    “He’ll take it to the limit. He might even try to swindle your Thrush -- then come running for his amnesty. In fact, I’d bet on it. He has a grudge against MPI. They laid him off when his wife was sick. Now Thrush owns MPI, from what you’ve told me. Filer won’t be able to resist.”
    “That could be very bad,” Solo replied. “Because no matter how clever Filer is, Thrush could still squash him. There’s no telling what they’ll do next.”
    The agent picked up his his watch, put it back on the table and rubbed his wrist. It was almost six-thirty. The tension of the past few days suddenly weighed on him. More energy had been expended trying to keep this rag-tag group from squabbling than actually accomplishing anything. His forehead felt tight, his shoulder stiff.
    “All right, we’re not getting much done,” Solo said. “Let’s start fresh in the morning. Maybe we’ll have gotten a lead.”
    Helen’s face wrinkled into an expression that wasn’t quite a grimace but hardly warm and inviting. She quickly got up and left the conference room. McGarrett stretched briefly, then looked at Solo.
    “Any idea how much time I’ll be stuck here?” McGarrett said. “Things have to be piling up back home.”
    “My recollection was that your deputy, Mr. Williams, is pretty capable,” Solo replied.
    “Some business requires my personal attention. Besides that little duty today I’m still not sure why you need me here.”
    It wasn’t my idea, Solo thought. But he wasn’t about to say that to McGarrett.
    “We’ll see,” Solo said. “Come on, Illya and I will drop you off at your hotel. I could stand some fresh air.”
    Kuryakin remained quiet as the group departed the conference room. A few minutes later, they were at the security entrance. After getting the all clear signal, they watched a wall rise into the ceiling and emerged in the adult reading section of the newsstand front.
    “You people go to a lot of trouble,” McGarrett said. “Why all the fun and games?”
    “A matter of privacy,” Kuryakin replied.
    Suddenly, Solo stopped and grimaced.
    “What is it?” the Russian said.
    “Forgot my watch back in the conference room,” Solo said. He mentally cursed himself. His brain was beginning to feel fuzzy and this was proof of it. “I’ll be right back.”
    “If you don’t mind, I’ll wait outside,” McGarrett said. “I’d hate to scare off regular patrons to this part of the newsstand.”
    “Sure,” Solo replied. “You two go ahead.”
    ***
    Outside the newsstand, a BMW was parked and its motor was running. The purr of the engine suggested a vehicle of great power, which this was. In front seat sat two muscular men, one with a brown crew cut, the other with greasy, shoulder-length blonde hair. Both had thick necks and their street clothes were drawn tight because of their huge pectoral muscles. In the back seat sat Dennis Densmore holding a cellular telephone.
    He heard a woman’s voice. There was a slight edge to it, but enough that Densmore felt a chill. He knew of the woman by reputation. He felt nervous from the time Cho indicated he would be assigned to work with her. There’s no telling what will set her off....
    “Any sign of Solo yet?” the woman asked pointedly. “He can’t stay in there forever.”
    “No one has come out for quite some time,” Densmore replied. “Even the usual clientele of the newsstand hasn’t shown up. It’s been very slow.”
    “Mind your tongue. Afterall, it is your responsibility Thrush is even in this position....”
    “Wait a minute, two men are coming out,” Denmore said. “I can see Kuryakin. He’s with a dark-haired man. I don’t have a good angle. It could be Solo, but I’m not entirely sure.”
    “How is he dressed? If it’s Solo, he’d most likely be wearing a tailored suit.”
    “Well he is wearing a suit, but his back is to me...”
    “Quit wasting your time!”
    Densmore tapped the long-haired thug who sat in the front passenger seat and motioned for them to begin. “The taller, dark-haired man.”
    The two Thrush operatives exited the car. As they walked they each reached into the pockets of the long trench coats they wearing.
***
    “So tell me, Mr. Kuryakin, why do you put up with it?”
    The Russian arched his eyebrows. “Put up with what?”
    “Your friend, Mr. Solo. Always playing games. Always trying to manipulate things.”
    “He seems to get results.”
    “Then you approve?”
    “His strategy is not always my strategy but, in the end, it works out. That is what is important.”
    Before McGarrett could respond, he saw that Kuryakin was reaching inside his suitcoat for a pistol. McGarrett, whirled and extracted his .38-caliber Smith and Wesson revolver. But they were enveloped by smoke and McGarrett choked so hard he couldn’t get a hold of the pistol.
    Kuryakin fared slightly better, drawing his U.N.C.L.E. Special. But the fumes made it difficult to aim and the long-haired thug slammed the Russian into the ground before the agent could fire. The attacked kicked Kuryakin twice in the ribs to keep him down. The crew-cut man hit McGarrett in the back of the neck.
    “I’ve got Solo! Let’s go!”
    Kuryakin, still not totally unconscious, looked up as best as he could. Both thugs then dragged the policeman toward the BMW. When they got to the automobile, the long-haired thug stuffed McGarrett into the back seat while the crew-cut man went around and entered through the driver’s door.
    “Solo?” Kuryakin said weakly.
    Just then, Napoleon Solo came running out of the newsstand, his U.N.C.L.E. Special drawn. He fired the gun but it did no visible damage on the BMW. The car’s tires squealed and it raced off. Solo aimed again and fired at the rear windshield, but again the bullet didn’t penetrate.
    Solo bent over and tended to Kuryakin. A half dozen people, including a panhandler and a prostitute, were beginning to gather. Two more U.N.C.L.E. agents emerged from the newsstand, flashing some identification and acting like they were in charge. At least the passers by didn’t raise questions and the prostitute began to scurry away.
    “Illya, are you OK? What happened?”
    Kuryakin grimaced. “I have a feeling Thrush is in for a surprise.”

Act III
“One Keystroke Too Many”

 
    Cho looked across his desk from the woman. She was very thin, almost frail looking. Unlike many other occidental women, though, she made no attempt to augment her breasts. Western women, he had observed more than once, seemed to do everything they could to make their mammories at least appear larger. He occasionally marveled at the amount of research and science American industry to used lift and shape women’s breasts.
    Instead, the woman facing Cho had an almost Asian figure. Asian women seemed more comfortable with their bodies and less concerned with having their chests match the udders of a cow. But Cho also was bemused at her choice of clothing, a form-fitting, one-piece leather outfit. The hair, worn in a bun in all the dossier photographs, had been let down. He was tempted to chuckle. Not what one would expect given her modus operandi, Cho thought. All of her victims, if they could see her like this, would never have been caught so off-guard.
    Cho cleared his throat. “You are aware the trouble Thrush went to,” he said. “Extracting operatives from prison is not normal operating procedure. It tends to draw unnecessary attention. I think it shows how important Thrush considers this matter.”
    Pamela Keystroke smiled the smile of a viper. “I am most appreciative, Mr. Cho.”
    “The seizure of this U.N.C.L.E. agent, this Mr. Solo. Upon hearing he was in the vicinity, you were most insistent we should seize him. Again, please explain why.”
    Keystroke licked her lips for a split second. “Mr. Solo undoubtedly has been placed in charge of whatever operation U.N.C.L.E. is mounting. Taking him from U.N.C.L.E. will upset that organization’s plans.”
    “U.N.C.L.E. is hardly a one-man operation,” Cho said. “They will continue to pursue their objectives.”
    “Nevertheless, any disruption of U.N.C.L.E. is to our advantage. And besides,” she said, baring her teeth, “I have some unfinished business.”
    “We did not arrange for you to join this operation simply for personal revenge.”
    “Of course,” she said, almost purring. “But if it should occur as a side-effect of Thrush accomplishing its aims, then it will taste just as sweet.”
    In a split second, details of Pamela Keystroke’s dossier flashed through Cho’s mind. A certifiable psychopath, Keystroke’s preferred method of assassination was to pose as a spinster, a schoolmarm, or simply a bookish female catching her intended victim unaware. The target -- almost always male, but on a few occasions female -- would soon discover there was fire under the facade. For the males, there would be an excitement, almost like deflowering a virgin. Unfortunately for them, they would soon discover her bedroom techniques were most unorthodox....
    “Is something wrong, Mr. Cho?”
    The Thrush leader grinned. “No, merely thinking.”
    Just then, the telephone on Cho’s desk rang. “Yes?” Cho said into the receiver. “Good. Bring him up.”
    He replaced the receiver. “Densmore has returned with a guest.”
    “Mr. Solo?”
    “So it would seem.”
    A few minutes later, the thug with shoulder-length hair came into the room. In front of him was a dark-haired man in a blue suit, his arms pinned behind his back by the large thug. Behind them walked up Densmore, his face beaming. Cho looked over at Pamela Keystroke. Her face contorted, the pale skin beginning to turn red.
    “What is this?” Keystroke said, her body almost twisting. “Who is this man?”
    Densmore’s smiled disappeared in an instant, as if he had just been slapped. “Why it’s Solo. This was the dark-haired man with Kuryakin.”
    “You idiot!” she snarled. “This is not Solo! He is at least two inches taller. Do you not study the dossiers?”
    “But I described him to you on the cell phone. You said to seize him immediately...”
    Keystroke turned once more to Cho, whose face had turned ashen. The Thrush leader nodded.
    The Thrush assassin got up from the chair. She walked in small, itty-bitty steps as if mimicking a finishing school student.
    “Mr. Densmore, that was bad. Very bad.”
    The Thrushman began to back away. “But you said...” His voice stopped.
    Suddenly Keystroke simultaneously let out a yell and launched her self from a standing start into a karate kick. She connected with Densmore straight in the chest. Densmore crumpled under from the blow and Keystroke fell on top of him. She slapped him with the black of her hand, then reversed and slapped again with her open hand. Densmore couldn’t move.
    The woman hit Densmore twice more with her fist into the chest. Then, in a flash, she was standing up and slammed the her high-heel boot into the Thrushman’s throat.
    Steve McGarrett was stunned for a second, then tried to get leverage to get away. The long-haired thug, however, had a firm grip and twisted McGarrett’s arms.
    Keystroke approached McGarrett. “And just who are you anyway? And why are you associating with Mr. Kuryakin? You’re not in any of the U.N.C.L.E. dossiers.”
    “Little Bo Peep,” McGarrett said. “And I’ve lost my sheep.”
    Keystroke grinned for a second then grabbed at McGarrett right ear lobe, squeezing it between her thumb and forefinger. “Now you’re being bad. I do not appreciate smart remarks. That’s bad, very...”
    Cho stood up from his desk. “That’s quite enough for now,” he said.
    “But this man...”
    “...Is obviously important to U.N.C.L.E. in some capacity, Ms. Keystroke,” Cho interrupted. “Presumably the U-N-C-L-E will not merely cast him adrift. It is not their style. He may be useful for bargaining power.”
    Cho looked down at Densmore’s body. “Besides, it will take enough effort to clean this mess up. One corpse today is quite enough.”
    Keystroke looked at McGarrett for a second, squeezed harder and then let go of the ear lobe. “Very well.” Her voice had a faint touch of disappointment.
    Cho now approached McGarrett, who was still straining to get free. “Now, sir, the lady’s question still stands. Who are you?”
    McGarrett squinted. “Your lady friend makes quite an impression. I’m just speechless.”
    A stubborn man. Hardly has the panache of a Napoleon Solo, Cho thought. Densmore, indeed, was an idiot.
    “We’ll take your picture and run it through the data bases,” Cho replied. “After that, take him a holding cell. Meanwhile, Ms. Keystroke, I have something for you.”
    The long-haired thug took McGarrett out of the office. Cho then looked at Keystroke. “With Mr. Densmore’s passing -- justified or not -- I need a replacement.”
    “Replacement for what?”
    “We received another communication from Filer. He’s set up a meeting for tomorrow. I suggest you be his new contact.”
    Pamela Keystroke began to smile once more.
***
U.N.C.L.E.-San Francisco

    Candace Workman’s face turned beet red.
    “We bring in a Filer expert and he’s kidnapped -- right in front of our own headquarters?”
    Solo and Kuryakin sat at the conference table, saying nothing, though the Russian briefly rubbed his neck.
    “Maybe a less experienced operative I could understand,” she said, the New Jersey accent getting thicker as she continued talking. “But Mr. Kuryakin you’re one of our very best. This was inexcusable.”
    Kuryakin showed no signs of reaction. But Solo couldn’t help himself. “Ms. Workman, it’s as much my fault as Illya’s. If I hadn’t gone back for my watch, everything probably would have been different.”
    “Your loyalty is commendable, Mr. Solo.”
    “It’s the truth,” Solo said firmly. “There’s a possibility I might have been the target.”
    “What?”
    “One of the men said, and I quote, ‘I’ve got Solo.’” Kuryakin said calmly.
    “And when were ya going to tell me that?”
    “When you stopped talking,” Kuryakin replied.
    Oh cripes, Solo thought. Another feud to deal with.....
    “How could they think McGarrett was Solo?!” Candace continued. “McGarrett always looks like he’s having a bad hair day for cryin’ out loud! And why would they grab you?”
    “With all due respect, why take McGarrett at all?”
    “Because he knows Filer!”
    “Is his knowledge valuable enough to risk a raid in front of our own building?” Solo replied. “He’s been useful in gauging Filer’s character, but commit to a raid just for that? It doesn’t figure.”
    “MBut you said...” His voice stopped.
    Suddenly Keystroke simultaneously let out a yell and launched her self from a standing start into a karate kick. She connected with Densmore straight in the chest. Densmore crumpled under from the blow and Keystroke fell on top of him. She slapped him with the black of her hand, then reversed and slapped again with her open hand. Densmore couldn’t move.
    The woman hit Densmore twice more with her fist into the chest. Then, in a flash, she was standing up and slammed the her high-heel boot into the Thrushman’s throat.
    Steve McGarrett was stunned for a second, then tried to get leverage to get away. The long-haired thug, however, had a firm grip and twisted McGarrett’s arms.
    Keystroke approached McGarrett. “And just who are you anyway? And why are you associating with Mr. Kuryakin? You’re not in any of the U.N.C.L.E. dossiers.”
    “Little Bo Peep,” McGarrett said. “And I’ve lost my sheep.”
    Keystroke grinned for a second then grabbed at McGarrett right ear lobe, squeezing it between her thumb and forefinger. “Now you’re being bad. I do not appreciate smart remarks. That’s bad, very...”
    Cho stood up from his desk. “That’s quite enough for now,” he said.
    “But this man...”
    “...Is obviously important to U.N.C.L.E. in some capacity, Ms. Keystroke,” Cho interrupted. “Presumably the U-N-C-L-E will not merely cast him adrift. It is not their style. He may be useful for bargaining power.”
    Cho looked down at Densmore’s body. “Besides, it will take enough effort to clean this mess up. One corpse today is quite enough.”
    Keystroke looked at McGarrett for a second, squeezed harder and then let go of the ear lobe. “Very well.” Her voice had a faint touch of disappointment.
    Cho now approached McGarrett, who was still straining to get free. “Now, sir, the lady’s question still stands. Who are you?”
    McGarrett squinted. “Your lady friend makes quite an impression. I’m just speechless.”
    A stubborn man. Hardly has the panache of a Napoleon Solo, Cho thought. Densmore, indeed, was an idiot.
    “We’ll take your picture and run it through the data bases,” Cho replied. “After that, take him a holding cell. Meanwhile, Ms. Keystroke, I have something for you.”
    The long-haired thug took McGarrett out of the office. Cho then looked at Keystroke. “With Mr. Densmore’s passing -- justified or not -- I need a replacement.”
    “Replacement for what?”
    “We received another communication from Filer. He’s set up a meeting for tomorrow. I suggest you be his new contact.”
    Pamela Keystroke began to smile once more.
***
U.N.C.L.E.-San Francisco

    Candace Workman’s face turned beet red.
    “We bring in a Filer expert and he’s kidnapped -- right in front of our own headquarters?”
    Solo and Kuryakin sat at the conference table, saying nothing, though the Russian briefly rubbed his neck.
    “Maybe a less experienced operative I could understand,” she said, the New Jersey accent getting thicker as she continued talking. “But Mr. Kuryakin you’re one of our very best. This was inexcusable.”
    Kuryakin showed no signs of reaction. But Solo couldn’t help himself. “Ms. Workman, it’s as much my fault as Illya’s. If I hadn’t gone back for my watch, everything probably would have been different.”
    “Your loyalty is commendable, Mr. Solo.”
    “It’s the truth,” Solo said firmly. “There’s a possibility I might have been the target.”
    “What?”
    “One of the men said, and I quote, ‘I’ve got Solo.’” Kuryakin said calmly.
    “And when were ya going to tell me that?”
    “When you stopped talking,” Kuryakin replied.
    Oh cripes, Solo thought. Another feud to deal with.....
    “How could they think McGarrett was Solo?!” Candace continued. “McGarrett always looks like he’s having a bad hair day for cryin’ out loud! And why would they grab you?”
    “With all due respect, why take McGarrett at all?”
    “Because he knows Filer!”
    “Is his knowledge valuable enough to risk a raid in front of our own building?” Solo replied. “He’s been useful in gauging Filer’s character, but commit to a raid just for that? It doesn’t figure.”
    “MBut you said...” His voice stopped.
    Suddenly Keystroke simultaneously let out a yell and launched her self from a standing start into a karate kick. She connected with Densmore straight in the chest. Densmore crumpled under from the blow and Keystroke fell p him sedated. Is he an U.N.C.L.E. agent?”
    Cho said, “No, but we were fortunate his escape was detected early. We also fortunate this Miss Keystroke was busy getting ready to make a rendezvous. She, no doubt, would be less gentle.”
    “I saw an example of her handiwork when I did the autopsy on Densmore. But why is McGarrett’s health a concern?”
    Cho smiled. “Mr. McGarrett is a state policeman from Hawaii who sometimes performs services for the United States government. His dossier is unclear concerning the exact nature of the relationship but Mr. McGarrett has a tendency to become involved in major operations. He may prove valuable for bargaining leverage -- especially if our friends from U.N.C.L.E. interfere.”
    The physician nodded and continued putting away his things. Cho, however, began to think of other things. He could feel a trace of anxiety in the pit of his stomach. He could feel his orderly plans unraveling. Denmore’s death had been reassuring, if only because it gave Cho a measure of control. But the presence of McGarrett was mystifying. Why was he outside of U.N.C.L.E.’s San Francisco station? Only an abbreviated version of McGarrett’s dossier had been forwarded. He needed to find out more about the man. Too much was happening too quickly. Cho felt he had to restore a sense of order. The image of his late predecessor again flashed in his mind.
***
    Illya Kuryakin pecked away on the laptop computer. He was trying to catch up on routine paper work. The current assignment had hit a slow spot and there was not way to tell when he’d get another chance. If he didn’t do it now, he’d be buried under even more later.
    He was going through what seemed like an endless series of adversaries when one instantly caught his notice. A pained expressed briefly flashed across the Russian’s face. He quickly printed out a copy. He quickly stopped by the conference room that served as his and Solo’s makeshift office.
    When Kuryakin arrived, Solo was rubbing his eyes. For a change, it was Kuryakin who had trouble reading Solo. The senior agent had been quiet most of the day. The Russian had seen this before. His partner was contemplating something, his mind studying the problem from various angles. During these times, Kuryakin felt a sense of combined anticipation and dread. Sometimes, one of Solo’s schemes could call for a complicated cover, sometimes more complicated than Kuryakin liked. But he knew Solo had a knack for finding the one angle that worked, the one strategy that could speed an affair to its conclusion.
    “Napoleon,” Kuryakin said. “Something you should be aware of.”
    Only then did Solo look up. Kuryakin handed his friend the printout which Solo quickly scanned.
    “Pamela Keystroke?” Solo said. “When did she escape prison?”
    “Less than a week ago,” Kuryakin replied. “It’s in the narrative.”
    “And possibly headed West,” Solo muttered. “Interesting.”
    “There is no evidence of her presence here.”
    “Then again, we haven’t been looking, either.” Solo picked up a telephone. “Is Ms. Workman still there? Yes, I’ll hold.”
    A few seconds passed. “Ms. Workman? Solo here. Is Ms. Lyons around?”
    “I think so. Why?”
    “I want her to take charge of a detail. There’s a particular nasty Thrush bird by the name of Pamela Keystroke that’s flown the coop and may be headed this way. I’d like Ms. Lyons to take charge of all available agents and to be on the lookout for said Thrush. Also, have her get a likeness of dear Pamela to all area law-enforcement agencies. I’d like as many apirs of eyes looking as possible.”
    “Keystroke....isn’t she the one who tried to gnaw your ear lobe off once?”
    “Something like that,” Solo said, wincing as he unconsciously touched the lobe.
    “You think she’s involved in this, huh?”
    Solo paused for a second. “If Thrush is concerned about the stolen material, it makes sense they’d bring her in, even if she’s a bit of a, eh, volatile personality.”
    “One question: what do we do if we find her?” Workman asked.
    Solo arched his eyebrows. “Let me know immediately.”
***
    The next day, a woman disembarked from a cable car. The black dress she wore went down nearly to her ankles. The sleeves of the dress were long and she wore pristine white gloves. Her wide-brimmed black hat matched the outfit. She paused for a moment and touched to slide the round wire-rimmed glasses back up to the bridge of her nose.
    The woman took small, petite steps. It was a little past nine, and the traffic on the downtown streets were beginning to slacken a bit. Pamela Keystroke glanced at the stainless steel watch. She was right on time for the meeting. Who was this little man who thought he could challenge Thrush? Surely he was in way over his head. The fact he had the audacity to try and blackmail Thrush was surely a sign of hubris, of supreme foolishness. One man, alone? Keystroke chucked silently.
    Just then a panhandler, wearing cutoffs and a tattered baseball cap came up to the woman. His scraggly beard needed trimming. “Got a dollar lady?”
    Keystroke sighed. “Not right now.” She tried to ignore him, hoping he’d go away.
    Suddenly the panhandler’s voice changed. More authoritative. Definitely a sober voice.
    “Are you quite sure?”
    Keystroke squinted. “I beg your pardon?”
    “Forgive me,” the panhandler said. “For a moment I thought you might be someone else. A bird of prey, perhaps. Or maybe a Thrush.”
    Keystroke stiffened for a second. “Go on.”
    “A Thrush can come in all shapes and sizes,” he continued. “So when someone comes at the precise moment of a pre-arranged meeting, I pay particular attention.”
    “I’m not quite sure what you mean,” she replied.
    “If you were truly an upset passerby, I think you’d have walked off by now,” he said. “The fact you’re so interested in this conversation suggests you’re not quite what you appear.”
    Keystroke’s eyes darted back and forth one time. “I hope you know what you’re doing. I may not be alone.”
    “Oh, I know what to look for. There are no other Thrushes within blocks of here. Are you ready for hear my terms or should I go straight to U.N.C.L.E.?”
    She sighed. “I don’t think that will be necessary.”
    “Good,” Lewis Avery Filer said. “My fee will be twenty million dollars. Negotiatiable bearer bonds, I believe, will be the best way of making the transaction.”
    “How do I know you have something that valuable?”
    “If I didn’t, you wouldn’t be here. Transamerica Building, two p.m. tomorrow. Take an elevator to the 20th floor. Everything else will be clear enough.”
    “You’re quite sure of yourself, Mr. Filer.”
    Filer nodded his head. “Impressive, but then that’s about what I expected from your organization.”
    “I could snap you in two, myself, you know,” Keystroke said.
    “Of that, I have no doubt. But if I fail to return by a certain time, what you seek will be in the hands of U.N.C.L.E. within a short time. Oh, by the way, two things.”
    Keystroke squinted. “Yes?”
    Filer reached into a pocket and took out a pamphlet. “In here are the Lord’s words -- and a the number of a pay telephone. Have someone there an hour before the meet. I will confirm whether the gathering will take place.”
    She took the pamphlet. “And the other?”
    “You had better give me a dollar. We wouldn’t want to attract attention by looking like anything other than a beggar and a woman who has taken pity on him.”
    A flash of anger showed on Keystroke’s face. “You’re quite sure of yourself, Mr. Filer.” She reached into her purse and withdrew a dollar. Filer grabbed it and held it up to the sunlight.
    “Now what are you doing?”
    “Checking for unusual chemicals or some kind of miniature tracing device,” he said, folding the dollar and putting it his pocket. “Good day. Please don’t try to follow.”
    Pamela Keystroke remained standing as Filer walked off. Somehow, she knew he had some trick ready if she attempted to follow. Two minutes later, she began to walk away toward the cable car tracks. A short while later, a cable car came by and she got on.
    However, neither she nor Filer had noticed a nearby police car, where one officer sat in the passenger seat. The driver of the car returned with a white powered doughnut.
    The driver looked at his partner, who was peering intently at some photographs.
    “What’s the matter, Phil?” the policeman said after taking a bite out of the doughnut.
    Phil said nothing but looked at the photographs. “Remember that funny advisory we got this morning?”
    “What? Oh yeah, that woman to keep a watch for but not to do anything?”
    “I think I saw her,” Phil said, holding up one of the photographs. “Looked almost like this one.”
***
    Two hours later, a man in his 60s walked into a restaurant. The white suit was spotless, the black necktie perfectly in place. The maitre’d took notice immediately.
    “Pardon me,” the man in the white suit said. “My nephew is expecting me. Goes by the name of Williams.”
    “Ah, yes, a Mr. Williams did indeed say he was expecting his uncle. Come this way.”
    The white-suited man walked confidently behind the maitre’d, who led him to a table by a window. There sat a dark-haired man looking outside, not taking notice of the two men approaching him.
    “Mr. Williams,” the maitre’d said. “Your uncle has arrived.”
    Only then did the dark-haired man look up. “Oh, thank you.”
    The older man sat down across the “nephew.”
    “Rather clever, Mr. Filer,” the dark-haired man began. “Specifying that I ask for a table under the name of Williams. He’s the second-in-command of Hawaii Five-O, I believe. They gave you quite a bit of trouble.”
    Filer grinned. “You’re quite efficient, mister--?”
    “Solo,” the dark-haired man replied. “Napoleon Solo.”
    Filer chuckled. “A secret agent and you call yourself Napoleon Solo? A bit over the top isn’t it?”
    Solo shrugged. “We all have our burdens.”
    “You are alone, aren’t you, Mr. Solo?”
    “Of course.”
    Just then, a blonde waiter approached with two glasses of water on his tray. He placed one in front of Solo and began to put the other in front of Filer. Except, with the latter, he put it down awkwardly and it spilled. Filer jumped up to avoid getting wet.
    “I’m sorry, sir,” the waiter said, reaching over for a napkin and drying the wet spot on the tablecloth. He began to apply the napkin to Filer.
    Filer waved him off. “No, it’s quite all right. Come back later and we’ll give you our orders.” He then sat back down.
    “Of course, sir,” the waiter said.
    Solo said nothing as the waiter walked off. “I believe you mentioned something about amnesty, Mr. Filer? Plus, some kind of stipend.”
    “Yes, I would say one million dollars.”
    “In Hawaii, I believe you almost got away with four million dollars,” Solo said. “Why the bargain rate?”
    Filer smiled. “I would advise you not to look a gift horse in the mouth, Mr. Solo.”
    “Unless,” Solo continued, “you’re also hoping to pick up some funds from Thrush at the same time. Play both sides against the middle.”
    “Mr. Solo, you have a devious mind.”
    “I find it’s good for my life expectancy,” Solo replied. “Plus, your record indicates you can be quite devious yourself, Mr. Filer.”
    “Be that as it may, I’m not really here to negotiate, Mr. Solo. Are my terms acceptable?”
    “Perhaps.”
    “Really, Mr. Solo, this is getting tiring.”
    “I’m sure. But did you know Thrush also seized an old acquaintance of yours?”
    “Acquaintance?”
    “Steve McGarrett, the head of Five-O. My organization brought him over here as a sort of consultant -- about you.”
    “Yes, I believe he mentioned it.”
    “Thrush now has him. It’s rather bad for our reputation that someone working with us gets kidnapped.”
    Filer squinted. “Really, Mr. Solo, is this some kind of game?”
    “No game,” Solo said, his voice now rather cold. “Thrush doesn’t play games. I hope you know that.”
    “Mr. McGarrett, if he really was kidnapped, isn’t my concern.”
    “Perhaps. But you don’t strike me as the type who would help Thrush out by returning valuable property.”
    “My motives aren’t in question here, Mr. Solo.”
    “Aren’t they? Your dossier indicates you were an excellent insurance investigator. One of the best. Then, you got laid off by your employer, Mid Pacific Industries. Just when your wife got sick. Must have been very hard on you...”
    “Avoid the amateur psychology, Mr. Solo.”
    Solo stared at Filer. “The answer is no, Mr. Filer.”
    Filer returned the stare. “Can you afford to take that chance, Mr. Solo?”
    “Have you totally forgotten who you once were, Mr. Filer? If something happens to McGarrett, it’s my organization’s responsibility. But he wouldn’t have been here if you hadn’t taken something valuable from Thrush.”
    Filer tipped his hat. “Good day, Mr. Solo. I’m not very hungry all of a sudden.”

    The older man stood up and reached under the lapel of suitcoat. He held a small object, barely visible between his thumb and forefinger, then crushed it.
    “And Mr. Solo, please do not take me for a fool. Your organization’s fondness for gadgets is well known.”
    Filer didn’t look back as he departed. A minute later, the blonde waiter returned and put another glass of water at the vacated place at Solo’s table.
    “Is your uncle coming back sir?” Illya Kuryakin said.
    “It doesn’t appear that way,” Solo replied. “Are the other tracers in place.”
    “Both of them,” Kuryakin said, picking up the silverware from Filer’s place. “If you had kept him talking, I could have planted at least one more.”
    “I think that will be enough, Illya,” Solo said. “By the way, what is today’s special?”
    Kuryakin resisted the temptation to roll his eyes. “Next time, I make the contact, you play the waiter.”

Act IV
“A Business Transaction”
 
    Lewis Avery Filer went back to the seedy hotel room. Almost his only view out the window was a superhighway. No majestic look at the Golden Gate or Coit Tower or even the Transamerica Tower. He undressed and prepared to go to sleep early, hanging his suitcoat up just before getting into the bed.
    As he pulled up the covers,  his plans for the next day flashed through his mind in an instant. He had hoped the man from U.N.C.L.E. would be more imaginative but in his own way he was almost as stuffy as McGarrett, his old nemesis. And now Thrush had the poor bastard! McGarrett was a know it all -- and God knows he was preachy -- but Filer also had enjoyed the match of wits of their two previous encounters. Plus, Filer’s real grievance was with MPI and Thrush by default, since it had chosen to take over MPI.
    Suddenly, another memory filled his mind. Of poor Eleanor, weighing just 85 pounds at the end, the cancer having ravaged her body so thoroughly and so relentlessly -- and how he got fired in the midst of it. Fired. A cold and final-sounding word. They tried to sugar coat it. Laid off. Furloughed. Surplussed. He was better than any investigator they had, but they wanted younger -- and cheaper -- men. He had shown them and almost got away with it, had it not been for McGarrett. But he had no animosity toward the man, quite the reserse. McGarrett had been the only one who could really test his abilities. No, Filer knew he had to do something about that. A complication, to be sure, but one he could handle.
    As he lay down, he went over the plan yet again, one last time. After a few minutes, he relaxed, content that he had worked everything out as best he could.
***
    Helen Lyons banged away on the laptop computer’s keyboard.  She paused for a second, slurped down what was left of the lukewarm coffee and resumed typing.
    Every word of the report made her boil. She kept seeing Candace Workman’s face. Lyons grimaced. Her own assignment, taken away from her. Lyons had spent months developing leads and now, here she was, taking orders from the big guns out of New York.
    Her lip curled for a second, not quite a snarl, but the emotion evident on her face. Helen had read the U.N.C.L.E. history that Workman had written. It was as if Solo and Kuryakin were more than men. How did one compete against legends, or at least teacher’s pets?
    Lyons thought the three years she had spent at U.N.C.L.E. The work had been hard but when she got her present posting she had viewed it as a big break. The San Francisco station was one of the most important U.S. operations, perhaps second only to the York regional headquarters. The station took in Silicon Valley and the Pacific Northwest, a vital technology corridor -- and full of potential targets for Thrush.
    And now, in the middle of her biggest assignment, Workman brings in the living legends...
    “Ms. Lyons?”
    The voice was smooth, the diction precise. Lyons already knew who it was before she turned around.
    “What do you want, Mr. Solo?” Lyons said. The voice was almost brittle.
    Solo arched his eyebrows. “Believe it or not, it wasn’t my idea to take this assignment. I have orders, just like you.”
    Lyons sighed. “I’m sure you do.”
    “We may have a lead. I could order you to participate in a little plan of ours, but I’d rather enlist your cooperation.”
    Lyons wanted to make a sarcastic remark but checked herself. Instead she paused then asked, “Why’s that?”
    “Because we’re about to enter the end game. Things will be tricky enough as it is. Based on your record, I’d like to have you on board -- but only if there’s a full commitment on your part.”
    “Dammit, that’s pretty condescending, I’m a pro--”
    “Professional? Yes,” Solo said, interrupting. “But there’s been enough bad blood associated with this affair you’d have to be inhuman not be affected by it.”
    Lyons frowned. “Even the great Napoleon Solo?”
    Solo smiled a second, but only a second before answering. “We’re all human. Some of us just have good press agents.”
    Lyons laughed, the kind of laugh that sometimes erupts when least expected, the kind of thing that happens in the midst of tension. “You have to admit...”
    Solo held up his hand, waving off the thought. “Let’s not worry about that now. If you worry about the job at hand, you may get your own press agent one day. Now, do you want in on it, or not?”
    Lyons looked at Solo for a second. The man was smooth all right. Some details of the U.N.C.L.E. history flashed through her mind. Maybe he is that good. It couldn’t hurt to see for myself.
    Lyons grinned. “OK, Mr. Solo, I’m in.”
    “Call me Napoleon.”
    “One thing at a time.”
    
***
    In the morning, Filer felt refreshed. One way or another, this business would come to an end today. There was something comforting in that. While he had enjoyed the game -- being as close to the edge as he dared -- he knew it had to end today. Filer prided himself on trying to outthink his adversaries, but this business had gotten more complicated than he would prefer. Maybe MPI was right, Avery, he thought. Maybe it is time to retire. But now, on your terms, not theirs.
    He began to pack his few things when he began to fold the clothes had worn the previous day. As he was getting the suitcoat from the closet, he felt something hard, something that shouldn’t be there. He put on his reading glasses and felt under the lapel -- the opposite lapel where he had found the homing device at the restaurant. This new object was no bigger than a pill -- and a tiny pill at that -- but there it was, yet another tiny electronic device. Filer put the garment down and edged toward the window to see if he could spot any sign of surveillance. He saw none but that meant nothing.
    “My we are getting careless in our old age,” Filer said to himself. “And here I thought Mr. Solo was unimaginative.”
    Suddenly a voice was broadcast electronically. “I’ll take that as a compliment, Mr. Filer.”
    “You should, Mr. Solo,” Filer replied. “After that little speech yesterday, I thought you were trying to bore me into giving myself up.” Filer remembered the meeting. “And here I was so proud of myself for spotting that clumsy waiter as one of your associates.”
    “Clumsy?” Another, almost emotionless voice said. “It was pure presence of mind.”
    “Yes, and a rather old trick,” Filer said.
    “But a tested and true one,” Solo said. “Just like yourself, Mr. Filer.”
    Filer dropped the coat on the bed and began to look around.
    “Oh, by the way, Mr. Filer,” Solo’s broadcast voice said. “In cast you’re getting any ideas....”
    At that moment, Filer could see the so-called waiter, now dressed in a black outfit, including a turtleneck sweater appear on the fire escape. He held a rather large gun, a pistol with a scope, barrel and extra magazine attached.
    “Really, Mr. Solo, isn’t that rather overdone?”
    Then, the door to Filer’s room opened. “I don’t think so,” Solo said, standing there, his own gun drawn.
    Filer looked back and forth between the two agents. “Really, Mr. Solo, ganging up on an old man like myself?”
    “Let Mr. Kuryakin in, will you, Mr. Filer?”
    “All right, but you have to know by now I wouldn’t keep the documents here with me.”
    “Of course. By the way, no sense trying anything. There are several other agents surrounding the building.”
    Filer complied, opening the window and letting Kuryakin in. “The clumsy waiter,” he muttered as Kuryakin entered. “So what now, Mr. Solo?”
    “You collect your money from Thrush.”
    Filer squinted. “Beg pardon?”
    “You heard correctly, Mr. Filer,” Kuryakin said. “We’re going to help you collect your ransom.”
    “You are?”
    “Yes,” Solo said. “Except we intend to alter things a bit.”
***
    The big BMW pulled over the curb just down the street from a big hotel. The tall, gangly man went up to the pay telephone and looked at his watch. It was at least two minutes before the designated time. He glanced back at the BMW. In the front seat sat his superior in this operation. She wore a big, black hat with a wide brim, a contrast to the small, gold wire rim glasses she wore. Pamela Keystroke scared him, he admitted to himself. She was a strange, odd creature. He had heard about what happened to Densmore. He only wanted to execute his tasks and be done with it. She had been quite -- too quiet -- during the drive to this rendezvous. He had performed his share of dangerous jobs for Thrush. But never had death been this close.
    The telephone rang and the man jumped.
    He quickly picked up the receiver. “Yes?”
    “There has been a change of plans. Are you in a position to negotiate?”
    The man turned pale. “I’d better consult my superior.”
    “Do it fast,” Filer said.
    The man gestured for Keystroke to come over. She squinted and the man gestured again. Keystroke had a pained look on her face as she got out of the BMW and tried to walk as quickly as she could in the long dress.
    “What is it, Poston?” Keystroke said, a hint of anger in her voice.
    “It’s Filer. He said something about a change of plans.” Poston handed the receiver to her.
    “Yes, Mr. Filer?”
    “Ah, you sound like the lovely young woman I met the other day.”
    “Don’t be cute. We don’t have time.”
    “Indeed, we don’t,” Filer responded. “I’m changing the rendezvous to the docks. And I’d like you to bring someone along. Mr. McGarrett.”
    “McGarrett?”
    “I’m informed you kidnapped him. He’s an old acquaintance of mine.”
    Keystroke strained to avoid scowling. “So you have been negotiating with the U-N-C-L-E, eh?”
    “Of course,” Filer said. “I want to gauge as many offers as possible. But U.N.C.L.E. only offered appeals to civic virtue, not cash.”
    “If that’s true,” Keystroke’s voice was edgier this time, “then why the concern about McGarrett?”
    “I’ll admit to a twinge of regret about him. He’s a rather humorless chap, but deserves more to be stuffed on your rocky mantelpiece. One hour, at the following address...” Filer spat out the location of the meeting.
    “Sounds like a trap, Mr. Filer.”
    “Can you afford to take that chance? Fifty-nine minutes and counting. Just have my money ready.”
    The connection was cut off.
    Keystroke stared into space. Poston’s stomach hurt and it was a sharp pain.
    Finally, Poston spoke up despite his stomach. “What is it?”
    “Mr. Filer is trying something funny. A trap, most likely.”
    She walked off, heading back to the BMW, without answering. A second after getting into the vehicle, she reached for a communications device. “This is Keystroke. Condition red. Get McGarrett out of his cell and presentable. Also, get as many operatives as possible to the following address...”
***
    It was a large, plain warehouse. The center of the ground floor was clear of crates and well lit. There, stood Pamela Keystroke, Poston and three other men. Poston listened through an earpiece as he received signals from a team of around a dozen operatives.
    “No sign of U.N.C.L.E.,” Poston said to Keystroke. Our agents have secured the perimeter.”
    “Tell them to stay alert,” she replied. Turning to the other man, she grabbed his left ear lobe and pinched hard.
    “And how are you doing, Mr. McGarrett?”
    McGarrett winced. “I’ve been better.” The policeman’s face was puffy from his fall down the Thrush stairway.
    She let go of the lobe. “Just stay quiet. And don’t attempt anything. There’s a man with a rifle aimed at your head. He’s on top of some crates a ways back. If anything untoward happens, his instructions are quite clear.”
    McGarrett grimaced. “I can imagine.”
    Just then, Poston jumped after hearing a thump. Keystroke remained calm, but her hand reached into a purse and grabbed hold of a gun but didn’t yet take it out. The two Thrush operates looked and saw a cleaning woman in a small office area off of the storage area.
    “Should I eliminate her?” Poston said.
    “Yes, but quietly.” Keystroke replied. “I don’t want a noisy disturbance that could spook Filer.” Poston motioned, and one of the group walked away, his gaze on the cleaning woman.
                     
 ***

    Harry Chen lay perfectly still stop the large crate. He lay on his stomach, the butt of the rifle resting against his right shoulder. While it was dark in the back of the warehouse, the infrared scope provided an ample view of the killing zone. Pamela Keystroke stood in the middle, tense, read to strike. Poston, her aide, was keeping a close watch on the area.On the other side was the hostage, McGarrett.
    The operation had been set up in a hurry but the team had swept through the warehouse and found nothing unusual. Off to Chen’s right was Sampson, another sniper. And a third man was on the opposite side of the warehouse, near a small, open office. Chen adjusted his sight and noticed the cleaning woman. She was hunched over and moving very slowly. He couldn’t make her out very well but she was obviously frail.
    Finally, after long minutes, another man entered from a rear entrance, near the open office. Chen could see the Thrush operative was well hidden and the target -- this Filer that Chen had been briefed about -- seemed unaware. Filer didn’t move like an old man. His strides were confident. Filer wore a very light, cream-colored suit.  He stopped a few feet away from Keystroke, Poston and other agents.
    Chen adjusted the crosshairs. He now had Filer in his sights. It would be a clean kill, no higher than the forehead. All Chen had to do was await Keystroke’s signal.
***
    The cleaning woman was making it easy for the Thrushman. She was mopping and kept moving away from the meeting area and toward an exit. The hag even kept her back to him. It was as easy a task as he could hope for.
    The assassin quickened his pace and took out the stiletto. He’d cover her mouth and killer her with the knife, almost no noise, and have her out the door in seconds. He glanced back. He couldn’t see Pamela Keystroke or the others from this angle. Nothing that was about to follow could disturb the business that was to take place.
    A step away now. The old bitch will barely feel it before she goes. A thin, cruel smile passed his lips.
    Then, in one motion, the cleaning woman grabbed at the end of the mop handle and turned around, jabbing the handle at the killer.
    The Thrushman felt the sharp pain just below the sternum. The cut was clean and he could feel a blade cutting deep. Before he could let out a scream, the woman’s hand covered his mouth. As he fell to the floor he tried to look at the weapon. The end of the handle had really contained a very long, stainless steel blade, like a bayonet. His last image before he died was of the face of the cleaning woman, who suddenly didn’t look as old as she should.
***
    Filer approached the group. He ignored the Thrush personnel and looked directly at McGarrett.
    “Hello, McGarrett. It’s been some time.”
    “Hello, Mr. Filer. Can’t say it’s a pleasure.”
    “Really, McGarrett, you can be such a stick in the mud.”
    Keystroke cleared her throad. “Can we really get on with it, Mr. Filer?”
    “Ah, you’re businesslike,” Filer said. “I appreciate that.”
    Pamela Keystroke squinted through the small, round glasses. “I am not really concerned with your likes and dislikes, Mr. Filer. I am here to complete our business and be done with you. Where are the documents?”
    Filer reached into the breast pocket of his suit and took out a folded, large manila envelope. “This is only a sample to demonstrate they are genuine. I somehow didn’t think it would be prudent to provide all the documents immediately.”
    Keystroke grabbed the envelope and ripped it open. She flipped through the papers and handed them to Poston. He paged through the documents, nodding his head as he did so.
    “Well?” Keystroke said.
    “Definitely genuine,” Poston replied.
    Filer grinned for a moment, then took on a poker face. “I believe there’s the matter of twenty-million dollars for the remainder of the documents.”
    “An electronic transfer of half the amount has already been made, to a Swiss bank account, as instructed. I believe you’ve had ample opportunity to confirm.”
    “Indeed, I have,” Filer said.
    “Your move, Mr. Filer.”
    “Actually,” Filer replied, “the remaining documents are right here in this warehouse.”
***
    Chen tightened his finger on the trigger. The signal was imminent. He was ready. In less than a second, Filer would die.
    “Pardon me,” a voice said, laced with a Russian accent.
    Chen turned. The top of one of the nearby crates was raised, a blonde man peering from underneath, holding a blow gun. The assassin heard a brief  fooop a split second before he a felt a pain on his throat. He slapped at the wound and pulled out a small dart. It was the last thing he felt before slipping into unconsciousness.
    Sampson, the sniper nearest Chen tensed and was alert. He swung his rifle toward the noise -- Chen’s direction. Sampson looked through his infrared sight and caught a glimpse of a blonde man emerging from an empty crate. He quickly had the crosshairs on the blonde man when he felt a sharp pain on the back of his neck. He couldn’t even get his finger on the trigger before everything turned black.
    Napoleon Solo gently lay down the top of a crate and then put down his blowgun. A moment later, he reached for his communicator. “Two down.”
    “Make it three,” a woman’s voice said through the communicator.
***
     “It’s here, eh?” Keystroke said.
    “Absolutely,” Filer said.
    McGarrett tensed. His senses were screaming at him. Filer get down! he thought. You damn fool! But his voice didn’t work. Something held him back. Something wasn’t right. Filer was smart. He had to know Thrush would try to trap him. Yet he seemed so calm. If McGarrett knew one thing, it was that Lewis Avery Filer was no fool.
    “Then why don’t I just kill you?” Keystroke said. The voice rose. There was just a hint of glee.
    “It would take a long time to find it in this warehouse,” Filer said, the grin returning.
    Keystroke removed the hat from her head and brushed it off. “Perhaps less time than you think.”
    After a few seconds, her hands stopped. Where the hell is Chen? He should have opened fire first.
    “Perhaps,” Filer said again. The grin remained. Maybe it was just a little bit bigger.
    Silence followed for long seconds. Keystroke put the hat back on. Then, a sharp noise erupted. The cleaning woman, suddenly standing very straight, tossed something in the direction of some crates. Suddenly there was smoke and noise.
    McGarrett found himself moving, his limbs aching. He didn’t know what caused him to do so, he just ran, diving at Filer, getting him away from the Thrush personnel. What happened next would only take a couple of seconds but it seemed to go in slow motion.
    Poston gritted his teeth, reaching for a pistol from a shoulder h