Act I
"Reflections over the Atlantic"

 Napoleon Solo squirmed in his seat. Like many travelers for whom trans-oceanic flights were common, he could usually catch plenty of sleep before reaching his destination. But this night, and on this flight, Solo was having trouble nodding off. Too many memories.

The flight attendant smiled, her expression suggested she was about to inquire if she could help. But before she could speak, Solo shook his head. No, another glass of wine wouldn't help. He closed his eyes and tried to shake off his reflective mood.

Solo had a seat in the first-class section of the cabin. By now, he had so many frequent-flyer credits that getting an upgrade wasn't difficult. The first-class section certainly had more comfortable arrangements than the tourists flying coach. Yet, Solo kept thinking of the past.

As the top enforcement agent in the United Network Command for Law and Enforcement, Solo had flown around the world many times. Yet, London -- his destination this night -- held a special fascination. No matter where he traveled, his assignments in the United Kingdom seemed to be more special than the others. His mind tonight seemed to be playing the same recordings over and over. His mind raced from memory to memory. No transition, just vivid images all jumbled together. The wretched G. Emory Partridge and his lethal spouse -- he had been damn lucky to survive the encounter. Poor old Norman Swickert, the would-be Churchill, who was heartbroken when he'd discovered how his much-younger wife had manipulated him. Sully, pulling off an outrageous bluff, assuming a dead terrorist's life without a shred of a briefing. Unfortunately, Solo was there when they finally fished out the body, months later.

Solo shuddered. Though better trained and equipped than an old warhorse like Sully, Solo knew that could easily be his fate. But the agent had always been able to put that aspect of his job to the back of his mind. It wasn't that aspect that was bothering him. Danger was also going to be there. Solo concluded he was actually feeling anticipation. For some reason, the British assignments always seemed to expand beyond what he ever expected.

Perhaps that'd be the case on this job. At least that's what Solo concluded as the recordings in his head finally seemed to fade. He closed his eyes once more and sleep came.

 "Fleming? Wellington Fleming? They're certain?" Solo had said a few hours earlier, in New York.

Alexander Waverly sighed. Of course, he meant Fleming. The aging Waverly wasn't one to waste time. "Quite certain, Mr. Solo."

Wellington Fleming was a key operative of Thrush. Despite numerous setbacks over the years, many thanks to U.N.C.L.E., Thrush remained a dangerous organization, beyond the control of any nation. Fleming had emerged in the past two years as Solo's counterpart at Thrush -- its top operative, free to initiate operations anywhere in the world. When Fleming surfaced, it meant Thrush was surely readying a strike somewhere nearby.

"But why would Fleming be gambling in Mayfair, sir?" Solo said, gathering his thoughts.

"He has his own weaknesses, Mr. Solo, as do you. I recall some instances where the importance of an assignment didn't deter you from pursuing, er, extra-curricular activities."

Solo let the remark pass without comment. He certainly was known in U.N.C.L.E. as a ladies' man but felt the image had become exaggerated all out of proportion. At least most of the time.

Waverly continued. "Fleming, it seems, can't get by very long without indulging his passion for chemin de fer and other games of chance. Perhaps he gave in to a moment of weakness. Nevertheless, he was spotted at a couple of gambling clubs."

"But the London office wasn't able to take action?"

"Fleming was seen coming out of the club by a Section Four employee. The person wasn't authorized to take action," Waverly said. "Given Fleming's ruthlessness, the employee in question likely would have ended up dead. No, Mr. Solo, he did the right thing and got us the information first. I want you to act on it."

U.N.C.L.E.-London had plenty of capable agents. But on the biggest jobs, Waverly turned to a small cadre of agents. Solo, and his Russian friend and partner Illya Kuryakin, drew the heaviest of these jobs. Together, they were the top two agents of Section Two (Operations and Enforcement).

"I've already sent Mr. Kuryakin there," Waverly said. "He was already on the continent on another matter. Simply a matter of shortening his flight and going to London. I want you there as well."

"Any suggested course of action, sir?"

"I'd start with the club first, Mr. Solo, the Etonian. It's in the briefing papers. My hope, and I must admit it's just a hope, is that Mr. Fleming will feel it's safe and pay a return visit before he completes his mission. U.N.C.L.E. London is researching possible targets. If we can't get him within forty-eight hours of your arrival, we'll have to regroup. He could strike anywhere in the United Kingdom. If we can get him fast, we must make the effort."

"Of course, sir. I'll make immediate arrangements."

"Do that, Mr. Solo." Did Solo detect more than the usual interest from Waverly? After all, Waverly was English. Worried about his home country, perhaps? To the casual observer, Waverly would seem like a retired professor at Eton, or one of the other upper-crust English colleges. But Solo knew better. Waverly had once been a rugged chap. Solo had even witnessed the aging Waverly felling a Thrush operative with one karate blow.

Regardless of all that, Solo knew Waverly didn't assign his agents to frivolous errands.

 Charles Stock smelled of cordite. He exited the target range, generally pleased with his scores. It was part of his routine when not assigned to a mission. Regular target practice, to keep the skill levels high. Stock had been designated a "blue" operative in MI6, or British Inelligence. Blue operatives were authorized to kill, though it never appeared on any official document. Stock thought the code designation silly. And there was nothing silly about killing a man. He had witnessed all too many times the grim suddenness when a man had been transformed into a corpse.

Today, at the nondescript Service headquarters was not a day of killing. The blue operatives were deployed sparingly, especially with the end of the Cold War. These days, a blue agent was considered busy if he drew a handful of major assignments a year. Much of the rest of the time was spent teaching new agents, keeping up on the latest weaponry innovations and, of course, keeping current on dossiers of agents, friendly, unfriendly and neutral.

The target range was in the building's basement. Stock rode the lift to his office. The secretary nodded as he entered. The brunette was efficient enough, but he remembered with affection the days that her predecessor looked after the blue operatives. A damn courageous woman -- she had once went out in the field to assist Stock -- she finally left the service to get married.

It was mid-afternoon. Stock was bored but knew he needed to go through more dossiers. The end of the Cold War made that job even more necessary than ever. Instead of two sides there was a myriad of them. And while the craft of spying always meant deception, that was even more true in these confused times.

In the old days, Stock would have leafed through file folders and sheets of paper. This day, Stock used the personal computer that seemed to be taking over the world. In looking through a directory, Stock noticed one of the dossiers had just been updated. Ah yes, that criminal group with the funny name. What was it? Stock tried to remember. Something with a bird. Oh yes, Thrush. A London-based, low-level operative of U.N.C.L.E., a multi-national agency, had spotted the man.

Stock studied the photograph. It was fuzzy, obviously taken in a hurry and from a great distance. Wellington Fleming. From what Stock could see, Fleming appeared to be entering middle age, his black hair now graying. The man had a lean face, though his features appeared to be softening due to aging. Even with the soft focus, the eyes were the giveaway. There was no soul there.

He looked just a hair taller than Stock's six-feet-one. Proficient with a pistol, less so with a rifle. But excellent in hand-to-hand combat.

MI6 was concerned with foreign assignments. The internal security agencies would probably have to deal with the man. Still, Stock had a funny feeling as he looked at the soulless eyes once more. Stock had never dealt very much with this Thrush. There were funny rumors the group had launched all sorts of incredible operations against Britain and other countries. Yet, Stock, nor the other blue operatives, seemed to ever cross the group's path. The rumors were this Thrush was even bigger than any of the myriad terrorist or criminal groups operating on the continent. U.N.C.L.E. seemed to be Thrush's primary adversary.

Stock reached for a cigarette, lit it and inhaled deeply. His thoughts returned to the matter at hand. Stock distrusted the idea of multi-national groups. Some of the recent United Nations military operations had turned out badly. In the world of espionage, Stock reasoned, you had enough unknowns as it was. The idea of agents of many nationalities working together seemed like someone's utopian dream. And just how good were these U.N.C.L.E. agents really?

Yet, a key member of Thrush had been seen right here in London. Would that mean U.N.C.L.E. agents prowling about as well? Just to be on the safe side, Stock called up information about U.N.C.L.E. As he glanced at the organizational chart, Stock reasoned the most likely people assigned to Fleming would be the enforcement agents. He called up the top few dossiers. It seemed the top two were an American and a Russian. Stock, of course, had spent many years in a virtual war against the KGB. The idea of working with a Russian, even in these post-Cold War days, seemed far-fetched. Yet, Stock was a professional.  He memorized the faces and basic data.

Silly bastard, Stock thought. He was skeptical about the whole thing. Clearly this Fleming was a threat and his opposites appeared to be capable. But Stock concluded he was spoiling for a real assignment. He doubted anything would come of this matter.

"Thrush?" Stock said to himself. He let out a small laugh.

 Illya Kuryakin, dressed only in his underwear, completed the fifty sit-ups.

It was part of a morning routine. Despite living in the West for many years, Kuryakin still feared the idea of going soft. Whenever possible, he conducted a relatively brief, yet energetic exercise regimen. This morning, his schedule wasn't pressing. So he spent fifty-two minutes in his hotel room performing a series of exercises.

Kuryakin looked at the clock. Still another half-hour before Napoleon Solo's flight would arrive from New York. Kuryakin didn't need to make the long and harrowing journey to Heathrow because all he needed to do was use the pen communicator to contact Solo after his aircraft landed. U.N.C.L.E. agents formerly used their pen communicators at any time. But recent American airline regulators forbid the use of many electronic devices while flights were in the air. As a result, agents now only used the pen communicators only in an extreme emergency while en route.

In any event, it was likely there would be little action for several hours. Solo would probably rest prior to tonight's visits to the gambling clubs. Two days earlier, when Kuryakin had been told to stay in Europe, Mr. Waverly had indicated this operation was to be subtle, at least in the beginning. No massive searches. Wellington Fleming was too wily for anything like that.

Kuryakin wasn't looking forward to tonight in any case. While he had a tuxedo -- indeed, some of his women colleagues had remarked how well he looked in one -- Kuryakin wasn't comfortable in formal wear. Despite the fall of the Soviet Union, Kuryakin still had many of his prejudices from his youth growing up in the Soviet state. In particular, Kuryakin wasn't materialistic. Gambling in Mayfair clubs wasn't his idea of a pleasurable evening. His friend Napoleon, on the other hand, operated there quite well. Solo did fairly well in games of chance, though Kuryakin knew his friend best functioned in more strategic games such as chess. Finally, Kuryakin wasn't especially fond of Britain. He had received a nasty wound on an assignment in Soho. Later, during the same affair, he and Solo thought they were going to be crushed in a wine vat. Even worse, Kuryakin had blamed himself for Scully's eventual demise, wishing he had insisted Scully end the original assignment that sent the former agent underground.

Kuryakin shook off the thoughts. He stripped and took a shower. No sense lingering over the past. That was his pragmatic nature and it had served him well.

Act II
"Debbie Does London"

 Solo had cleared customs. Heathrow was packed, no big surprise. He then heard the small beeping coming from the pen communicator that rested in his shirt breast pocket. He ducked toward some lockers in the busy terminal.

"Channel is open," Solo said softly into the pen. He gazed around searching for anyone observing him.

"Kuryakin, Channel L." The letter designation meant a local channel, or an U.N.C.L.E. communication within a short distance. "Are you prepared for a night of gambling?"

"I suspect I'll need some rest first. I didn't get that much sleep on the flight over. If this Fleming is what his dossier indicates, he's not someone I care to meet unless I'm prepared."

"Well, there have been no further sightings. U.N.C.L.E.-London hasn't yet turned up any apparent Thrush activity other than our friend's visit to the tables the other night. This may turn out to be nothing but an evening of wandering around and gambling with the firm's money. Not my idea of a good evening, but I suspect you may think otherwise."

"Actually, I'm not sure myself," Solo replied. "Mr. Waverly seemed a bit unnerved that a high-ranking Thrush official would make a public appearance, even if it was relatively brief. I just don't know if it was a fluke or something truly sinister."

"Fluke?" Kuryakin asked. His friend had lapsed into American slang again. This was something Kuryakin had never mastered despite all the years of living in the West.

"A chance encounter. I can't believe Fleming would jeopardize a major operation to gamble, even if he does border on being a gambling addict."

Kuryakin gave Solo the directions to the hotel where the Russian was staying. The plan was that Solo would stay at a nearby hotel and then the two would meet at the gambling club Fleming was first spotted. It was really their only lead.

 Uncharacteristically, Solo had failed to notice another passenger coming through customs at around the same time.

It was uncharacteristic because Debbie Largent was a striking brunette and Solo had an eye for attractive women of almost any sort. She wasn't classically beautiful. Her nose was a trifle larger than a typical professional model, for example, she also carried a few more pounds than one also.

But Debbie Largent had a gregarious personality. It showed in the hazel eyes, even though they were somewhat hidden by the plastic-rim glasses she wore. This woman was full of life and had a drive that kept her going despite the occasional setback. She indeed was coming off such a setback --  she had recently been divorced. The marriage had soured for a variety of reasons and the couple hadn't had children to complicate the separation. Other women might dwell on the matter and, indeed, Debbie remained sensitive about the subject. Still, she was in the process of putting it behind her. After all, she had a successful job selling real estate in the Chicago area. She had some money put away and decided a European vacation, with a couple of nights' stayover in New York, was the right medicine.

Debbie, like other travelers going through the routine, was tired. But she had a ridiculously cheerful attitude for someone in her circumstances. In her belongings she had included an evening dress and she intended to wear it that night. As part of the tour package she had purchased, Debbie had a temporary membership at a London casino. The club was a bit upper crust according to the brochures she had but she decided she'd enjoy the change of pace.

 When Stock arrived in his office that morning, he went straight to the personal computer. Something had gnawed at him when he woke up. It was like a sixth sense, a feeling of danger. Nothing tangible had occurred to set it off. But this kind of sixth sense had served him well for many years. He wasn't about to ignore it.

Over breakfast, he had decided he had dangerously sloughed off the notion of Thrush as a menace. He called up the information available on Thrush. The details were sketchy. The organization's origins weren't completely clear and in fact there were multiple versions of its founding. According to one narrative, the organization may have been founded late in the previous century, though there was little to corroborate that. But it was clear from Stock's reading of the information that Thrush was formidable, its name notwithstanding. It appeared, for example, that some major corporations had been unmasked as fronts for Thrush. The most notable was a large American chemical concern. There had been a nasty explosion that hadn't been fully explained. Reading between the lines, Stock concluded that authorities knew damn well what had happened but had bottled it up.

Stock also reviewed the recent alert about the Fleming fellow. For now, there was little Stock could do. As long as Fleming stayed in the country, it would be a matter for the internal security forces. Still, Stock felt he had been amiss in not studying the dossier as completely as he should.

 Solo slept for several hours. When he arose, he felt revived. The night before, and the curious dwelling on his past experiences in Britain, were a dim memory.

After showering and dressing, Solo spent a few hours relaxing at his hotel. He bought three British papers, skimming them for any event that might be of interest to little Thrush birds. He wasn't entirely sure of what he was looking for. But there had been none of the kind of news that sometimes alerted an agent to what he might face. No disappearances of a leading scientist  -- something that had set off more than one assignment in his career -- or a new weapon being tested. No, there appeared to be nothing more than soccer scores and name calling in Parliament going on in the news.

What could Fleming be up to? A top Thrush operative just doesn't show up in London on a vacation.  Yet, an agent of the world's leading band of renegades just shows up for a few hands of chemin de fer. For one night, yet.

Solo again changed clothes, this time wearing an exercise outfit, and headed for the small gym at the hotel. He conducted his own workout, figuring it could be a long night. Afterwards, he showered and dressed for work. This night, he planned on wearing his tuxedo, a classic black jacket. In matters of dress, Solo was a traditionalist and detested bright colors in formal wear. His tux was simple, black pants and tie and a white shirt to go with the jacket. Solo, however, added an accessory that wasn't part of the basic outfit. On the surface, they appeared as basic  cufflinks. In fact, they were an experimental device. U.N.C.L.E.'s pen communicators had become too widely known, practically calling attention to the organization's agents. For years, despite advances in electronics, the pen was the smallest container U.N.C.L.E. engineers could devise that was powerful and reliable enough for field work.

The cuff links, in fact, were only a partial replacement for the pens. The links could be used to get a fix on an agent. Until now, the pens had to do double duty, serving as a communications device and a tracking mechanism. The cuff links actually were still in the experimental phase. Of agents assigned to the New York headquarters, only he and Kuryakin had them and neither agent had yet found a suitable real-life trial. Solo didn't believe that tonight would be that occasion. But the curious nature of the assignment caused the Number One of Section Two to add the links to his normal array of weapons.

Solo checked himself in the mirror. At five-foot, ten-inches tall, he was of average height. In a sense, that was an advantage. Despite the fact he was rather good looking, Solo could still get lost in a crowd. Also, he still was within a few pounds of the one hundred, sixty-five he weighed when he took up his espionage career all those years ago.

 The Etonian, the gambling club where Wellington Fleming had been observed, was a place that had seemed untouched by time. Its clientele leaned toward the aging rich but new money also seemed attracted to the place. Special trial memberships could be arranged, and the club had relationships with a few select tour companies. Still, it wasn't the place an American tourist just dropped in. One had to know where to look.

Illya Kuryakin had arrived a few minutes before his scheduled meeting with Solo. Then again, that was Kuryakin's habit. His friend Napoleon was more prone to act on hunches and, indeed, much of the time Solo's hunches were brilliant. Not that Illya would ever admit that too much. For now, the Etonian held nothing special. Still, it was only a few minutes past seven, and the activity was only now really starting to pick up.

Just then, Solo entered the main gambling room. Spread throghout were tables of card games, such as chemin de fer, as well as roulette wheels and craps tables. Upstairs, the club arranged secluded spots for high-stakes poker games. That fact made Fleming's appearance in the primary -- and public -- gambling room the other night all the more odd.

The two U.N.C.L.E. agents did not have any special cover for the assignment at hand. As a result, they simply approached one another without any specific code phrases. After the appropriate greetings, they got down to business.

"I'm afraid there's no sign of any bird men about, though it's a bit early yet," Kuryakin informed Solo.

"About what I expected." As he spoke, Solo glanced around the room.

"I suppose we should try our luck," Kuryakin replied.

"All right, but make sure you get a receipt. I'd hate for you to have to explain a huge expense voucher to Mr. Waverly."

Kuryakin, who had worked with Solo for a good many years, instantly recognized Solo's odd humor. "You needn't worry about me, my friend. Just don't get too wrapped up in some new conquest while Mr. Fleming is busy robbing the Bank of England."

Solo smirked. "Yes, Jiminy."

Kuryakin recognized the American cultural reference but exited without comment.

Solo decided to watch the chemin de fer tables. As he approached, he saw a brunette woman in a red evening dress hanging back. She had a reasonably attractive figure. Clearly, she was no gambler for she was only watching the tables. She occasionally squinted or moved her head. Solo suspected she was a tourist.

Solo came up from behind. "It's really fairly simple if you know how to play blackjack."

Debbie Largent turned around, surprised that anyone had noticed her. She needn't have been surprised at all. In getting ready for the evening, she switched to contact lenses, which further enhanced the effect of her hazel eyes. Those eyes now gazed upon a well-dressed man with a conservative haircut. He was three or four inches taller than her five-foot-six, but the heels of her evening shoes made up some of that difference.

"How's that?" she replied. The directness of her reply caught Solo off guard for a split second.

"You mean the game?" Solo said. "Well, in blackjack, the object is to get twenty-one. Here, the object is to get eight or nine. But chemin de fer, or baccarat as it's also known, you only get the chance to draw one card in addition to the two you are dealt. You could draw several cards in blackjack if you keep getting low cards."

"I figured it had to be something like that. At this table, there's an English fella who seems to know his way around the tables." Debbie spoke with a Midwestern United States accent.

"Oh, really and how long have you been watching, Miss..."

"Debbie Largent, from Chicago. Pleased to see another American. Are you also on vacation, mister..."

"Oh, Solo. Napoleon Solo. No, I travel every so often to Europe on business. I'm a claim adjuster for the Unified Northern Casualty and Liability Exchange."

"Must be quite a claim to come to Europe."

"Actually, the firm was hoping to head off a big claim. But I take it you are on vacation, Miss Largent."

"Please, Debbie. Yes, I've always wanted to visit here and now was an especially good time. I'm sorry, but is Napoleon really your first name?

Solo smiled. "Scout's honor. My parents had a thing for old names."

The U.N.C.L.E. agent was now looking as intently at the chemin de fer table as Debbie had just a minute earlier. Her comment about an Englishman -- Fleming's apparent nationality -- had piqued Solo's interest. But the Englishman doing so well at the table was at least fifteen years younger and still had the kind of hard and lean facial features that had clearly softened on Wellington Fleming. Then, Solo did a double-take. The clean-shaven face was familiar, somehow. Solo's mind raced. He had seen the face in a dossier. He was certain the man was a "friendly," or affiliated with a Western intelligence agency that was at least neutral as far as U.N.C.L.E. was concerned; most at least grudgingly cooperated with the multi-national U.N.C.L.E., though one or two refused to have anything at all to do with Solo's organization.

British intelligence, Solo remembered. But he wasn't sure about the name.

"Old friend of yours?" Debbie asked.

"No, never met the man," Solo replied.

"Gee, he seems to know you."

What? Solo turned back to look at the man, whose attention now returned to the game. Already, the Englishman had a growing stack of winnings.

Debbie continued. "I mean he looked up as if he thought he knew you. Were you doing the same thing?"

"He reminded me of a cousin of mine," Solo said. "But I'm sure it was only a passing resemblance. But enough of him. May I buy you a drink?"

"Certainly."

Oh not again, Kuryakin thought. We've only been here a half-hour and Napoleon is at it again.

Kuryakin spotted Solo with a woman at the bar. The Russian knew from a look she wasn't affiliated with any intelligence agencies. As a result, as he approached the would-be couple, Kuryakin made no attempt to alter his accent.

"Napoleon..."

Solo, who was in the midst of a story, knew what his Russian friend must be thinking. "Yes, Illya?"

"Excuse me," Kuryakin said to Debbie Largent, then turned his attention to Solo. "I think there's something you should see."

"Friend of yours?" Debbie asked Solo.

"Yes, he's another businessman who gets over here quite a bit."

"I own a chain of radio stations in Oklahoma," Kuryakin blatantly lied.

Debbie's nose wrinkled as she took in the unusual reply. Kuryakin went on. "It's our bird-watching friend. He arrived a few minutes ago and is involved in a new game at the chemin de fer tables."

Solo looked back in the same area he had been just minutes earlier. That's when he laid eyes on Wellington Fleming for the first time.

Act III.
"The Game and the Stakes"

 Charles Stock tried to look as if he were paying attention only to his chemin de fer game. In fact, his entire body was on alert. Two tables away was the Thrushman, Fleming. A short distance from him were the American and Russian U.N.C.L.E. agents. All three appeared to be acting nonchalant but Stock could tell all of them were professionals. They might act as if they didn't notice one another and an ordinary man or woman might not get the impression anything was amiss. But for someone like Stock, they stood out from the crowd. There was a manner, a feeling. It was hard to put into words. Still, members of the intelligence profession could tell the difference.

Just a few hours earlier, Stock had dismissed the likelihood of anything coming out of the Fleming matter and decided to relax by gambling at the Etonian, where he was a member. Clearly, he had been mistaken. At the same time, Stock knew he had to be cautious. The multi-national U.N.C.L.E. obviously had some sort of operation in place, though it was hard to tell whether U.N.C.L.E. was here in force. Stock definitely wished to avoid blundering into the middle of a complicated operation. What's more, with the mix of nationalities involved, the whole thing could blow up into quite the bureaucratic mess.

No, Stock knew the best thing to do was to play it cool, at least for now. Still, the stack of his winnings shrank over the course of the next few minutes. Had the cards deserted him, or was it a sign of his concern?

 "You know, uh, Debbie, I'm supposed to close a deal with this gentleman," Solo said. "I didn't really expect to see him this quickly, but I figure I'd better take advantage of the opportunity. Could I take a raincheck on that late supper we talked about?"

"If you have to," Debbie said, disappointedly. "I could wait around, though. Maybe you two can wrap up your business. I'm in no hurry." Debbie actually had found Solo intriguing. "I've no definite plans for the rest of the evening."

Solo didn't wish to brush off the woman in an abrupt manner. For one thing, he liked her company. Second, if he ended the conversation in a harsh manner, she might get too suspicious. And, finally, in the few minutes they talked, Solo concluded Debbie was pretty independent-minded and wouldn't accept a flimsy excuse.

"Okay, but no promises. It's possible the gentleman might want to get into detailed matters and that might keep me away for a few hours."

"Deal," Debbie said.

Illya, standing a few feet away, could only roll his eyes.

 The game at Fleming's table was about to get started. There was still a spot open and Solo decided the simplest course of action was to take it. He had a stake of five thousand British pounds on his person. Fleming had the "shoe," the container that held the six decks of cards used in the game.

"Ah, splendid. Our game can start, thanks to Mr. Solo," Fleming said.

Solo was surprised at Fleming's direct manner. Solo opted for a more indirect reply. "You know me?"

"Why, of course, Mr. Solo. A number of former colleagues spoke in most detail about you. I'm afraid we've never met, but I feel a certain kinship."

For whatever reason, Fleming wasn't going to alert the other players at the table there was another game taking place. Fleming took out a cigarette, inserted it into a holder and lit it. "Now, I wasn't sure exactly what line of business..."

"Insurance," Solo interjected.

"I say, can't we get on with it," said the large, flabby man to Solo's left. He was balding with a bushy moustache. His accent betrayed his old money roots. Solo guessed he was pushing sixty, had probably been rich a long time and didn't care to trifle with polite conversation.

Fleming paid no attention to the fat man, continuing to direct his remarks at Solo. "Ah yes, the Unified Northern Casualty and Liability Exchange, isn't it." It was an old cover, and in fact was one used in the presence of a Thrush operative thousands of miles from here.

The game began. Bets were relatively small at first and the cards showed no pattern over the next hour. Solo's attention focused solely on the cards and the man dealing them. Solo concluded Fleming must have been quite a ladies' man in his youth. But, he looked older than the age range stated in the dossier; U.N.C.L.E. had not been able to pin down a precise birth date. Solo wasn't surprised that Fleming seemed older. The man was close to chain smoking, consuming six or seven cigarettes during the first hour. Solo himself had once smoked but had successfully kicked the habit. But he knew how tough it could be. Obviously, Fleming hadn't been up to the effort.

As the game continued, Solo pondered what his next move would be in the larger game. Though there had been no sign of other Thrush agents, that didn't necessarily mean anything. Luckily, Illya was here for backup. Solo wondered what the man from British Intelligence was thinking. He had continued playing his game two tables away. If Solo could "make" him, then surely the Englishman knew something was going on. Yet, the man continued playing as if he were another idle gambler. A cool customer, Solo thought. The U.N.C.L.E. agent just wished he could remember the man's dossier in case things got hairy. Solo then dismissed the thought. No, we can't count on any help from the Brits.

 Kuryakin was watching the game. Debbie insisted upon staying. He really wished she would get discouraged and go and get out of harm's way -- if it came to that. Still, he needed to report to London headquarters.

"Pardon me, young lady," Kuryakin said. "I didn't mean to be curt with you before. It's just I knew how important this is to my friend."

"Please, it's Debbie. But do you really own radio stations in Oklahoma?"

"It's a humble chain, three stations in all. But all my own." Kuryakin was following an old maxim of the spy's life. Once you lie, keep right on lying. "Could I bother you to keep an eye on things for just a moment. I realized I have a phone call to make."

Debbie smiled. The man certainly wasn't an American, but she wasn't sure about the accent. Must be someone who spent a lot of time in the States. "My, my everybody doing business on their off time. But sure, I'm still hoping for that late supper with Napoleon. By the way how long have you known him Mister...."

"Illya Kuryakin," he replied. With no cover story, he felt the truth was the easiest thing to use. Besides, Illya would have felt silly saying "Sam Jones" or other Americanized name to match the equally silly story about the radio stations.

"Right," Debbie said, not wanting to embarrass herself by mangling the name when repeating it.

"Good, I'll return momentarily."

Kuryakin walked toward the bar, looking for a telephone. He would prefer not to use the pen communicator, if possible. He doubted he could look that natural talking into his pen and he saw no isolated spot to use the communications device. He could have carried a cellular telephone, but that wouldn't provide the necessarily security. For that matter, he wasn't all that sure about the Etonian's telephones. Kuryakin decided to chance using the pen communicator in public. He moved toward the edge of the bar area, which was dimly lit, compared to the bright lighting of the main gambling area.

Kuryakin hadn't yet extracted the pen from his shirt breast pocket when he was struck from behind. He felt someone grab him. Illya hadn't been knocked unconscious but his head burned and he couldn't see clearly. He was in no position to offer resistance.

"My friend has one too many," said a voice. It was an Eastern European accent. Kuryakin still had trouble coming to his senses, but he heard no one protesting. Apparently, if anyone at the bar was watching, they believed the story.

Indeed, patrons at the bar, save one, hardly paid any notice. While it was half past nine -- somewhat early for someone to get snookered -- the customers apparently believed a man was simply helping a friend who'd had one too many drinks.

Kuryakin could feel the rush of damp, chilly air. Obviously he was now outside. He was beginning to fight his way out of it. Then he felt himself being slammed into the wall. They'd apparently taken him to the alley. Despite the blow, his vision was starting to clear. He almost wished it hadn't. A man, with a brown crew cut, thin moustache and large hands loomed over Kuryakin. He was pointing an automatic pistol. If Kuryakin had his wits about him, he'd no doubt recognize the caliber. But Kuryakin doubted he'd have any time for that.

"Goodbye, Mr. Kuryakin," the man said. Kuryakin finally recognized the accent. A Bulgarian. An odd thing to think as you're about to die.

Then, silence. Kuryakin's vision cleared some more. The large Bulgar still loomed over him but was still. Were his eyes rolling? The gun was no longer aimed at Kuryakin.

Then it was over. The man fell. Another figure loomed over Kuryakin. A well-dressed man in a tuxedo. His vision still not entirely clear, Kuryakin recognized the man as one of the gamblers from inside the club.

"I suspect I'm breaking protocol here but you looked like you were in a spot of bother," the Englishman said.

Kuryakin's head began to ache and suddenly he was out again.

 "Felton Exports? Blue-two here. This is an unsecured line. But we need an escort at the Etonian, the alley out the side. One customer. There may be more inside. This might cause a bit of a row with our sister company but let's act first and deal with paperwork later. Out."

Kuryakin opened his eyes as heard the words. The Englishman -- actually, Kuryakin realized the accent had a hint of Welsh to it -- put away the small cellular telephone in his pocket.

"You're awake. I see insurance can be a nasty racket."

Kuryakin struggled to get up. The pain in his head prevented him from completing the maneuver. "No, I own radio stations...."

"Sorry, I'm probably confusing you with the other chap. I think I know the call letters. Wouldn't be U-N-C-L-E by any chance? My name's Stock. Charles Stock. I'm in the export business with an old, established firm."

Kuryakin remembered the Felton Exports reference. It was the standard cover for British Intelligence, MI6. Anyone in the business would instantly recognize the connection, though a passerby wouldn't realize the people involved were in the world of espionage.

Kuryakin also knew he was in no position to protest and the radio station cover, intended for an innocent person, was of no use with a professional. "You are correct, Mr. Stock." Illya let out a grunt. He was recovering but his head would ache for some time.

A van pulled quickly into the alley. Three men exited, taking the Bulgar. The leader of the group came up to Stock. "He'll talk, but it might take a few hours."

"I suspect he's low-level help. Mr. Kuryakin here is a 'friendly,' working for a firm out of New York."

"New York?" the other man asked.

"New York. Not Washington or, in case you're wondering, Moscow." This was veiled talk, with Stock instructing the leader of the interrogation team that Kuryakin was with U.N.C.L.E., not the C.I.A. or K.G.B. Stock would have found it quite difficult to call an agent of the latter a friendly.

"Very good, sir," the interrogation team leader said. "We have to leave. There should be some back up but that will take a bit of time. The head of the firm felt she had to notify our sister company first." His men already had the Bulgar in the van. The leader got in the right-hand driver's seat and pulled away quickly. Luckily, no constables had yet noticed any ruckus.

"I know you're still groggy," Stock said to Kuryakin. "But we'd probably better get back inside. I hope your friend still is playing his game."

"How did you know about our departed friend?" Kuryakin asked as he started to gather himself together.

"I was getting ready to call my office, just as I think you were about to call yours," Stock said. "Then I saw the Bulgar. Obviously, a low-level talent recruited by your subject. We'd received an alert about Mr. Fleming. Our so-called sister agency is supposed to deal with internal matters. I was only going to report. Then I saw you, er, get overcome in the bar. I decided it was better to beg forgiveness later than watch you get a hole blown in you now. London's tourism business is bad enough with the occasional IRA bombing."

It was a lame joke, but Kuryakin appreciated it. He remembered the dossier. Charles Stock. If there were formal rankings, he'd be the top "blue" operative of MI6. A surprisingly long career, considered the classic Cold Warrior. He had clashed many times with elements of the KGB prior to the fall of the Soviet Union, but was also known to deal with independent menaces. Normally, Kuryakin might hesitate to cooperate. But it was clear Stock was a professional, and not one to let any personal prejudices get in the way. Also, Kuryakin couldn't discount the fact the man had saved his life.

By this time, Illya was on his feet. He was surprisingly free of visible bruises and marks. The two agents made their way back to the gambling tables.

They needn't have done so. There was no sign of Solo, Fleming or, for that matter, Debbie Largent.

 While the Bulgar was introducing Illya to the side of the Etonian's wall, another Bulgar had come up beside Debbie.

She had been watching the game intently. The other players were starting to lose their stakes. The game was starting to focus on Napoleon and the tall, aging man with the cigarette holder. The latter was constantly jabbering while Solo seemed to concentrate on the game. Yet, neither man seemed to get a run of winning hands over the other. Solo would get a "natural" eight, two cards equaling eight, the second-best chemin de fer hand. Then Fleming would trump it with a nine. Solo came back with a seven, while Fleming "busted," Debbie thought, still using blackjack terms, by asking for an extra card that sent his total past nine..

Suddenly, Debbie felt something poking her in the side. Her eyes opened wide when she realized it was metal.

"Be quiet or you die," the second Bulgar said to Debbie. He was clean shaven and dressed in evening clothes just like everybody else. Debbie had been robbed years ago and knew not to challenge the command. The Bulgar made a small nod, unnoticeable to all in the room, save Fleming.

"Well Mr. Solo, neither of us seems to be able to get the upper hand on the other. Perhaps we should try another game."

"What do you have in mind?" Solo was alert.

"Something a bit more private. I have some friends," Fleming nodded, a sign for Solo to look backward.

Already afraid of what he'd see, Solo was dismayed, but not surprised, to see a large, beefy man standing uncomfortably close to Debbie. Damn, Solo thought, I should have chased her away. Undoubtedly, the man had a gun on her.

Solo had to look back quickly at Fleming. He knew he couldn't take his eyes off the Thrushman. "I suggest we cash in and begin anew, Mr. Solo. Now."

Solo started to suffer recriminations but quickly shook off the thought. His main hope was that Illya could take care of whatever Mr. Fleming was going to throw at him. For that matter, Solo wished he could say the same thing of himself.

The U.N.C.L.E. agent decided he had to play for time. He picked up his stake as if he really meant to cash it in. "After you, Mr. Fleming."

"No dear boy, after you."

Solo only hoped he looked natural when he straightened out the sleeves of his tuxedo.

Act IV
"The Trap is Sprung"

 It didn't take long for Stock and Kuryakin to establish that Fleming had exited with Solo and the American woman. It was a smooth operation, with no one in the casino aware anything was wrong. Both Fleming and Solo were pros. Kuryakin thought if Solo could have successfully escaped by raising a fuss, he would have. Therefore, Kuryakin concluded, Fleming must be using the woman as leverage.

Within minutes, a team from U.N.C.L.E. were discreetly scouring the outside for clues. But that would take time, and that was something the two agents didn't have.

"All right," Stock said, "we can easily get bogged down in bureaucracy if we don't act. Since this matter has become a mishmash of nationalities, I suggest we go to your headquarters, rather than mine."

"That's uncommonly reasonable," Kuryakin replied, a bit skeptical.

"Actually practical. If we go to my home office, I'm just as likely going to be caught in a turf battle with the internal security chaps. Also, I suspect your people are more likely to have information on local Thrush centers and personnel.  Anything in my office, I'm afraid, will be second hand. For some reason, members of my firm haven't done business with the bird watchers." Even though no one appeared to be listening, Stock wanted to avoid direct references in a public place.

"Agreed. But it really isn't your concern, you know."

"We'll worry about that later."

 Twenty-five minutes later, Kuryakin and Stock were entering the conference room at U.N.C.L.E.-London. The two men had enered through what appeared to be a tailor shop.

The London U.N.C.L.E. offices there were identical in appearance to the ones in New York: virtually no windows, plain walls and sliding doors that opened automatically. Kuryakin wore a yellow badge with his familiar "2" on it. Stock was wearing a green badge, indicating he was a guest.

The station chief for the office had gone home for the night, leaving a junior official on the night watch. But, as usual, there was someone in communications. It turned out to be a woman. Working with Kuryakin, Bond provided her with information to make an emergency communication to MI6, located a few miles away. Simultaneously, a connection was made to New York. It was six hours earlier there. Mr. Waverly wasn't available but Kuryakin convinced the New York office to make arrangements to contact the Number One of Section One.

In effect, the two agents had set up a conference call between themselves and their superiors. But Kuryakin had indicated to the woman communications operative in London that she might need to sever the connection on short notice.

"Do you think that's wise, Mr. Kuryakin?"

The Russian, while not having the reputation of Napoleon Solo, was aware of the effect his blue eyes had on some women. "Sometimes we have to take extreme steps so our superiors look good in the end." He said it entirely earnestly. The woman smiled. Stock, watching, nodded his head.

Minutes later, contact was established. Waverly and the middle-aged woman who had taken command of MI6 two years earlier, exchanged an apparent businesslike greeting.

"Good morning, my dear Alexander. It's been too long," she said to Waverly.

"Yes, er, " Waverly was aware that the head of MI6 was to be addressed as Control, rather than by her given name. It was a long-standing tradition that had begun with her predecessor. But Kuryakin wondered if Waverly had stammered a bit, not very characteristic of the man at all.

"Ma'am and sir, we don't have much time," Stock said. "Ma'am, I regret having to put protocol on the back burner. But can you keep the internal security people off our backs for the next few hours?"

The new Control was a by-the-book type. But in the past two years she had come to appreciate King's initiative and nerve. "At least for six hours," she said.

"We'll either succeed or fail within that time frame," Stock said. "How is the interrogation team coming with the bird-man?"

"Minor scraps," Control said. "Our tentative conclusion is he, and another Bulgar, are recent hires, so to speak."

"That makes sense," Kuryakin interjected. "They wouldn't be in our files yet, at least not as Thrushmen. If spotted by the British authorities, they'd be seen as relatively minor operatives from a small player in the, er, business."

Just then, Kuryakin remembered something. He checked his pocket. He had been hit before he could get the pen communicator ready but the pocket was empty now. "Ma'am," Kuryakin said.

"Yes?"

"Did your interrogation team find a silver pen among the effects of the Bulgarian?"

"Let me check." Agonizing seconds followed. Control. came back on the line. "Yes."

"Mr. Waverly, do I have your permission to share some technical details with Felton Exports?"

"What sort of technical details, Mr. Kuryakin?" Waverly huffed. Cooperation or no cooperation, Waverly wasn't fond of providing too big a peek inside his organization.

"The technical details that could save the lives of Napoleon and the woman, sir. If Mr. Stock can assist me, I'll need to get that pen back."

Kuryakin had remembered the cufflink transmitter Solo had. The Russian was wearing a similar one. Both he and Solo had their pens slightly altered so they could privately test the new device. Kuryakin realized he was playing against the odds. He paused, realizing it was an odd thought, given his disdain for gambling.

 Napoleon Solo wondered how many times in his career he had ended up in similar circumstances.

Solo and the woman had been stunned immediately after being forced into the back of a large limousine. They were unconscious and unable to appreciate the large car.
Oh well, Solo thought, at least Fleming transported his prioners in style.

His and Debbie's current accommodations, however, weren't all that stylish. They were standing against a plain concrete wall. The room they were in appeared to be a warehouse -- at least, there were crates stacked on the other side of the expansive room. Both Solo and Debbie had their hands strapped to the wall, and the same for their feet. As best as he could tell he had been relieved of all weapons as well as his pen communicator. The woman was breathing a bit heavily, but was surprisingly calm despite the fact she'd been kidnapped for essentially making conversation with the wrong man.

Solo had come to first, but Debbie regained consciousness only a minute or two later. Her eyes darted around. She was agitated -- who wouldn't be, Solo thought -- and she turned her head back and forth several times. Then, she looked to her right, squarely at Solo.

"What in the hell is going on here? If you're an insurance agent, I'm the Queen of England." Debbie, while angry, did not seem to be panicking.

"I'm an enforcement agent for the U-N-C-L-E," Solo said. He spotted her immediate puzzlement, and quickly continued. "United Network Command for Law and Enforcement. An international group, supported by many nations both in terms of money and personnel. I was after Mr. Fleming. He, in turn, apparently was after me."

"How right you are, Mr. Solo."

The room was dimly lit and most of the available light was near Solo and Debbie. Fleming stepped into the light from the shadows. He continued, "In fact, this entire affair was all about you, Mr. Solo."

Now it was Solo's turn to look puzzled. "Me? You mean, capturing me was the entire operation? There's nothing bigger going on?"

"Essentially correct sir." Fleming paused. Solo suspected he was a frustrated thespian. But rather than protest, he decided to wait Fleming out. Debbie, however, wasn't nearly so patient. "What the hell am I doing here, then?"

"Actually, I do regret that, my dear. This is really a matter between his firm and mine. But you were convenient as a matter of persuasive power. You see, Mr. Solo has a bad streak in him. He will make the ultimate sacrifice, if need be, to protect an innocent or someone he cares about. Had I tried to induce him to the limousine without the threat of you seeing harm, I somehow doubt he would have come quite so peacefully."

Solo interrupted. "I'm flattered for the attention, Mr. Fleming. But wasn't it highly risky for a high-ranking member of Thrush to make a public appearance?"

Debbie's eyes widened. Fleming sensed her interest and played to it in his theatrics.

"Yes, my dear, as in the bird. That's my employer. We're a sort of an independent group, not affiliated with any single country. We're, shall we say, ambitious. And yes, Mr. Solo, that played into this affair. You see, uh, Debbie, is it not?"

"Yes," Debbie said, the emotion draining from her voice.

"Mr. Solo and his superior at the U-N-C-L-E both tend to see the world in complex ways. Mr. Solo here, in fact, is a bit of a protege of his superior. They both share a like of chess, for example, a game that requires one to think many steps ahead. Any one move can have numerous consequences. They're both quite good, especially Mr. Solo here."

Solo and Debbie now were quiet. The man was giving something of a performance and, unconsciously, they would have to admit he was doing it well, in a melodramatic sort of way.

"What I did was kind of the equivalent of another game -- showdown poker," Fleming said. "That's where you play with all the cards face up. Nothing hidden, no strategic moves. No, I made myself a Judas goat -- admittedly not giving you chaps a long time to try and bag me. But I still staked myself out, so to speak. I also made a point of keeping this operation small. There would be no obvious signs of Thrush, other than myself. I would use only these newly recruited men. I knew Mr. Waverly would conclude that a high-ranking member of Thrush would not be in a location unless some larger, hidden operation was in the works. Perhaps a secret base. Perhaps a major assassination. Obviously my presence meant something on a grand scale. And believing that, he would want to send in his top man. You."

"But if this is just revenge...."Solo said.

"Ah, but there you're wrong, Mr. Solo. It's not just revenge. Do you remember a Walter Brach, Mr. Solo?"

The memory came flooding back. Brach had a plan where he could control minds. Important, up-and-coming executives, military men and others would go to what they thought was a vacation. Instead, they would be conditioned, made into a kind of mental time bomb, ready to be used by Thrush at some future moment.

"Yes, kind of a disagreeable fellow as I recall."

"You're quite right. But he was also quite brilliant. A year ago, I drew the assignment of trying to revive his project. U.N.C.L.E. had indeed wiped clean his primary base of operations. I've been stuck gathering up preliminary pieces of data, proposals, basically preliminary steps he had taken before he set up his Caribbean center of operations. The fellows in Thrush Central think they may have figured out some of his secret. But they need a test subject. The problem, as I understand it, is that the test will either be a total success or the subject will end up a mental vegetable. There is no in-between."

Solo was gradually getting angry at himself. He had been so careful to try and be discreet. He would have been better off if he had arranged an assault force to storm casinos randomly. A woman who once got involved in one of Solo and Kuryakin's cases said Solo was a mass of "plots and schemes." Fleming had successfully played on that. Solo was angry about something else. In previous cases, he had cajoled non-professionals who either had a special talent or a relationship with a targeted operative. But Solo at least was in a position to safeguard those people as best he could, and they went willingly --at least for the most part; occasionally, someone faced the prospect of potential jail time, a bit of leverage that Solo would employ. But Debbie had been drawn into this by random chance.

Fleming had paused again, only this time he looked perturbed. "Am I boring you, Mr. Solo?"

Solo faked trying to appear cool. "Oh no, no."

Fleming grinned, sensing he had irritated the American. "So you see, it wouldn't do to try and duplicate Brach's operation just yet. Imagine, absconding with a politician who could lead his or her country within a few years. They end up a vegetable. Wouldn't do at all, and would bring undue attention. But, say we got our hands on an enemy. If we succeed, Thrush is inside the mind of a man who could lead U.N.C.L.E. one day. If we fail, we've merely eliminated an enemy and go back to the drawing board."

Solo's arms, which were strapped above his head, were getting tired. He tried not to look at the sleeves. He had activated the new cufflink transmitted when he straightened out his jacket sleeve as he arose from the chermin de fer table -- a move that Fleming didn't seem to notice. If only U.N.C.L.E. could pick up the signal. But Solo was sure using the sending device was like throwing a bottle into the ocean.

"When does the test begin?"

"Soon enough. You will be sedated and shipped out in one of these specially prepared crates. When you wake up, you'll be at a Thrush satrap that's performing the medical services involved. If you survive, we'll immediately ship you back and arrange a theatrical escape. If the test is a failure, we might drop you outside Mr. Del Floria's shop." Fleming's hands gestured as he spoke. "Something to break up a dull workday, perhaps. The woman, I'm afraid, won't survive in any case."

 Sometime earlier, Kuryakin was sitting in Stock's Jaguar, parked outside the Felton Exports offices. Kuryakin had been there about ten minutes when Stock returned. The agent opened the car and handed the pen to Kuryakin.

The Russian began to quickly twist and remove parts of the pen. He did it so rapidly that King wasn't exactly sure what Kuryakin was up to. Then both men heard a droning noise coming from the pen. Kuryakin's face brightened.

"Solo is wearing a directional finder. We're lucky he has it turned on. It's a new model and is only being tested."

Stock fired up the car. "I assume it gets louder the closer we get."

"Yes," Kuryakin said. He hoped they were in time.

Stock pulled away. London traffic had lightened considerably at this late hour. Stock, who like Solo, played hunches, began trying to formulate a plan and started throwing ideas at Kuryakin.

"Do not worry, my dear. You'll feel no pain," Fleming said. "And, believe me when I say I do regret it."

Debbie's breathing was quickening again, her anger starting to rise. "What are you? You're enjoying this! You're screwing over people. You're acting like there's an audience while you're getting ready to kill people. What..."

"I'm sorry," Fleming said. "It's just my nature."

A distant thud echoed through the warehouse. Debbie started to scream but before much sound got out, the other Bulgarian stepped out of the shadows and put his hand over her mouth. Solo figured the big man had been standing nearby all the time in case the master thespian needed help.

"Just keep her quiet. Killing her now would be too messy." The Bulgar reached into his pocket and zapped her with the same electrical stun device he had used in the limousine.

The thud continued. Someone knocking?

"Hey, openupindare," a muffled voice said from outside. Fleming and his prisoners were perhaps 20 feet from an office door and a larger warehouse door used to bring in loads of crates.

"Hey!" the voice said. Solo detected what sounded like an Eastern United States accent. Solo's heart sank. He had hoped it was Illya and knew all of the Russian's disguised voices. This fit none of those. Then, Solo became worried. He hoped someone else wasn't about to get killed on account of his failure with Fleming.

Fleming pointed to the door and spoke to the Bulgarian. "Get rid of him. If he persists, do what's necessary. Hopefully, he'll just go away."

The Bulgarian cautiously opened the door. A man in a tuxedo?

"The Ajax Workplace Inspection Service," Charles Stock said in his own voice.

The Bulgarian was stunned for a second, but that was all Stock needed. He struck the man's throat with his right fist. The man was an inch or two above Stock's six-feet-one. Obviously, the Bulgarian had intimidated people with his height and bulk. But this night he was dealing with someone who had dispatched stronger, and smarter, adversaries. The Bulgarian fell backward. Stock pressed his advantage, leaned over and struck a karate blow. The man would wake up with a splitting headache, like his co-worker outside the Etonian. But he'd survive, which was probably more than this group deserved.

When Stock made his first strike, a rear door -- further away from Fleming's prisoners, maybe thirty feet -- exploded off its hinges. Fleming had intended to kill Solo and the woman when he saw the Bulgarian go down. But he knew this second threat was a danger to his liberty. For a split second, the middle-aged Fleming's soulless eyes stared intently at Solo. Then, the Thrushman ran. Solo tried to see in the dark. Fleming apparently was going up a flight of stairs.

Solo then heard a shot. He turned toward the smoke from the explosion. It was Kuryakin firing his U.N.C.L.E. Special, apparently at Fleming. Almost immediately, Stock was now with the prisoners, expertly cutting them free. Debbie, just now regaining consciousness, was still limp. Stock caught her.

Solo bolted, heading to the same steps. He yelled to Kuryakin and Stock. "He's mine."

Stock's eyes widened. What was the man up to? But with the woman in his arms he was in no position to follow immediately.

Kuryakin knew his friend. "Napoleon!" he yelled."

Solo turned around for a second. He didn't have to pause long. Kuryakin had already tossed the U.N.C.L.E. special to him.

Stock, who by now had placed Debbie on the floor, started to move. Kuryakin extended his arm in front of Stock's chest. The Russian's head shook back and forth, a gesture suggesting Stock desist. "I've seen him like this before," Kuryakin said. "Apparently there's something personal between them. We'll wait, but not long."

Stock began to say something, but only sighed instead. He knew that sometimes the job got personal. But the American had better get his man quick.

 Solo hadn't run this quickly in ages. He had just gotten to the roof when he barely saw the attacking Fleming in time. Solo had blocked the karate blow but was on the defensive. He recalled that Fleming was excellent in hand-to-hand combat. Fleming quickly pressed the advantage, striking Solo on the right wrist, making the U.N.C.L.E. agent drop the gun that Kuryakin had just tossed him.

Solo snapped out of it, however, bringing his right knee into Fleming's groin. The Thrushman fell backward and sprawled out onto the flat roof. Fleming got up quickly. Now the two circled each other.

The U.N.C.L.E. agent reacted by instinct. It was dark and Fleming could easily have hidden weapons on him. Solo tried to attack, but Fleming blocked it. This was just like the chemin de fer game, neither man able to take advantage. But this time, Solo knew time was on his side. The longer this went on, the less time Fleming had for escape. Perhaps sensing the same thing, Fleming began a flurry of attacks, finally connecting with a karate chop across the side of Solo's head. It was a glancing blow, but still caused Solo to stagger. Fleming then punched the American on the cheek. He dearly wanted to deliver a killing blow but knew every second counted.

Solo tried to pick himself up off the roof, though he was a bit groggy from the exchange of blows with Fleming. The Thrushman had run perhaps fifty feet but now had seemed to stop. What the hell could Fleming be doing? He seemed to be getting into...what? Solo's eyes then saw it in the darkness. Fleming had a one-man, mini-helicopter off to the side of the roof. Fleming was already putting on a helmet when Solo finally managed to sit up. By the time he actually stood, the engine was firing already.

But rather than look at the helicopter, Solo's eyes returned to the spot where the U.N.C.L.E. special had fallen. He picked it up just as the helicopter was revving up. In another few seconds, it would be lifting off the roof.

Solo cleared his head and deliberately held the pistol in a two-handed grip. Instead of aiming at the pilot, he tried to find the engine. He fired one shot. Solo wasn't sure. He fired two more in succession. With the third shot, he saw Fleming reach for his shoulder. Solo knew that wasn't a fatal wound. Had his aim been that far off? Fleming's mini-copter was already heading away.

By this time, it was nearly dawn. Light from the impending sunrise was starting to show. Then Solo saw a beautiful sight. It was a plume of smoke from the copter. First, there was a small puff. Then another. It was black smoke, not just simple exhaust.

Footsteps approached, but Solo paid them no attention. The puffs had become a steady stream of black smoke. It looked like Fleming was above the Thames. Then, the copter exploded.

Stock and Kuryakin had now joined Solo. A pair of agents, one MI6, the other U.N.C.L.E., were downstairs attending to Debbie Largent. The three men on the roof looked entirely out of place in their formal wear. But Solo still hadn't noticed. He was busy watching the flaming mess twist downward into the river.

"Perhaps he should have bought flight insurance," Stock said, breaking the silence. The two U.N.C.L.E. agents looked at the Englishman briefly.

Then, Kuryakin turned his glance to Solo. "It's not like you would have thought of anything better to say." At that, Solo began to smile.

 Wellington Fleming's body was found in the river. At least there'd be no mystery, no nagging doubts whether he might have escaped. The British internal security forces were stuck with the task of coming up with an imaginative cover story for the press. Control knew that would result in a few months of tension between her agency and theirs. But she found the internal chief to be a bloody bore and she really didn't mind. Still, she knew she'd have to give Stock a required lecture on the subject of interagency cooperation.

Because of the multi-national nature of the affair, it was decided to conduct the debriefing meetings at U.N.C.L.E.-London. Mr. Waverly himself had arrived from New York. The meetings took up much of the next two days, with U.N.C.L.E. and MI6 prying out each tidbit the other had about the case.

At the end of the debriefing sessions, Stock and Bond were talking shop in a waiting room while their superiors discussed the affair in a nearby conference room. The two men, in fact, were discovering some common interests and acquaintances.

"You mean she's Thrush?" King said.

"That's right," Solo said.

"I knew Anglique was fairly mysterious and dangerous. But I never would have guessed."

As the two men talked in the middle of the room, Kuryakin sat on a couch, reading a technical manual.

"Illya tells me you saved his life. You probably saved mine, too," Solo said to Stock.

"It was instinct," Stock replied. "I sensed trouble. I basically played a hunch. I'm not used to working with a Russian, obviously. But from what I've seen, U.N.C.L.E. is a good outfit. You both handled yourselves quite professionally."

"Not entirely," Solo said. "If I had played a hunch that something was wrong with this setup, I'd have saved myself a lot of grief, not to mention you, Illya and Debbie Largent."

"I wouldn't worry about it," Stock said. "Are you doing anything tonight?"

"Well, I was hoping to look in on Debbie if she'll even see me. I do feel bad she got involved in this."

"I got to sit in on part of her interview. She's already left but I have a feeling she might be more forgiving than you expect."

Just then, Mr. Waverly and Control came into the waiting room. Waverly was dressed in one of his familiar tweed suits, with a yellow "1" badge attached to the jacket. Control was wearing a conservative business dress and jacket. Both started to speak, then both waited for the other. Waverly broke the impasse. "After you, m'dear."

Control knew Waverly was being polite and not condescending. "Gentlemen, I -- that is we -- believe we now have a complete picture, at least as complete as we're going to have at this time. While the logistics were a little daunting, we wanted to commend the three of you for working together. It's never easy blending a nation's secret service with that of a multi-national agency. But you pulled it off. Of course, there's the matter of my agency's relations with its internal counterparts."

Stock bit his lip, waiting for the lecture. Control, sensing his discomfort, moved on quickly. "British interagency cooperation is important, but in this case a satisfactory conclusion was reached despite a bit of a lapse." Stock raised his eyebrow for a split second. His superior showed only the smallest hint of a smile.

"Well, thank you again, gentlemen," Waverly chimed in. He and Control then left the room. Stock couldn't tell if they were continuing the conversation or had moved onto some new topic. As they left, and the automatic door shut, he couldn't make out the words but the tone seemed considerably lighter. Old friends, perhaps?

Solo excused himself, shook Stock's hand and waved to Illya. Kuryakin acknowledged the nod and Solo left. Kuryakin had a pretty good idea where his friend would go.

Stock turned to the Russian, who was still sitting. The British agent extended his right hand. Kuryakin stood up and shook Stock's hand. "As I told your American friend, you're both professionals."

Kuryakin, by now familiar with Stock's dossier, acknowledged the gesture. "We couldn't have done it without you. I'm glad you acted as decisively as you did."

"Well, you showed me some things, too," Stock said. "By the way, would it be improper for me to have one of your pens?"

The Russian was genuinely puzzled. Bond continued, "There's an old chap in my shop, our armorer, who would get a kick out of it. I used to scrap with him a bit, but I respect his work. Having one of those pens to dissect would make his day."

Kuryakin thought a moment. "It might take some creative expense vouchers. But it's the least I can do."

 Solo knocked at the hotel room door. He genuinely felt bad about the trauma Debbie Largent had gone through.

Debbie opened the door. She was dressed in casual, but nice, clothes, including slacks, a blouse and a sweater. She again wore the contact lenses that brought out her hazel eyes.

"Napoleon."

"Debbie, I didn't get much of a chance to talk to you after ..."

"Come on in, silly, you don't want to tell everybody on this floor about it."

Solo entered the room. Debbie sat on a small sofa. Solo was still standing. He reached into the breast pocket of his suit. "If you don't mind changing hotels, my firm would gladly pay for you to stay in a five-star hotel. It's the least..."

"No need," Debbie answered before he could finish the sentence and open an envelope containing a voucher that was good for a stay at a luxury hotel. "Your superiors explained it all. Well, enough anyway. I suspect they gave me the Reader's Digest version. I was in the wrong place at the wrong time. But don't take that to mean I was with the wrong man."

"I wasn't much help when we were kidnapped."

"From what Mr. Waverly told me, you played for time. It was actually my best chance given the circumstances."

Solo, still feeling regret, wanted to speak, but Debbie shook her head no. She continued. "I do recall, however, some talk about a late supper. Is my raincheck still good?"

"Sure, if you want to take the chance." Solo had to admit he was feeling relief. He sat down on the other end of the sofa.

"I've already been kidnapped and shocked." She paused and smiled. "But I think it's probably worth the chance."

It was.

THE END

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