Act I
An Ending And a Beginning

Somewhere on Cyprus
A few months ago...
        

    The village was small and dusty. On this summer day, the streets were nearly deserted, its residents taking refuge from the hot, midday sun. Two boys were playing, the only people out in the open within 100 yards of the tiny church that was just off the center of the town. Suddenly, they froze, caught off guard by the sight of a sport-utility vehicle pulling up to the church.

    The boys squinted at each other. The vehicle was newer, shinier, more expensive than anything in the village. They continued to stare as the occupants got out. Both wore suits, and were obviously from elsewhere. The driver exited first. He wore a black suit, with a plain white shirt and black tie. He looked out of place in such a hot place, especially with his blonde hair and fair complexion. The other man, a few inches taller, had dark hair and wore a light gray suit. Neither appeared as if they were bothered by the heat. The clothes of the dark-haired man, in particular, still looked fresh, the crease of his trousers sharp, as if he had just walked out of a fine store -- the kind of place neither boy could possibly imagine.

    The man looked directly at one of the boys. “Excuse me, is this St. Kristopher’s?” he said in Greek.

    The boy was surprised momentarily then answered. “Yes. Are you here for the funeral?”

    “Just here to pay our respects.”

    The blonde man said nothing, instead went directly to the church’s front door. The dark-haired man nodded and the boys decided to move on.

    The men went through the door into the structure. Wooden pews lined the aisle on both sides. But what caught their eyes was the massive casket in front of the altar. It was a cheap wooden casket but it was made for a far heavier person than normal.

    “Shall we?” Napoleon Solo said, gesturing toward the casket.

    “That’s why we’re here,” Illya Kuryakin replied.

    The two enforcement agents of the United Network Command for Law and Enforcement strode to the casket. Solo looked around, making sure the church was empty. Kuryakin ignored him, and went to open the burial container. The corpse inside easily weighed 400 pounds, Kuryakin guessed. If anything, the man was larger now than he had been during that affair some years back.

    The corpse lay, his arms crossed. The black suit looked like it would blot out all light. On his nose was a pair of old glasses, with no stems. The mustache was still neatly trimmed, looking very much like it had during the previous affair.

    “Well, he certainly looks like Colonel Hubris,” Solo said. “The fingerprints certainly came back as a match.”

    “Perhaps,” Kuryakin said, taking a pin out of the sleeve of his suit coat. The Russian held the pin up for a moment in the light, then walked over toward the head of the body. Kuryakin took one more glance around, then plunged the needle into the body’s neck. It lay still, no flinching, not the least sign of pain or reaction or movement. Kuryakin then reached into the suitcoat’s breast pocket and removed a small mirror. He held it to the nostrils of the body for more than a minute. There was no breath.

    “Satisfied?” Solo asked.

    “Short of messier verification, I would have to say yes,” the Russian replied. “The good colonel was quite determined, if not always among the luckiest of Thrush’s operatives.”

    “Yes but even Colonel Hubris was not immune from the ravages of heart disease. Keeled over just before the authorities were about to bring him in.”

    Kuryakin closed the casket. “Well, we’ve come all this way, I suppose we should stay for the funeral.”

    Before Solo could say anything, he felt the vibration from his U.N.C.L.E. pen communicator. He looked around once more before taking it out of his coat breast pocket and setting the device up to receive messages.

    “Solo here,” the agent said into the communicator.

    “Athens station here, Mr. Solo,” one of the women communications officers from that station said. “New York has indicated they would like you and Mr. Kuryakin to return -- provided verification has been made.”

    Solo glanced at the closed casket, then took a quick look at his Rolex watch. The funeral would be another two hours at least. Part of him wouldn’t totally relax until he saw the casket actually lowered in the ground. But if U.N.C.L.E. headquarters really needed them back as soon as possible, that was a luxury that they couldn’t afford.

    “Yes, subject identity has been verified. One Colonel Hubris, real name unknown,” Solo said.

    “Shall I notify New York?”

    “Yes, please do. Solo out.”

    The two men began to leave the church.

    “What do you suppose our overweight acquaintance had in mind this time?” Kuryakin asked.

    “I wish I knew,” Solo said. “But I suppose we’ll have to leave it to the Athens station to monitor the situation.”

    The agents got into the sport-utility vehicle and Kuryakin quickly backed it away from the church and drove away, taking the same route they used to get to the village.

***

    A short while later, seven men entered the church. The leader of the group was the shortest of the bunch, standing perhaps five-foot-eight. But the other three hung back as the first man walked up to the casket and peered inside. He said nothing, but glanced back and nodded to his associates. The other six men, all with large, beefy builds walked briskly up to the casket then lined up, three on each side. Each took a deep breath, then grabbed a handle on the casket and hoisted it up. Their collective hold was unsteady for a moment, the lead two on each side had to bolster themselves for a moment before continuing. The lead man didn’t look back and instead went to the nearest door. He peered outside into the bright sunshine, his face wrinkling for a second.

    Just then, a large pickup truck roared up to the entrance, screeching to a stop a few feet away. The lead man, who had a goatee, motioned his comrades to follow, but the group had trouble getting started, straining to carry the load. But they managed to carry the casket without any of them stumbling. However, they had to pause for a few seconds, breathed deeply and then lifted the casket into the back of the truck. The first man opened the passenger door, while the six beefy men scrambled to get into the back with the casket.

    No one spoke as the driver put the vehicle into gear. It took a minute before the truck got into top gear, another few minutes before it got out of the village and onto country roads. The road soon turned into a narrow rut, but the truck kept up its speed as best as the driver could manage. The six men in the back of the truck were jostled and three times the casket slid into one of their shins. After another fifteen minutes passed, the truck’s speed dropped to little more than a crawl as it traveled up the narrow path into the mountains.

    More than a half hour passed, the truck punishing its shock absorbers and springs, almost bouncing up and down in several places. Finally the driver pulled to a stop, a short distance from a series of caves. The six men in the back got out and braced themselves to again lift the casket. Two of them stretched, a third shook his shoulders, getting out the kinks. After a minute, they took their positions and brought the casket out of the truck.

    The lead man went to the second cave as the group walked slowly with their burden. The first man ignored them, however, and instead went into the cave. Along the cave wall, he felt along the rock. Suddenly, pushed on a spot and a false front opened up to reveal a panel. He flipped a switch and a series of lights set up in the cave activated.

    The group followed the leader for several minutes into the cave. Then, they reached a large opening in the cave, which extended far overhead. In the center of the opening there was a large pool. The water, illuminated by the bright light, was a bright shade of green. The fluid was perfectly calm. The first man grinned. No one had disturbed this site.

    He glanced at a watch. They were cutting things very close, but there was still a margin for safety, albeit small.

    His movements took on an urgency now, looking back and motioning more quickly than before. The six beefy men tried to hasten their steps but it was not easy. They laid the casket near the edge and stopped. The first man again motioned to his colleagues. They rearranged themselves so all six were on the side of the casket away from the pool. They reached down, four of them taking a deep breath. When they were all ready, they lifted the casket on its side, and kept raising it at an ever-steeper angle. One of the six let out a little yell before the heavy corpse finally rolled out of the casket and into the pool.

    The body made a small splash and then swiftly sunk under the surface. After several seconds, the green water was still again.

    The first man stroked his goatee and looked at his watch. Had the timepiece been inaccurate? Was it too late? Or what something else wrong?

    Before the man could think of any other possibility, the pool began to bubble. Hardly perceptible and first, the water gradually became more active. The six men glanced at each other, before one of them glanced at the first man.

    “Wait at the truck,” the lead man said, his voice emotionless.

    The beefy men complied. They knew better than to question.

    The first man turned his attention back to the pool. The water was bubbling quite hard now.

    He let a sigh. They had made it, just barely. But this was a mere respite. The hard work would soon begin.

***

Aboard Trans Global Airlines

Flight 23,

A few months ago

    The Boeing 747 began to level itself off after the sharp ascent from Hartsfield International Airport south of Atlanta. The crew began to rise from their seats to begin preparing the passengers for the first round of refreshments for the long flight.

    Caroline Travers looked out the window, catching a glint of her own reflection. The face staring back at her looked a little older, as if it had aged suddenly.

    She laughed to herself. She knew she was imagining things. While not a particularly vain person, Caroline knew how to take care of herself, at least physically. If anything, the reflection simply showed how the past year had caught up with her.

    There’s an old cliché. University politics are so nasty because the stakes are so small.      Well, they don’t seem so small if they threaten to engulf your career, which is what had happened to Caroline Travers.

    Caroline had always had doubters in pursuing her research. Plus-X? Some of her colleagues doubted it had ever been really achieved. Accelerate and grow the brain’s mental powers? It was like something out the pulp stories of decades ago. Comic book stuff. Real scientists didn’t pursue such a silly notion. And besides, Lillian Stemmler had been discredited for associating with obviously disreputable types. Her death, some years before, had been very hush-hush. Lillian Stemmler had little, if any standing in the often-cliquish scientific community.

    Nobody ever came out and said this, of course. Colleagues at the University of Alabama-Birmingham seemed pleasant enough. But there was always that little extra note of skepticism when discussing the Plus-X concept. That air of superiority when discussing their own work, the type of project a real medical scientist pursues. Something that would help medicine. Something in the here and now.

    A stewardess came by Caroline’s seat. “Can I get you something?”

    Caroline was surprised for a second. “What? Oh...yes, a glass of white wine, please.”

    The Stewardess smiled and complied.

    Caroline was glad she had been able to spring for a business-class ticket. The flight to Paris would be long. It was worth the extra money to have a little bit of comfort for the Atlanta to Paris journey.

    The wine tasted light and was cold. It became obvious that the UAB establishment was never going to warm to her ideas. But that didn’t hurt as much as her own frustrations. She had been able to follow Stemmler only so far. Caroline had published some preliminary research, but just could not find out Stemmler had done it. Oh, some researchers elsewhere, responding to articles published in medical journals, had even offered some congratulations, Caroline felt like a failure. Maybe Plus-X was only a myth. Stemmler had never published her entire research -- her own unsavory connections had precluded that. And without Stemmler, it may be that Plus-X might never be duplicated.

    She took a sip of the wine. It went down smoothly, a cool stream down the throat until it began to warm the stomach.

    The ironic thing, of course, was how the research attracted the attention of people, dangerous people. In turn, that caused her two encounters with Napoleon Solo. She was taken in the first time, with him pretending to be something he wasn’t. When she found out the truth, she had been resentful, but couldn’t maintain it. Something about his manner seemed oddly comforting. The second time, after many months of not seeing him, she had been caught in his rhythm as if he had never been gone. It was odd and she couldn’t explain it. But while she knew he was not a conventional man, it was jarring to actually see other women who obviously had felt the same about him as she did. It made her nervous, a silly notion, but there it was all the same. She had never said a proper good-bye and she still occasionally wondered where he was and whether he was safe.  

    Caroline was ready for the change, needed the change. People outside academia scoff at the notion of a sabbatical, a yearlong respite. You didn’t find that sort of thing on the assembly line or insurance office. Yet, the blue-collar worker or white-collar sales representative also didn’t know about the accumulation of poison that occurs in academia from the constant backbiting. It was a chance to detoxify.

    When she applied for the fellowship at the Sorbonne, Caroline hardly gave it a thought, never believed she could contend. But her research was viewed as more promising elsewhere, beyond the narrow mindedness of the UAB crowd. So what if she hadn’t produced Plus-X? Her research had provided some additional insights into brain chemistry. The news that she had been accepted for the yearlong fellowship stunned he more than anyone. But she grabbed at it. Her spirits soared when she informed the university. There were hints there might not be a spot for her when she got back. But Caroline didn’t care.

    She looked at her reflection in the window once more, with the brown hair, glasses. Suddenly, the eyes looked a little bit sharper as she relived her reaction to getting the fellowship. Suddenly the face she looked at didn’t seem as old.  

***

Somewhere in Tel Aviv

The Present

    Krekor strained to prevent from hyperventilating. How long had he been running? Twenty minutes? Twenty-five? His chest burned from too many cigarettes and too little oxygen. He had to swallow hard to keep the mucous down. He nearly ran into a vendor, barely sidestepping him in time. But Krekor was hardly the most graceful man. The maneuver caused him to stumble. His right hand prevented him from tumbling, but his right knee scraped the stone alleyway.

    Krekor yelped a second but tried to ignore the pain as best he could. The vendor was now swearing in Hebrew, but Krekor tried to screen that out, too. God, they must be close.

    For each of his next fifteen paces,  Krekor tried to re-establish a running rhythm. But his chest burned even worse, and it began to heave. Then, off to the left, there was an alley. He made the turn, but his face lightly brushed the old building. He couldn’t feel the blood, but knew it had to be there. He tried to concentrate but tripped and flew head first into four trashcans, all very full and all quite odorous. The clang ran out for what seemed like hours, but couldn’t have been more than a few seconds.

    Krekor lay sprawled out for a moment. He looked at the light colored suit, now liberally stained with the remnants of refuse. Krekor struggled to get up. His chest heaved for a second, and then he held his breath, trying to affect a silence.

    The gesture was futile.

    In front of him, a blond man, dressed in light-colored khaki clothes, came out of a doorway. “Alleys often are a poor place in which to hide,” Illya Kuryakin said coldly, calmly, without a hint of emotion.

    Krekor tensed but the Russian quickly drew a pistol and had the man covered.

    Kuryakin stood there, not blinking when Krekor heard footsteps from behind. He turned his head slowly and deliberately. Of course, he thought, U.N.C.L.E. agents always work in pairs.

    “I would advise you take your time getting up, Mr. Krekor,” the American voice said. “It would be a shame to stain your clothes any more.”

    Krekor now saw that Napoleon Solo also had a pistol drawn and aimed at him.

    “I did not know you cared,” Krekor said, getting up.

    “The suit deserves better.”

    By now, Krekor was standing. Kuryakin was on top of him, expertly searching for weapons, and smoothly withdrawing the Glock from the shoulder holster that Krekor wore.

    Krekor smirked and rubbed his goatee unconsciously.

    “I cannot believe I fell for such an old-fashioned strategy,” he chuckled. “One chases, the other reaps the harvest, eh? But you, Mr. Solo, are the senior operative. Why did you not leave the chasing to Mr. Kuryakin?”

    “He won the coin flip,” Solo said, not even the slight sign of a smile.

    “That is the only weapon,” Kuryakin said, putting the Glock in the rear waistband of his trousers.

    “Now, Mr. Krekor, would you care to explain why one of Thrush’s top European assassins is in Tel Aviv? Your dossier indicates you don’t like to stray very much from the central part of Europe. Warsaw is about as far east as you travel.”

    “I’m afraid your vaunted record keeping is not quite up to date,” Krekor said.

    Solo squinted. Before he could say anything, there was a clicking sound from above. Suddenly, a metal object landed in Krekor’s skull. The assassin screamed for a second, but the yell died as soon as he did. The bloody metal went far into the skull, digging and tearing at the precious brain tissue. The U.N.C.L.E. agents, however, now looked up and saw a man in a tan suit, dark hair and goatee. His eyes had an intensity. This was someone who reveled in the kill. In his right hand was a handle -- like a knife handle, except there was no blade. Smoke protruded from the handle. There was the smell of gunpowder, or some other charge in the air, intermingling with the smell of blood and bone and death.

    Kuryakin fired his U.N.C.L.E. Special first, but the man ducked inside the window. The agents operated now like automations, without conscious thought. They spread out, seeking the exits to the building. Kuryakin found a doorway, tested it and, seeing it was locked, fired one shot. Solo sprinted out of the alley to the front of the aging structure. He paused for a moment, checked to make sure the killer wasn’t waiting for him, and then entered, holding his pistol in a two-handed grip.

    Solo quickly glanced around. He was in the narrow hallway. He moved cautiously up to a stairway. Halfway up, he stopped, and held his breath. He gingerly walked up the rest of the steps, as close to silence as he could manage. His own death could be waiting behind any door. He could feel the adrenaline rushing through his system. Every sense was alert. He was now at the top of the stairs. One step forward, two, three, four.

    He tensed when he heard the creak, he whirled around, but some instinct told him this was not what he was looking for. Somehow, he had the gun behind him just as the old woman looked at him, frowning. “Who are you? What are you doing here?” she said in Hebrew.

    Then, there was the sound of footsteps from the floor above. The woman began to shout but Solo ignored her, instead rushing to the next flight of steps. Halfway up, he again had the U.N.C.L.E. Special in a two-handed grip. He stopped for a second, then crouched and had the gun ready to fire.

    At the other end of the hallway, Illya Kuryakin, holding his weapon with a single hand, stood ready to fire.

    “How?” Solo said.

    “A back stairway,” Kuryakin said, answering the question even before Solo could complete it.

    Before Solo could say anymore, the agent glanced at the door closest to him. It was ajar. The American unconsciously nodded in the direction of the door and Kuryakin instantly understood. The two men, a few seconds later, stood on opposite sides of the door. Kuryakin had his weapon ready as Solo moved quickly and kicked the door in.

    The small apartment was surprisingly well furnished. No one was inside but the far window was open, curtains fluttering with a slight breeze. The agents raced to the window. Solo got there first. He could see this was a corner apartment and just to the right of the window, was a pipe. Solo then looked down just to see the killer finish climbing down the pipe and hop to the ground. There, a black BMW was waiting. Solo got off one shot, but the man was too quick and got in the car’s back door. The German car roared off down the narrow street.

    “Did you get him?” Kuryakin asked.

    “I’m afraid not.”

    “Didn’t he look a bit familiar?”

    Solo frowned for a second. Come to think of it, he did. But who... Before he could complete the thought an old memory came flooding back.

    “Malik,” Solo said. “He didn’t have his cute little fez, but he specialized with the trick knife.”

    “Yes, a device that turned the blade into a projectile.”

    “Considering that mess with Krekor, I’d say Mr. Malik has an improved model -- apparently a stronger propulsion system.”

    “Human skulls are known for being a bit thick,” the Russian said. “It had to have a decent amount of force to cut through like that.”

    In the distance, police sirens wailed and were getting closer.

    “Malik worked for the late Colonel Hubris,” Kuryakin said. “Why would he kill another Thrush operative?”

    Solo looked outside the window once more, trying to gauge the sirens. “Something to ponder the new few hours. I’d say we’re about to be entangled in some red tape.”

***

      “Actually, Mr. Solo, it appears the late Mr. Krekor had become a former Thrush operative before his untimely demise,” Alexander Waverly’s voice said from thousands of miles away.

    Solo had started to untie his necktie with his right hand as he held the U.N.C.L.E. pen communicator in his left. But he but stopped and then frowned. “Defection? There was nothing about that in Krekor’s dossier. I had checked it myself before we flew from New York.”

    “Some fragmentary intelligence that had arrived in the past 24 hours,” Waverly responded. “It’s still not entirely confirmed. But it might explain Mr. Malik’s actions.”

    “Maybe,” Solo said. “Which we knew more.”

    “To learn more, you’ll have to develop that knowledge on your own, I’m afraid,” the U.N.C.L.E. chief. “There is little more on this end.”

    “Well, the body was transported to the Jerusalem station,” Solo said. “Mr. Kuryakin tended to that while I was dealing with the Tel Aviv authorities. They weren’t very happy yielding to U.N.C.L.E.”

    “I’m more concerned with this mysterious person or persons who’s recruiting Thrush personnel, Mr. Solo. “This affair is taking on complications that are most unwelcome. On top of everything else, that is a most unstable corner of the world. Some new agitation is most unwelcome.”

    “Yes sir,” the chief enforcement agent replied.

    “Well, I have a desk full of other work. Waverly out.”

    Solo deactivated the communicator and bit his lip. He recalled how he and Illya had been sent here. They had successfully completed an assignment in Eastern Europe when word had arrived of Krekor turning up in Tel Aviv. Abel Krekor, Thrush assassin, ten confirmed kills, suspected of at least that many more. Section Four, which had turned up the information, wanted to take no chances and convinced Alexander Waverly to send the top operatives of Section Two. The old fox had agreed and Solo and Kuryakin had been diverted to Israel just prior to heading home from Eastern Europe. The Jerusalem station, despite discomfort with having its own agents passed over, had picked up the surveillance.

    The working assumption was Krekor, given his reputation, had to be in the Middle East as part of an operation no doubt aimed to take advantage of the region’s volatility. The Middle East was the perfect cauldron for Thrush and its seemingly invisible tentacles.

    Solo and a couple of Jerusalem station agents had flushed Krekor out. They had been able to force him in the direction where Kuryakin would be waiting. And it had worked. Simple. Clearly, too simple.

    The knock on the door broke Solo’s concentration. It was the recognition code he had worked out with Kuryakin. Solo waited as the Russian used his door key to enter the hotel room.

    “Ah, based on your expression it appears you’ve been in communication with Mr. Waverly,” Kuryakin said.

    “Indeed.”

    “Let me guess. He was not particularly pleased.”

    “Correct again.”

    “Anything in particular?”

    Solo took in a deep breath. “It seems Mr. Krekor was in the process of severing his ties with Thrush. Just whom he was joining is not known. I think he’d like us to find out.”

    “Hmmm,” Kuryakin said, reaching into the breast pocket of his suit coat and extracting an envelope.

    “The only thing turned up,” Illya continued, opening the envelope, “was this key.”

     “Where did they find it?”

    “Deep in the heel of the man’s shoe. A bit suspicious. The Jerusalem station has determined it fits a safety deposit box at a local bank.”

    Kuryakin handed the key to Solo who examined both sides of the key. “Well, Mr. Waverly wants us to turn up more information about Mr. Krekor. I guess we’ll have to go to that bank in the morning.”

    “And who else do you suppose might be there?”

    “Assassins, spies and terrorists, I suppose.”

    “In other words, the usual suspects.”

    “It makes life interesting.”

***

    It was only a few minutes past nine, but already it was hot. Solo paused about a block away from the Hofestra Bank and took out a pair of thick glasses from the breast pocket of his suit coat. He held the glasses up to the bright sun, then lowered them and took out a lens cloth and wiped the glasses. The glasses were not stylish, indeed were quite old-fashioned looking, with large rectangular lenses. Subconsciously, he reached up to his chair and checked the part Solo had put in the middle, instead of on the left as normal. The agent resisted the urge to smirk but thought the disguise -- to look as bookwormish as possible -- amusing. Sometimes projecting an image of weakness is as effective as projecting one of strength, he remembered thinking to himself early this morning.

    He slouched as he walked, and his steps were small and tentative. Solo had used no makeup. But pedestrians who looked his way would see a timid, ordinary -- maybe even less than ordinary -- man. More importantly, he would seem at least an inch shorter because of the slouch. An agent familiar with Solo’s dossier would at least want a closer look; Solo wasn’t known for wearing disguises. Even an operative with a strong suspicion would need to get close enough to make a positive identification. And anyone getting that close could be detained and questioned.

    At least that was the plan, such as it was.

    Solo walked slowly into the bank. Off to the right were a group of four teller windows. To the left were a series of desks behind an office divider. He strode toward the desks. At the nearest desk, an olive-skinned woman with black hair looked up. She slid her glasses down her nose and took a brief glance at the agent.

    “May I help you?” she asked in Hebrew.

    Solo’s face wrinkled for a moment. “I’m sorry, I only speak English.” Another wrinkle in the plan. If trying to appear meek and unimpressive, there was no sense showing off knowledge of other languages.

    “May I help you?” the woman said again, this time in English.

    “Yes, I hope so,” he said, reaching into his trousers pocket and holding up the safe-deposit key. “This opens up box number 367. I would like to do so.”

    The woman rubbed her chin. “The name on the account?”

    “Krekor, I believe,” Solo said, taking a folded piece of paper from his pocket. “I am the representative of the estate. Huntley Havelock, Esquire.”

    The woman looked at the paper for a full minute. “When did Mr. Krekor die?”

    “Quite recently, I understand,” he replied. “All I know is I was retained to tidy up Mr. Krekor’s affairs.”

    “Yes, of course,” she said. The eyes had a glint of doubt but the woman arose. “Follow me, please.”

    She led Solo past the desks and toward a vault. Just before reaching the vault, they took a right and into the chamber with the safety-deposit boxes. She took out her keys and found the match to Solo’s.

    “Box 367,” the woman said, turning both keys and then extracting the box. She gestured toward a door. It was the entrance to a small room, a single desk and chair inside.

    “Take as much time as you need to examine the contents,” the woman said. “If you need any assistance, it will be provided.”

    “Thank you, that’s quite reassuring.”

    The woman made a brief, but not very convincing smile, then turned and left the room, shutting the door behind her.

    Solo turned toward the desk, with the box lying on top. He opened the steel box. Various foreign currency was the first thing Solo found, including U.S. Dollars, at least two different types of Eastern European notes, even some Japanese yen. Underneath that were gold coins, some very large. Solo stacked the coins and moved them to the side of the desk, along with the money.

    He turned his attention back to the interior of the steel box. Sheets of various papers were all that were left inside. The first thing he noticed was an apparent dossier. Attached with a paper clip was a woman’s photo. He felt a chill.

    The picture had been taken since he had last seen her. The glasses were smaller, rounder. If anything, the glasses complimented her face better than the pair she wore the last time he had seen her. He leafed through the papers. Caroline Travers had taken a leave from the University of Alabama in Birmingham and was a visiting scholar at the Sorbonne.

    Memories rushed into Solo’s mind. Caroline Travers had twice been endangered by affairs involving U.N.C.L.E. The first time, Thrush had attempted to abduct her, due to her efforts to duplicate the Plus and Minus-X research of the late Lillian Stemmler. It was a particularly nasty piece of business involving both Anton Fleming and the psychotic Pamela Keystroke. Solo subconsciously began to reach for the earlobe that Keystroke had bitten down so hard on but caught himself. Solo had resorted to a desperate gamble, hoping Keystroke would lose control for a few seconds and leave herself open to attack. It was a preposterous, reckless gambit. But it was all that Solo had left to try and it had worked. Unfortunately, Fleming had gotten away. Solo could almost smell the cigarette smoke and hear the flem in the Thrushman’s throat. Two more encounters ensued and no one could say for certain whether Fleming was still alive.

    If all that hadn’t been bad enough, Caroline’s second encounter was worse. G. Emory Partridge, in a bid for a personal revenge, had kidnapped Caroline and two other women close to Solo. The Englishman had intended to butcher all of them in front of Solo. A little planning -- and some modifications George Dennell had made to a new U.N.C.L.E. car -- provided the difference. Partridge now passed his days in a maximum-security prison.

    Solo felt a pain in the pit of his stomach. Caroline Travers was lucky to be alive and he felt he was the one who brought Death close enough to nearly feel its embrace.

Solo was more than aware of his reputation within U.N.C.L.E. as a skilled operator with women. But incidents like the ones with Caroline reinforced his fears of lasting ties with women. A rationalization? No doubt. But a rationalization can have a basis in fact.

    He read more of the dossier. Nothing about her Plus-X research. Had she abandoned it? During that last affair involving Partridge, Caroline had said she had hit a dead end in her research. She voiced doubts whether it would prove successful.

    The other papers were if not routine, at least nothing special. There was a list of other bank accounts in several cities, something an assassin like Krekor would need to access. There were lists of other names. Solo recognized them as aliases, phony fronts to contact various illicit gunsmiths, again useful knowledge but widely available in the shadowy circles that both Solo and Krekor traveled.

    Solo began to replace the materials when the room door began to open. The agent tensed. Ordinarily, he’d be drawing his U.N.C.L.E. Special. But as part of the Huntley Havelock identity, having a handgun would be a dead giveaway.

    As the door opened, Solo just hoped he wouldn’t be dead, period.

Act II
“Stone Cold”

    The man was at least six-foot-four, with large, round pectoral muscles and a trunk of a neck. His dark hair was short, nearly a crew cut along the temples and back, a bit longer on top. The sunglasses he wore were quite opaque and obscured any details of the eyes. The clothes were a bit over the top. The red and black striped, long sleeved shirt hugged the muscles of his torso. Almost as tight were the man’s khaki brown pants, which left little to the imagination.

    Solo had to avoid the temptation to smirk, it would be extremely out of character for the guise he had chosen. The man wasn’t subtle but the agent had seen this type of operative before. He was there to awe his victims, to intimidate, to frighten. Solo mentally congratulated himself. Whoever had sent this specimen did not believe they were dealing with a professional. Such a Solo did his best to effect trembling, to reinforce the role of the meek attorney.

    “Wh-wh-who are you?” Solo said. God, don’t overdo it, Solo.

    “They call me The Stone,” the man said in a low voice. “You are not Krekor. You are dealing with matters that are none of your affair. Why?”

    “I have been retained by the estate of Mr. Krekor, I am here on legitimate business....”

    “Give me the key.”

    “I-I can’t. It wouldn’t be ethical.”

    The Stone grinned. “Better to be unethical than injured -- or worse.”

    “I don’t understand....”

    The Stone didn’t wait for Solo to finish the sentence. The big man grabbed Solo and slammed him up against a wall of safe-deposit boxes. The Stone held him up there for a few seconds, then suddenly let go. The agent crashed to the floor, and he lay there for a few seconds, the glasses resting askew on his head.

    “That is not what I wanted to hear,” The Stone said. “Let me try once more. Give me the key.”

    Solo licked his lips, his tongue probing for a drop of blood. Despite The Stone’s bulk, Solo knew he could take him. All he had to do was stab at the man’s solar plexus with a rigid hand. The Stone would double over, he wouldn’t be able to help himself. That would leave the neck exposed and vulnerable. Despite the mass of muscle, it would only take a few seconds to break the man’s neck.

    Solo bit his lip. The hazards of being a professional. Sometimes restraint was called for. Showing off would only destroy the cover, the effect he had sought to create. Instead of breathing deeply, Solo hyperventilated. He wanted to show fear, even if his mind tried to clear his body of emotion.

    The Stone again reached for Solo, grabbing him by the lapels of his suit coat.

    “I can get the key any way I want,” The Stone said, shaking Solo. “Mr. Havelock, or whatever your name is, this might be your last chance.”

    The Stone dropped Solo yet again and the agent crumpled once again on the floor.

    The large man loomed over Solo. The smaller man shook his head quickly. “No. No more!”

    The Stone paused while Solo reached into his pocket, taking out a key.

    “Take it. Please, just take it,” Solo said. “I can’t take any more.”

    “Good boy,” The Stone said, grabbing the key. “If I see you again, I’ll kill you. Mr. Havelock, just lay there for a while.”

    The Stone turned and stormed out of the safety-deposit box area. Solo rubbed the back of his head and sat up on the floor. The seconds passed slowly. Then, Solo felt the vibration from the U.N.C.L.E. communicator. He glanced again at the door to make sure no one was about to enter.

    Solo set up the communicator to receive. He was surprised he could get a signal this deep into the bank.

    “And how is Mr. Havelock faring?” Illya Kuryakin’s voice said softly.

    “Wishing he had won the coin flip,” Solo replied. “I take it you are getting a clear signal from the homing device.”

    “Indeed,” the Russian said. “I don’t suppose you encountered this rather large fellow who just stormed out of the bank?”

    “The less said the better,” the American said. “Anyone with him?”

    “He exited with a dark-haired woman.”

    “Of course. Well, we were hoping to stir a reaction.”

    “If you can restore your pride, I will be there momentarily and we can begin the pursuit.”

    Solo groaned almost inaudibly as he stood up.

    “I didn’t quite catch that,” Kuryakin said.

    “Meet you outside the bank.”

***

      The Tel Aviv traffic was miserable, with vehicles snaking along in fits and starts. The Mercedes’ engine sounded almost frustrated, like it yearned to hit the open road but was forced to grind along. Kuryakin, at the wheel, paid no attention, instead looking for gaps to squeeze through in an attempt to advance more quickly. Solo kept a close watch on his U.N.C.L.E. communicator, which he had converted to a receiving set.

    “It would appear The Stone, or whatever he calls himself, has come to a stop, around a mile or so ahead. I believe that’s a distribution area, warehouses and the like.”

    “Unfortunately, at this rate, I cannot guarantee a timely arrival,” Kuryakin replied.

    “Well, we don’t want to crowd him but it would be nice to see if he could lead us to his superior in this operation. I’d like to think these bumps and bruises weren’t made in vain.”

    “What about the woman?”

    “I’ve put in an emergency research request to verify whether the information I saw in the bank box was correct.”

    “If it is correct, what does it mean?”

    “I wish I knew,” Solo said. “Caroline Travers has had more than her share of trouble, I’d like to avoid another incident.”

    “It is not really up to you.”

    “How so?”

    “You’ve never dealt with Krekor before. His interest is most likely unrelated to your encounters with Dr. Travers. This Stone fellow is only interested in Krekor’s effects. Don’t blame yourself for things that are not of your doing. It only inhibits us from the task ahead.”

    Solo frowned at the Russian, then returned his glance to the communicator. “About a half-mile ahead. Better take the next right turn that you can.”

***

    The Stone parked the motor scooter a few feet away from the warehouse’s rear entrance. He moved his sunglasses down on his nose and looked around intently. Not a soul nearby. He glanced at his watch and suddenly realized it was almost sundown Friday. The start of the Sabbath. Workers must have left early to ensure they could get home before sundown.

    The Stone grinned and pushed the sunglasses back up his nose. He checked once more and opened the door and walked in, carrying the safety-deposit box under his arm. He walked down a short hallway and into the main storage area. A few minutes later, he was at the center of the warehouse complex. The Stone was in a spot surrounded on three sides by tall stacks of crates. No sounds. Dimly lit. The Stone knew his employer liked to be showy, but this made him impatient. He had only worked for the man for several weeks. The pay was generous and the work, at least so far, was hardly a strain.

    The Stone’s real name was Stanley McCann, and Stanley had always never really found anywhere to fit in. As a boy, he attempted to play football. But despite an impressive physique -- by high school, he was over six feet tall and had a more impressive build than others his age -- he was too slow. As an offensive lineman, he couldn’t set up in time to be an effective blocker. When he tried playing defense, blockers well schooled in technique could hold him off despite Stanley’s physical gifts. Predictably, he wasn’t good enough to attract an athletic scholarship from even a small college. And his attention to studies was lacking. He was indifferent to his parents, who had urged him to find some kind of career. Instead, he hitchhiked around the United States, eventually finding his way to California, where weight lifting and worship of the physical form were ways of life. There he managed a series of odd jobs, providing enough money to maintain a serious workout regimen. Indeed, developing his body became his only real passion, his only real interest.

    It was during one of his typically intense workouts on the beach when a funny little man came by. He was no taller than five-foot-four, with a bulbous nose and thin mustache. Stanley paid him no attention at first, but the little man seemed to be eyeing him. Little faggot, Stanley thought.

    Then, the little man produced a business card. It turned out he was a talent scout, of a sort. He was a low-level employee of one of the big professional wrestling outfits. It turned out he saw something in Stanley -- something normally undesirable, a punkish quality. He didn’t tell Stanley this, just that the body builder might make a great addition to the wrestling show. “We’re always looking for a good heavy,” he told Stanley. “They remember the heavies better than the heroes.”

    Thus, the Stone was born.

    Despite the scout’s enthusiasm, the Stone was slow to pick up on the nuances. Professional wrestlers are more actors than athletes -- not necessarily great actors, but some sense of timing, some sense of style is needed to make the professional wrestler’s career. The Stone had little of that. He tried, but he simply couldn’t grasp the concept. He snarled, but couldn’t project sufficient menace. In the wrestling wring, big biceps and pectoral muscles are common. Without a convincing persona, the Stone was another big-chested, big-muscled performer, and entirely forgettable.

    As a result, the Stone got by financially, but little else. Then, a few months ago, another little man approached him. He was a foreigner and the Stone only knew him as Malik. He offered good money but provided few details on the nature of the jobs he would have to perform. By this time, the Stone was tiring of tiring of the grind. The schedule was hectic, the pay not that good. The money the foreigner offered was much better and he promised the Stone would only have to work sporadically. A hell of a deal, the Stone thought.

    Stanley grinned. The little man he roughed up hadn’t presented much of a challenge. Malik had warned him to be on guard. But all he saw was a little faggot with glasses, who didn’t have the guts to defend himself. It might have been a little more fun had the little homo tried to fight back , he thought. Still, pretty easy money.

    The sound of a footstep broke the Stone’s train of thought. He turned around and saw Malik come out from behind some crates.

    “Oh, it’s you,” the Stone said.

    “You have it. Any trouble?”

    “There was a little man. But he was no trouble.”

    “A man? Describe him.”

    “A little bookworm. Glasses, hair parted down the middle. Average build at best.”

    “Where did you find him?”

    “He had just opened the safety deposit box. I picked him up, slammed him around a bit. No trouble.”

    Malik rubbed his goatee with his right hand. “He provided no resistance? None at all?”

    “No.”

    Malik rubbed his chin just a bit harder now. Then he turned his head as if had just heard something. But the Stone had noticed nothing.

***

    Kuryakin grimaced. A pistachio nut lying on the shadows on the floor had escaped his notice. He froze, awaiting any possible attacks. Solo, on the other side of the warehouse, caught Kuryakin’s gaze. It was doubtful Solo could have heard the nut crack beneath Illya’s shoe. But the American could sense something was wrong. Kuryakin pointed toward his feet. Solo nodded, waited for a few seconds then motioned Illya to continue.

    Kuryakin took a deep breath, checked the U.N.C.L.E. Special and resumed his stalking. He had picked up the faint sounds of a conversation. It had taken him a minute to recall the Mediterranean accented voice of Malik, the late Colonel Hubris’s deadly associate, with his truck knife. The other voice was totally unfamiliar. But when Kuryakin glanced at Solo again, it was clear the agent did recognize the other man. I  just hope Napoleon’s anxiousness to proceed is only because he would like a small taste of revenge.

    The Russian now got his first glance of the two men. The Stone -- or whatever his real name was -- did have an impressive physique. But Kuryakin could sense he was little more than muscle. After all these years, he could tell the difference between professionals and thugs. It was dangerous, of course, to underestimate the latter, especially when they have superior numbers. But Kuryakin figured it was must have galled Napoleon to just take it back at the bank.

    Illya crouched down and listened again when he picked up Malik’s voice.

    “He provided no resistance? None at all?”

    “No.”

    Then, before either man said anything else, a large form suddenly appeared. Kuryakin squinted. He couldn’t pick up exactly where the shape had come from. It must have been from the shadows, but it seemed as if materialized out of air.

    After a few seconds, he could see the enormous shape was a man. He wore an old-style cloak, with a dress shirt that had ruffles and a big bowtie. The man must have weighed at least four hundred pounds. Kuryakin didn’t yet have a good look at the face, but could see the man had a goatee.

    “Ah, my dear Stone,” the man said. While the voice didn’t have an accent -- compared to the last time Kuryakin had seen the man -- the voice was unmistakable.

    “Colonel Hubris?” Kuryakin whispered to himself.

    Kuryakin felt the vibration of the U.N.C.L.E. communicator and had it ready to receive two seconds later.

    “Do you see what I see?” Solo asked, his whisper betraying a sense of shock.

    “It cannot be,” Kuryakin said.

    “I thought you made sure.”

    “I did.”

    “But it has to be him,” Solo said. “Four-hundred-pound operatives are pretty rare. And that voice is too much like Hubris for it to be anybody else.”

    Kuryakin looked up again. Hubris put a thin cigar in his mouth and then extended his index finger. A flame seemed to come out of the fingertip.

    “Pardon me for the parlor tricks, Mr. Stone. Just a little quirk of mine. I think Malik here is concerned you may have been followed here.”

    “Who the hell are you?” the Stone replied.

    “Merely your employer. Malik, here, is my representative. Now, may I see the contents of the safety deposit box?”

    The Stone handed the box to the large man.

    “What do I call you?” The Stone asked.

    The large man laughed. “I’ve been known my many names. But right now I prefer Count Carlos Mario Vincenzo Robespierre Manzeppi.”

    “Count what?”

    Count Manzeppi sighed. “Never mind,” he said, emptying the safe-deposit box and began shuffling through the contents. “Ah, here it is. The information on the woman that I asked Krekor to find. Excellent.”

    Kuryakin then heard Solo’s voice on the communicator. “Keep me covered.”

    “Napoleon, what?” But the communicator went dead.

    The Russian returned his gaze to the clear area of the warehouse. “Is being a Count a promotion or demotion from Colonel? And don’t move.”

    “A familiar, if not particularly welcome, voice,” the large man said. “Mr. Solo, I presume?”

    Solo emerged from behind some crates, his U.N.C.L.E. Special fully assembled. He slowly took off the glasses and put them in the breast pocket of his suit coat.

    Manzeppi looked once more at The Stone. “I don’t suppose that was that was, eh, the ‘homo’ you beat up at the bank?”

    “Yeah,” the Stone said.

    Manzeppi grimaced for a second. “Well, I wasn’t expecting much in the way of brain power -- and it appears I was not disappointed.”

    “You’ll have time to discuss that later, Colonel Hubris,” Solo said, his voice stern. “My compliments on the yoga trick. I’ve heard it can be used to simulate death, but that had to be most impressive display on record.”

    “Yoga?” Manzeppi said. Then the large man began to laugh loudly, his cigar producing a big puff of smoke. The laughter emanated from deep within the massive chest.

    He composed himself. “Yes, I can see how you might seize upon yoga as an explanation, Mr. Solo. “But now that I have what I want, there is no need to prolong this little talk.”

    “I think you’re forgetting something,” Solo said. “And if Mr. Malik twitches again, he’ll be dead before he falls to the floor. So Colonel Hubris or Count Manzeppi or whoever you are, I’d suggest a nice, simple surrender.”

    Manzeppi laughed once more. Then, a round object dropped from the Count’s sleeve. When it hit the floor a moment later, a flash sparked up followed by a huge plume of smoke.

    Kuryakin, watching this, tried to aim his weapon, but held his fire. He got up and edged closer to the smoke. There was a loud and sickening crunch. The Russian moved in just as the smoke began to dissipate. Kuryakin had his weapon drawn and ready to fire. Immediately in front of him was Solo, his U.N.C.L.E. Special also drawn. They looked at each other for a moment, and then looked down. The Stone lay on the floor, his neck broken, and his head at an unnatural angle.

    The agents looked around, and then heard the deep laugh of Manzeppi. But neither Manzeppi nor Malik was around.

    Solo hunched over and checked the Stone for a pulse but knew it was a lost cause. “It appears the Stone has crumbled,” Solo said.

Act III
“The City of Lights -- Out”     

    A quick call to the U.N.C.L.E. station in Jerusalem cut any red tape before it could ensnarl Solo and Kuryakin. The agents had begun the 16-kilometer journey to Ben Gurion International Airport even as U.N.C.L.E.-Jerusalem was consulting the authorities about what they would find in the Tel Aviv warehouse and what not to look for. Under other circumstances, Solo would have waited to smooth over the inevitable friction that would emerge from a local police department finding its prerogatives impacted by an international security organization.

    This time, however, Solo didn’t have the time nor the inclination for maximum tact. More importantly, Alexander Waverly concurred.

    “You say that Colonel Hubris, or whatever he is now calling himself, showed much interest in the scientist’s dossier?”

    “It seemed to be his primary interest, sir,” Solo said into the communicator as Kuryakin drove to the airport. “It’s my belief Mr. Kuryakin and myself should get to Paris as quickly as possible. At least that’s where the dossier indicates she is and presumably the Colonel or Count is now heading.”

    “Just a moment,” Waverly replied. Long seconds of silence elapsed. “Research has just confirmed Professor Travers whereabouts. She is currently a visiting academic at the Sorbonne. The information we have isn’t very complete at this point. It is not clear whether she is still on the faculty at the University of Alabama-Birmingham or not. In any event, she is currently in residence at Paris. One question, gentlemen.”

    “Yes sir?”

    “I thought you double checked whether Colonel Hubris had expired.”

    “Yes sir,” Solo said. “We both did. Mr. Kuryakin inserted a needle into his throat. It was extremely convincing.”

    “Things might be simpler now if you had truly made sure.”

    Solo felt the dig. “Yes sir.”

    “All right, no sense crying over spilt milk. Get to the City of Lights as quickly as possible. Waverly over and out.”

    Solo deactivated the communicator and frowned. Kuryakin, noticing his partner’s expression, spoke up. “He didn’t sound very happy, did he?”

    “No.”

    “The body was cold and hard,” Kuryakin said. “I don’t know how Hubris did it, but he did more than yoga.”

    “I don’t know,” the American replied. “Hell, I don’t know all the questions, much less the answers.”

    “Well, let’s review what we do know. Krekor, a Thrush assassin, shows up in Tel Aviv, an area he normally does not frequent. Then, it appears Krekor has been recruited by an independent entity.”

    “Who,” Solo says, “appears to be our late friend Colonel Hubris, who apparently has decided to sever his ties to Thrush. And, in addition to that, now fancies himself Count Manzeppi and seems to have lost his Mediterranean accent.”

    Kuryakin thought for a moment. “About the only constant is that little worm of an assassin, Malik. He was the assassin for Colonel Hubris and seems to still have that role now our opponent fancies himself Count Manzeppi. Therefore, if we could isolate him, apply the correct amount of pressure, we might get some of our answers.”

    Solo arched his eyebrows. “You’re a smart Russian. Let’s work on that idea on the way to Paris.”         

***

    They had more time than they wished. First, the trip back to the hotel to retrieve their bags was hardly a fast journey and the clerk had been more bureaucratic than Solo could stand. One concession to expediency was the fact they would simply leave the small rental car at the airport, having made arrangements with the Jerusalem station to have it picked up and returned later.

    Their arrival at the airport was only the beginning of their delays. Ben Gurion Airport is one of the most security-minded facilities in the world. Long lines were everywhere and security personnel were more thorough than normal. The hidden compartments, which shielded the U.N.C.L.E. Specials from detection, provided some peace of mind for the agents. But metal detectors at Ben Gurion had particularly sensitive settings. Solo had to make three separate pass thoroughs and Kuryakin two.     Even more maddening was the ticket counter at Trans Global Airlines. Solo and Kuryakin had no times to make advance arrangements. It was now too late in the day to even hope for a direct flight. It took a bit of haggling, but they squeezed onto the last two coach seats of a flight to Berlin. Kuryakin wondered when the last time Solo had to settle for such accommodations -- he always marveled at his friend’s ability to navigate the maddening maze of airline regulations and such to secure first-class seats -- but the American complained hardly at all. Even during the very bumpy flight, Solo still looked as composed and neat as ever, his hair now combed back in place after leaving the Tel Aviv warehouse. Solo bought drinks for both himself and Illya, but the American said little.

    Mostly, Solo thought about Caroline Travers. She was a bit of a contradiction. Very sure about herself professionally, she seemed surprisingly vulnerable personally. They had dated -- well, more than dated -- and Solo had enjoyed her company, her intelligence and her conversation.

    The first time they had met involved deception. He had posed as a freelance journalist writing for specialty scientific publications. There had been indications that Thrush was interested in her research and the cover was a way to circulate at a scientific conference. The plot was smashed, although a painful encounter with the psychotic Pamela Keystroke couldn’t be avoided and the Thrushman Anton Fleming, who initiated the affair, had gotten away.

    With the second encounter, Solo had tried to warn her of a possible threat -- a personal revenge by G. Emory Partridge. He failed to protect her and free lancers hired by Partridge had kidnapped her, adding Caroline to a group of three women Solo knew. Partridge’s plan was simple. Once he had Solo under his control, the U.N.C.L.E. agent would be drugged, but conscious, forced to watch Partridge slaughter them all, slowly and painfully. In the end, everyone was rescued before they were harmed.  But the farewells proved clumsy. Illya -- ever the sly one -- maneuvered events so Solo would have to take all three women to the airport at once. On the long drive -- the twenty-minute journey seemed three times as long -- Caroline muttered something about “a girl in every port” and little else. The good-byes ended up a bit strained, but Caroline had seemed the most dismayed.

    Solo sighed. It was to be expected. He had tried to be honest. Caroline, I realize I’m not exactly a model of fidelity. It’s partly a function of my work. When your life is only the line, you tend to play hard as well as work hard. Caroline realized it intellectually but actually seeing two other women Solo had cared about...well, she had been the quietest of the three when he saw them off. Debbie Largent, the most resilient hardly seemed fazed, kissing Solo hard on the lips when she said good-bye and flew off to Chicago. Alicia Parkway, the youngest, whom Solo had never actually dated, was simply grateful to be alive, though she made no attempt to kiss Solo when she left to return home to St. Louis. But Caroline withdrew into herself. She said little before leaving for Birmingham.

    The agent interrupted his thoughts and glanced at Kuryakin, dozing in the seat next to him. And Illya got to drive the new U.N.C.L.E. car all the way from Indianapolis back to New York City. Solo shook his head at the memory.

    All of that had been a long time ago. He had seen none of the three since. He had intended to keep in touch, especially with Debbie and Caroline, but life happened. And, remembering the fate that Partridge intended for them, Solo felt it had all worked out for the best. At least, he could rationalize it that way. Until now, that is.

    Now, for the third time, he was going to enter the life of a woman who, in all likelihood, was not going to be anxious to see him. What were the odds? Oh never mind, he thought. If I relied on odds, I’d have been dead a long time ago.

***

    Upon arriving in Berlin, the agents rediscovered how German efficiency isn’t a myth. They made the connection to Paris with a minimum of problems and were on their way in under two hours. They got made one of the last flights into Charles DeGaulle Airport for the evening. Solo had arranged for himself and Kuryakin to stay at the Hotel Charles De Gaulle, now operated by one of the major chains. The hotel lacked character, a typical glass and metal exterior. But it was only a few minutes from the airport and offered suitable facilities. After they checked in, Kuryakin went to his room directly to retire for the night. Solo, however, utilized the 24-hour room service to enjoy a chef salad and a half-carafe of Merlot. He wanted the meal to help him forget the plastic-like airline food he had been forced to endure on the long flight.

    Solo looked out the window, not really looking at anything in particular. He mulled over how to best approach Caroline Travers but kept coming up blank. Solo grunted, took the last sip of Merlot from his glass and got ready for bed. Fifteen minutes later, after a hot shower, he was in bed and placed the U.N.C.L.E. Special under the pillow. A moment later, he was asleep.

***

    It took a little over an hour for Solo and Kuryakin to navigate their way from DeGaulle to the familiar tailor shop. It had been some time since either agent had been here, but the same French tailor still labored behind the aging equipment behind the counter. The man seemed to be in no better humor than Del Floria in New York. No customers were about and Solo and Kuryakin went directly through the security entrance in the changing booth.

    A brunette woman had their security badges ready before they even approached her desk.

    “Monsieur Solo, Monsieur Kuryakin, it has been much too long,” the receptionist said, pinning Solo’s badge to his suit coat. “Monsieur Raymond is expecting you.”

    Kuryakin took his own badge and the two men were off, walking briskly down the corridor that was indistinguishable from the main New York headquarters.  Less than two minutes later, they entered through an automatic sliding door into the office of Philippe Raymond, the Paris station chief.

    “Ah, Napoleon, Illya, it’s good to see you again,” Raymond said, standing up from his desk, extending his right hand. Solo shook hands with Raymond, once again glad to see the able Frenchman. The station chief never played the turf war games of some U.N.C.L.E. Section One personnel. Solo always felt he could count on Raymond’s assistance without wasting mental energy on internal one upsmanship, unlike, say, the detested Ricardo Cavetti, Raymond’s counterpart in Rome.

    The men sat down at the round conference table. “We received a communiqué first thing this morning about this Professor Caroline Travers. She is, indeed, at the Sorbonne on a fellowship. I took the liberty of assigning one of my men to keep watch from a discreet distance. I figured you would want to make your own approach.”

    “Thanks, Phillippe. Any sign of trouble?”

    “No, nothing. Everything seems normal.”

    “Usually the time with the most cause for worry,” Kuryakin said.

    Raymond rubbed his chin. “My man did familiarize himself with Colonel Hubris’s dossier as best he could in a short time. But I am curious about something.”

    “Yes?” Solo asked.

    “Hubris, while troublesome, always sort of struck me as a secondary Thrush menace. I would not assign the same talent for organization as say a Victor Marton or the ruthlessness of an Angelique.”

    Raymond paused, thinking he saw Illya give Solo the slightest hint of disapproval at the mention of Angelique’s name. The Frenchman mentally cursed himself but continued. “In any event, I am a bit surprised at the details I received about your encounter in Tel Aviv.”

    “How so?” Solo asked.

    “I guess it was the way this American lackey was disposed. Based on your account that was relayed to me via New York, his neck was broken in a second or two.  The preliminary autopsy came in from Israel this morning. He had severe marks on the neck. It was not a clean, quick karate blow. He was attacked with great force, with great strength.”

    Kuryakin looked at Solo. “Malik?” the Russian asked. “He doesn’t have the size to do something like that.”

    “Hubris,” Solo said, “or Manzeppi as he now calls himself, certainly doesn’t lack for size. But I wouldn’t guess he was that strong. More blubber than muscle.”

    “Perhaps,” Raymond said. “But I would not wish to encounter such fury first hand.”

    “What about this Manzeppi name?” Illya said. “Is there any significance to that?”

    “Unfortunately, no,” the Paris station chief replied. “It does not show up on any of the databases and we have been quite thorough. We’ve gone back literally decades. Nothing.”

    “Well, it obviously means something to him, whatever that is,” Solo said. “The thing that struck me is how differently he acted -- different accent, different manner. I suppose the fierceness of the attack on our late wrestler friend is the best indication of that. I’m now tempted to call him Manzeppi from now on, if only because he does seem like a different man.”

    “Could he be?” Kuryakin said. “A close relative? Twin brother? Total coincidence?”

    “He appeared to recognize us.”

    “So could anyone with access to intelligence dossiers. Perhaps we are creating a mystery where none really exists.”

    “Then why take in Malik as his assistant?” Solo asked.

    The agent rubbed his eyes. “This isn’t getting us anywhere. I think we need to talk to Caroline Travers.”

    Raymond reached for a notepad, and began writing an address. When he finished, he tore the top sheet from the pad and handed it to Solo. “There is a reception this evening there,” Raymond said as he handed the sheet to Solo. “I’ve arranged for you both to be invited in case you wanted to approach her in a more social setting. I understand you’ve met before.”

    “That’s right,” Solo said non-commitedly.

    Kuryakin sensed the tentativeness of his friend. “Actually, that is probably a good idea, Mr. Raymond.”

    “Phillippe, please.”

    “Yes, Illya is right, it is a good idea.”

    “It is a black tie affair.”

    “I always pack an extra tuxedo,” Solo said.

    Kuryakin frowned at Solo. “I don’t suppose you could make arrangements for me to borrow a tuxedo, Phillippe?”

    “Of course.”

***

    The Hotel De Crillon, built in 1909, often attracted heads of state as guests and as a place to host a reception its location was highly enviable. It is just across the Seine River from the Sorbonne itself, and was a short distance away from the Place de la Corcornde, including the Obelisk of Luxor, the 22.83-meter-high structure given by the viceroy of Egypt, Mohammed Ali, to Louis Phillipe in the 19th Century. Just a little further out are the Tuileres Gardens and the Louve. The hotel management had worked hard to preserve French architecture and interior design. It was not just another chain hotel.

    It had taken Caroline Travers a few months but she was beginning to get around the city with confidence. And truth be told, she hadn’t minded it that much on those occasions where it had taken extra time to reach her destination. The tension from the last, bitter months at UAB had dissipated and she was emboldened by not having to worry about university politics and enjoying the chance to indulge her curiosity in the fellowship setting.

    She had debated whether to attend the reception but decided to go ahead. Over the past few months she had enjoyed the give and take with other fellows in the program and was comfortable with many of them. While the reception was formal, Caroline decided she could still use the company. Plus, she hoped it would dispel an odd feeling. On a couple of occasions earlier in the day, she thought she had seen the same man but wasn’t sure. Nothing terribly distinctive, just an ordinary man in a gray suit. It might have been her imagination but for a minute she had a flashback to the two occasions where she encountered U.N.C.L.E.

    But they had been a few hours ago and the thought had passed. A hot bath relaxed her. Her evening dress wasn’t particularly fancy but it was her newest, purchased just before she left the United States. She entered the reception area just outside the large convention room where the dinner would be held.

    Waiters walked about with trays of filled champagne glasses. One stopped for her and she took a glass and sipped from it. People were still streaming in and Caroline was looking for people she recognized. Then she heard a voice from off to the side.

    “Hello, Caroline.”

    The words were spoken softly but Caroline jerked as if they had been shouted into her ear.

    She turned and saw Napoleon Solo standing there, clad in a tuxedo, his gaze focused on her.

    “Napoleon? How?” She caught herself, then began to frown. “Stupid question.”

     “Caroline...”

    “You’re not here to socialize,” she responded in a tense voice. “You need me for something, don’t you?” A few seconds of silence passed. “That’s the only reason you would ever see someone like me.”

    Solo frowned. “What do mean, ‘someone like me?’”

    Her eyes narrowed on him. “You with all your girlfriends, the only reason...” The voice trailed off. “You would only go out with someone like me if you needed something. Remember those other two you saw off at the airport?”

    Solo glanced around quickly but no one else seemed to pay attention to their conversation.

    He reached out to her hand. He half expected her to yank it back, but did not. “I never said I only saw one woman,” Solo said. He patted her back with his left hand. “I’m sorry about you were hurt.”

    “You didn’t come all the way to Paris to say that.”

    “No, no I didn’t. The fact is you may be in some kind of trouble.”

    “Again?” This time, Caroline did yank her hand away.

    “I’m sorry, but it’s true,” Solo said, once again looking around.

    “If it’s because of my research, your people are a little behind the times,” Caroline said, her voice getting more testy. “It’s a dead end, Napoleon. I can’t duplicate the damn Plus-X. Anyone interested in my research is in for a big disappointment. And so are you.”

    Solo cleared his throat. “It doesn’t matter. There is someone seeking you out. I don’t know why but he is quite serious about it -- deadly serious.”

    “Just go,” she said. “I’ll make a scene if you don’t.”

    Solo looked into her eyes. There was no yielding, no mixed emotions. He was the last person she wanted to see right now.

    “As you wish,” Solo said, stepping back.

***

    In the reception area, there were two bars. At one of them, waiters kept going back to pick up trays of filled champagne glasses. The waiters all wore tuxedos, and didn’t notice that their number expanded by one when a blonde man took a tray of eight filled glasses from the bar.

    Illya Kuryakin began to circulate. He kept track of Solo as he moved toward the woman scientist but Kuryakin paid most of his attention to others mulling about. He made one circuit around the reception area, saw nothing except guests wanting to stop for champagne. As he went back to get another tray, he saw Solo back away from the woman. Judging by the body language of both, the meeting had not gone well. Illya remembered briefly how he maneuvered events so Napoleon would have to take the three women back together. It was a kind of prank on his womanizing friend, but the Russian had no inkling the trick would come back to boomerang on another U.N.C.L.E. mission.

    Kuryakin cut off the train of thought. Regret is a waste of mental energy, he thought.

    Suddenly, he heard Solo’s voice through the small earpiece he had put in his right ear just before entering. “Professor Travers evidently does not wish to discuss old times.”

    Illya spoke barely above a whisper into the hidden microphone in his lapel. “Were you able to give her that little present?”

    “Oh, yes,” Solo responded. “One miniature homing device planted on the back of her dress. It should stay in place. Of course, it won’t do us much good once she takes the dress off but it will let us keep watch on her for the rest of this evening at least.”

    “Oh waiter,” a loud voice came from behind Kuryakin.

    The Russian turned around. The massive form of Count Manzeppi was right in front of him.

    Kuryakin felt a blast of adrenaline shoot through his body. I should have heard him approach. How?

    “Thank you very much sir,” Manzeppi said loudly, taking a glass of champagne. A moment later, he lowered the volume. “By the way, don’t think about going for a gun or other weapon. That tray you’re holding will slow you down for a split second, long enough to ensure you won’t succeed.”

    “I wouldn’t dream of it,” Kuryakin said coldly.

    “I’m sure your friend Mr. Solo must be about.”

    “One never knows with Napoleon.”

    Manzeppi grinned. “You know, Mr. Kuryakin, you do have a dry, understated kind of wit.”

    “Really?”

    Manzeppi produced a cigar and put it in his mouth. “Yes. I hate dry, understated wit.”

    The large man blew through the cigar. A fine dust hit Kuryakin in the face and instantly he struggled for breath. His world went black and the tray of champagne glasses went flying.

    As the Russian hit the floor, Manzeppi let out in a booming voice, “This man is having a heart attack! He needs medical attention.” He repeated the sentences in French.

    The crowd stopped in their tracks, turning their heads to see what the commotion was about. A dozen rushed to the slumped form of Kuryakin on the floor. Manzeppi, however, didn’t wait for their arrival and, for someone so large, moved gracefully away.

***

    Napoleon Solo, standing just outside the reception area, nearly jumped when he heard Count Manzeppi’s voice over the communicator. Illya hadn’t broken the connection and Solo had heard everything.

    His mind raced. If Manzeppi was making a move, he was probably going for Caroline Travers. But Kuryakin could be hurt, or worse. Solo swallowed hard, because he knew there was only one real answer. He had to protect the woman, the apparent object of Manzeppi’s attention. She had to be the key to figuring out all this. However, Solo half muttered a prayer as he ran back inside.

    Off to the right, he could see more than a dozen people converging at the same spot. That must be Illya, Solo thought. Then, about twenty-five feet to the left, Caroline Travers stood by herself, her head crooked, as if she were trying to see what was happening.

    Solo hastened his steps.

    A short man with a goatee was coming up behind her. It was Malik.

    The U.N.C.L.E. agent was at least fifteen feet away.

    “Caroline! Behind you!”

    Caroline’s head jerked toward Solo, a grimace on her face. She started to speak, but Malik reached from behind with his left hand, which was holding a handkerchief. He covered Caroline’s mouth with the cloth. She struggled for a second, but then went limp.

    God, can’t anyone see this? Solo thought. He now had the U.N.C.L.E. Special out of his shoulder holster. Suddenly, the agent spotted a tall, thin man throwing a tiny round object. It burst in front of Solo and he almost felt cold. So cold, he couldn’t move.

    Solo stopped but could see another man, dressed all in black, come up to assist Malik with carrying away Caroline. But he was helpless to stop them. Then the thin man struck Solo behind the neck with a karate blow, sending him to the floor.

    Just as everything was turning dark, Solo thought he heard a booming voice.

    “No, take him with us. I could use an audience.” Then, the last thing he heard before unconsciousness was a deep, throaty laughter.

Act IV
``Explanations And Resolutions''

    Kuryakin forced himself to awaken. At first all he saw were gray, hazy shapes. Then, the images sharpened and lightened and he could see men and women staring down at him. He shook his head, and then realized he had a sharp headache.

    The Russian took a deep breath, and then tried to sit up but he became dizzy and his vision clouded again. He lay back down, breathed normally then sat up again. Voices bombarded his skull, a mix of French and English. He tried to wave them off, but the voices were insistent. “Wait here for a doctor,” someone said in French. Instead, Kuryakin struggled to his feet and looked around. He separated himself from the crowd and looked about. He checked the miniature microphone. “Napoleon. Napoleon!”

    The connection was dead. Illya then took out the standard U.N.C.L.E. communicator and made a quick call. “Open Channel D, Paris station. Urgent.”

***

    A few minutes earlier, just outside the hotel, passerbys witnessed a scene, but only a few people actually stopped to watch. A woman and a man were wheeled in separately into the back. The vehicle was somewhat larger than the typical Parisian vehicle, but few, if any, of the pedestrians really noticed that. The only other unusual sight -- and someone would have to be watching for it -- was the large pudgy hand flicking cigar ash out of the passenger window of the ambulance. Smoking a cigar is not standard procedure for an ambulance attendant on a run but the cigar was just a blur as the ambulance pulled into the night traffic.

    If they could see inside the ambulance, the pedestrians could better appreciate how different this vehicle was. The thin man searched through Napoleon Solo’s pockets. The first thing he found was the U.N.C.L.E. pen communicator. He grabbed it by both ends, strained for a second, then broke it in two. The man then patted down Solo, finding other objects he had been instructed to search for. Satisfied, he took a quicker look at Caroline Travers and rifled through her small purse. Then, he tapped at the forward wall of the compartment.

    “Yes, Bruno?” Manzeppi asked.

    “I found all those devices on the man. Nothing on the woman.”

    “Excellent,” Manzeppi said. “Malik, get us to the airport as quickly as you can, will you? We have a long journey ahead.”

***

    Philippe Raymond gave his overcoat to the secretary and went straight toward the infirmary. As the sliding door opened, he saw a physician shining a small flashlight into Illya Kuryakin’s eyes. Kuryakin was sitting up on an examination table. The Paris station chief thought the Russian looked haggard, his shoulders slumped. Kuryakin’s bow tie was undone and his dinner jacket draped over a nearby chair.

    “Illya, are you all right?”

    The physician turned around. “He has ingested a rather potent relaxant,” he said. “There seems to be some side effects. I believe he should be held over for observation.”

    “I’m fine,” Kuryakin said.

    “Doctor, let me talk to Mr. Kuryakin for a few minutes,” Raymond said. “We’ll confer immediately afterward.”

    The physician frowned. “As you wish. Talk here, no sense making him move about this office.” With that, the doctor left without saying another word.

    Kuryakin rubbed his head.

    “Are you all right, Illya?” Raymond said, as he stepped up to the examination table.

    “I’ll be all right,” Illya responded. “Right now, my pride is injured more than any physical after effects.”

    “What happened?”

    “It was Hubris, or Manzeppi, or whatever he calls himself now. He came up from behind. How someone that large could utilize stealth as a weapon, I cannot fathom.” He sighed. “Perhaps I am getting too old for this.”

    Illya said nothing for a few seconds and then continued. “It was almost as if he materialized behind me. I was talking to Napoleon on the special radio. I should have been able to sense someone coming up from behind, certainly a four-hundred pound man. I had a tray of champagne glasses, pretending to be a waiter. Before I could make a move, he blew this dust from his cigar. I was overcome long enough for him to kidnap Professor Travers and Napoleon.”

    Raymond rubbed his chin. “I wonder why he took Napoleon, instead of merely killing him.”

    “I do not know,” Kuryakin said. “But since adopting this Manzeppi guise, it is as if he adopted an entirely different personality. There are many aspects to this affair that make little sense.”

    Before either man could speak again, the infirmary’s intercom buzzed. “Monsieur Raymond, this is Communications. We have picked up an U.N.C.L.E. homing signal. It has been isolated to a private plane that took off from DeGaulle Airport a show while ago.”

    Raymond looked at Kuryakin. “Could it be?”

    Kuryakin’s face brightened. “Napoleon had planted a homing device on Caroline Travers. Very small, it was intended as a way to keep track of her at least for this evening.”

    Raymond walked to the intercom. “Do we have information on the flight plan yet?”

    “Just receiving it now,” said the Communications officer. “Appears to be going to Cyprus.”

    The Paris station chief again turned toward Kuryakin. “Hubris ‘died’ on Cyprus. That is where Napoleon and I saw his supposed body in a church.”

    Raymond again switched on the intercom. “Any information on the plane?”

    “A transport plane.”

    “Notify DeGaulle that the U.N.C.L.E. jet will need emergency clearance as soon as we can get it ready to fly. Have a crew assemble immediately.”

    Kuryakin stood up and reached for his dinner jacket. “I hope there is room for one more.”

    Raymond raised his eyebrows. “Are you sure you are up to it? The doctor seemed to feel you should rest.”

    “I will sleep on the plane,” Kuryakin said.

    Raymond once again switched on the intercom and flipped a switch. “Have supplies get some spare clothing reading for Monsieur Kuryakin. He does not have enough time to go by his hotel and he has a flight to catch.”

***

    The first Napoleon Solo noticed was a woman’s voice. At first, he couldn’t make out the words, only the tone. As the seconds passed, he could tell it was Caroline Travers’s voice but he still couldn’t determine exactly what she was saying. Part of the difficulty was due to his own fuzzy thinking, it was hard to concentrate. But there was also a loud hum of some kind in the background.

    It was only then that Solo felt up to opening his eyes. It took a couple of seconds to focus. He was in a large compartment of some kind. In the middle, was a large vehicle pained to look like an ambulance. In front of the vehicle, he could see Caroline Travers tied in a chair. Three powerful lights shined on her. However, she seemed not to notice. Her eyes were large and glassy and she continued to talk, without hesitation.

    Solo now felt his own bonds. He strained for a moment, testing whether there was any give. There was none. That was to be expected, the agent thought. He glanced to his side. The thin man sat in a chair, his armed cross, his gaze squarely on Solo.

    Solo breathed deeply, then relaxed and again turned his attention to what Caroline was saying. For the first time, he could make out a few words but the hum outside made it difficult. Then, Solo felt the compartment move up and down very slightly. A plane. C-130, maybe, he thought.

    Caroline continued to speak, calmly and without break. It was a soulless voice, the kind of prattle coming from someone who is drugged. Solo could make out some chemical formulas being mentioned, but the damn hum made it impossible to put make out more than a few words at a time.

    Then she stopped. But the compartment wasn’t silent long. A few seconds later, the deep, flem-coated laughter of Count Manzeppi filled the plane.

    Seconds passed, followed by the sounds of footsteps on the hard floor surface. It wasn’t until Manzeppi was almost on top of him that Solo could see the hulking figure emerge from the shadows.

    Manzeppi looked first at the thin man in the chair. “Has he been awake long, Bruno?”

    “Not long. Fifteen minutes at most.”

    Manzeppi smirked. “Good.” He laughed softly then looked at the agent. “I’m sorry about the accommodations but we had to leave in a bit of a hurry, Mr. Solo.”

    “Any time you wake up alive under such circumstances, one can’t complain too much.” The agent again looked toward Caroline Travers. She continued to sit at attention, her eyes still wide open and her mouth slightly agape.

    “What about Professor Travers? I would hate to think your, eh, therapy might cause any permanent impairments.”

    Manzeppi glanced back at the scientist. “From that session. No, my dear sir, you needn’t worry -- at least about that session. I believe I have what I need, but I need to keep her alive in case my little project needs additional work.”

    “I see,” Solo said, looking toward Bruno for a second, then returning his gaze toward Manzeppi. “And, not to sound ungrateful, am I still alive?”

    The large man laughed yet again. “It’s the thespian in me, Mr. Solo. I have encountered many men in my lifetime who could appreciate what I’m about to accomplish. But you’re one of the few, perhaps the only one, still alive. Don’t worry, I shall execute you shortly thereafter.”

    “I see,” Solo replied. “When does the show begin?”

    “A few hours from now.”

***

       Jacques Malveaux once again checked the monitoring device. The readouts hadn’t changed. He looked ahead to the pilot and co-pilot. “Maintain your heading,” Malveaux said in French. The pilot nodded without looking back.

    Malveaux then got up from his station and made his way back to the passenger compartment. There, the blonde Russian sat, gazing out the window into the darkness of the night sky. The man was tense, like a coiled spring.

    “Monsieur Kuryakin,” Malveaux said to the passenger. “We still have a fix on the homing device. While we have made up much ground, it does appear the transport plane will make it to Nicosia approximately thirty minutes ahead of us.”

    Illya Kuryakin looked at Malveaux, who Phillippe Raymond described as one of the Paris station’s most able Section Two operatives.

    “Any hope the authorities could slow them up at the airport?”

    “I’m afraid not. It’s a rather a bureaucratic mess, evidently. We may lack enough time to get it straightened out.”

    In front of Kuryakin was a small table. On the top was a map of Cyprus. Kuryakin unfolded it, leaned up to the overhead light and shined it on the map.

    “I’m reasonably sure they are headed somewhere in that vicinity,” he said, pointing to the map. “Napoleon and I saw what appeared to be the corpse of Colonel Hubris there. Unfortunately, it appears we were premature.”

    Malveaux glanced at the map. “Some rough terrain around there. We’ve arranged to get a sport-utility vehicle, we may need it.”

    “I just hope we can pinpoint their ultimate destination in time,” Kuryakin said.

***

    The C-130 landed at the Nicosia airport and taxied to a private hangar. The rear hatch slowly opened. The first early-morning light entered the compartment. Bruno got up from his seat, took out a Glock handgun and aimed it square at Solo. Malik and the plane’s co-pilot came from the aircraft’s cockpit and tended to Caroline Travers, who still was in a drugged state. Count Manzeppi got up from his seat, near Caroline, and also walked to Solo.

    “While I am most interested in an audience, I am not so eager as to endanger my little project, Mr. Solo. Bruno here has most explicit instructions. The slightest flinch will result in him dispatching you. Plus, he is about to have some assistance in keeping an eye on you.”

    Solo glanced at the barrel of the Glock.

    “Considering the fact it will take some time to restore the circulation to my arms thanks to these bonds, I think I’d be pretty foolish to attempt anything just yet.”

    Manzeppi chuckled. “I hoped you’d see it that way.”

    Outside of the plane, a Ford Expedition sport-utility vehicle roared up to the open hatch. Two more men emerged from the vehicle. The first looked to be about three hundred pounds, a triple chin and small mustache. He wore a very skinny tie with his black suit. The other man was thin, even thinner than Bruno, with an elongated chin.

    They’re like Laurel and Hardy, Solo thought. But then he saw the assassins with holding assault rifles. Also “Laurel’s” face was a distorted reverse image of the comedian’s. Instead of a befuddled grin, his face had a grimace. The eyes, staring at Solo, burned with disdain.

    “Gentlemen,” Manzeppi said, “help Bruno keep watch on Mr. Solo here.” He turned his attention toward Caroline Travers. “Malik, help Professor Travers into the vehicle. In her current state, she should be most compliant.”

    They spent several minutes getting settled into the Expedition. The group was joined by yet another man -- a large chested, no neck thug, who took the driver’s position. Solo was told by Bruno to sit in the front passenger seat. Solo mentally cursed to himself. It’d be difficult to make a move on the driver and everyone else could keep Solo in view. The seats had been rearranged to give the most legroom to the final row in back. It was there that Manzeppi sat with the drugged Caroline Travers. In between, the four assassins -- Malik, Bruno and Laurel and Hardy, as Solo now thought of the new pair -- all sat two by two. All had their weapons out, all had Solo in their sights.

    The Expedition spent the better part of an hour driving out of Nicosia and into the country. Another forty minutes and paved roads turned to rutted grooves on the ground. At that point, the Expedition began to rock with the ups and downs of the terrain. Solo was mentally calculating times and distances but knew from Manzeppi’s previous words why he was being allowed to see all this -- the good count, or colonel, or whatever he was, had no intention of leaving the U.N.C.L.E. agent alive.

    Then, the roads got smooth again -- at least relatively smooth -- as vehicle came into the village that Solo and Kuryakin had visited those months ago. The Expedition didn’t stop as it passed the small church and headed out of into the country once more. The road again narrowed.

    From the back, Solo heard a noise from Manzeppi.

    He glanced back and saw the four thugs tense. In the far back row, Manzeppi was studying the back of Caroline’s dress. The scientist herself had not yet come around.

    “Bruno,” Manzeppi said, “I thought you said you inspected the woman.”

    The thin Bruno, who was in the row immediately ahead of Manzeppi, turned around.

    “Yes, yes I did.”

    “Then how,” Manzeppi said, holding the homing device between his thumb and forefinger, “did you miss this?”

    Bruno turned white as Manzeppi crushed the homer in his hand. The large man’s eyes narrowed. Solo thought he could see the anger in them.

    Suddenly, Manzeppi relaxed. “No matter, Cyprus is a large island and we will vacate it before the U-N-C-L-E can possibly interfere.”

    But Solo caught an almost imperceptible nod from Manzeppi toward Malik, who sat next to Bruno. Malik’s face showed just enough change to indicate he caught the meaning.

    I’d hate to be the insurance agent who wrote the policy on Bruno, Solo thought. But, at this stage, I’d hate to be the insurance agent who wrote my policy even worse.

    Solo again looked at Manzeppi. His eyes met Solo’s. The large man had a look of amusement and satisfaction.

    “I must congratulate you, however, Mr. Solo. It must have taken some sleight of hand to plant that device on the professor here. But no more tricks, if you please. Otherwise, I will have to go without in regards to having an audience.”

    Solo said nothing but turned his head forward to look out the front windshield.

***

    “Muerd!” Jacques Malveaux muttered under his breath.

    “What is it?” Illya Kuryakin said, his eyes still looking ahead as he drove the Land Rover.

    Malveaux, sitting in the front seat, had a receiver set on his lap. It resembled a notebook computer, with a screen inside the top, which was now flipped open. The display was green, and a map of the area could be seen.

    “I’ve lost the signal. It’s gone,” Malveaux said. “They either find the homing device or it finally gave out.”

    Kuryakin squinted, recognizing the village he and Solo had visited several months before.

    “But they had gotten through the village? You had said something to that effect a few minutes ago.”

    “Oui. East, perhaps twenty minutes at their current rate of speed -- which can’t be very fast.”

    “And given the size of this village, there can’t be that many roads.”

    “Going east, there appears to be only one.”

    Kuryakin squinted. What is the topography like?”

    “I’ll check.”

    On the screen, data was overlaid over the map, now indicating the terrain of the surrounding area.

    “Nothing different. The roads will not improve at all. Although...”

    “Although, what?” Kuryakin said.

    “There are cave formations some distance east from the village. It’s the only difference in the terrain for miles.”

    Kuryakin took one hand off the steering wheel and began to rub his chin. “It’s a ridiculous gamble, of course.”

    “What is it, Illya?”

    “It is just that Colonel Hubris, as he was known then, had a fondness for caves in a previous encounter Napoleon and I had with him. He used part of a cave as a place to question prisoners. It was where the water rose and fell. He’d tie prisoners down there and see if they would talk. If not, they would drown.” Illya paused. “Actually, he intended to let them drown anyway.”

    Kuryakin was grim as he drove the Land Rover through the village, found the road east and headed toward the caves.

***

    The Expedition stopped near a series of caves that were about one hundred fifty yards from the narrow road. The group got out of the vehicle slowly. Laurel and Hardy exited first and kept their weapons drawn as the others got out one by one. Count Manzeppi assisted Caroline Travers. She shook her head a minute and now seemed more alert than previously.

    “What?” Caroline said as she stepped out.

    “In due course, my dear,” Manzeppi’s commanding voice said. “In due course.”

    Solo got out of the passenger door, deliberating opening it slowly, not wanting to spook Laurel and Hardy into firing their assault rifles.

    Caroline, now completely out of the vehicle, turned and saw Solo. Her eyes widened. She opened her mouth to speak, but no words came for a few seconds.

    “Napoleon?” She looked and saw Laurel and Hardy with their weapons. “No, this must...”

    “Be a dream?” Solo said. “I wish it were.”

    Travers froze. “Is this what you were trying to warn me about?”

    Solo nodded.

    She turned pale. Solo glanced in Manzeppi’s direction, and gestured in Caroline’s direction. “Do you mind?” he said softly.

    “Not at all,” Manzeppi said, moving his arm in an “after you” motion. Solo walked up, put his arm around Caroline. He could feel her trembling.

    “Oh my, God, not again,” she said.

    “Just follow me,” Solo said, squeezing her left hand for a moment. “This stout gentlemen refers to himself these days as Count Manzeppi has made repeated references to wanting an audience. I think we need to cooperate for a bit to ensure we’re alive for the performance, whatever it is.”

    “It is always a pleasure to do business with one who understands the order of things, Mr. Solo,” Manzeppi said.

    The no-neck driver was now by Manzeppi. Malik and Bruno were the last to get out of the Expedition. Manzeppi turned to the latter pair. “Malik, take Bruno here around to the supply tent and have him assist with that task we discussed.”

    Malik’s eyes twinkled just a little too much, Solo thought.

    Manzeppi now had an old-style cloak on over his large suit, which included a string tie. He moved briskly toward the second cave, an enormous opening in the side of the rocky hill. “This way, Mr. Solo, Professor Travers. A performer never wants to wait.”

    Solo, keeping his arm around Caroline, got her following the huge man. Behind them, Laurel, Hardy and the no-neck thug followed. Just as they got to the cave entrance, they heard a faint scream in the distance.

    Caroline jerked in the direction of the noise. Solo squeezed her tighter. He didn’t turn because he didn’t have to. Manzeppi also looked back, his face breaking into a large smile.

    “Well you know what they say,” Manzeppi said, chuckling. “Good help is hard to find.”

    Manzeppi turned and proceeded into the cave, and began feeling along the cave wall. A second later, Manzeppi pushed down on a spot. The cave wall in that spot had been replaced with a panel that opened. On the panel was a switch, which Manzeppi then flipped. Lights all over the cave became activated.

    Solo and Caroline looked around but the agent felt a nudge from behind. He looked ahead and saw Count Manzeppi was walking again.

    The group followed for several minutes. The cave ceiling wasn’t especially low but Solo felt the urge to duck his head every few seconds. Then, the cave opened up into a large open area. In the middle was a pool of calm, green water. On the other side of the pool, laboratory equipment had been set up on top of a long, rectangular table. The lights there were the brightest in the cave. Manzeppi dropped his cloak on a chair and put on a white lab coat that hung from a coat rack.

    “You’re no doubt wondering why I brought you here,” Manzeppi said as he put the coat on.

    “It had crossed my mind,” Solo said.

    Manzeppi again let out with one of his throaty laughs. “I knew it had.”

    The large man bent over the table, then turned on a Bunsen burner, which was connected to a small, portable tank of natural gas. He lit the flame, and then turned his attention to a half dozen empty test tubes.

    Manzeppi stood up once. “Alchemy has such a bad reputation in the modern world,” he said. “All those fools trying to turn lead into gold. In reality, there were many great breakthroughs that were forever lost because the world of the Middle Ages was such a cold, foreboding place.”

    “Is alchemy one of your hobbies, Count Manzeppi?” Solo asked.

    “My dear fellow,” Manzeppi said, pointing toward the pool, “I was one of the leading practitioners and that is my greatest creation.”

    Solo looked at Caroline as Manzeppi let out his longest laugh yet.

***

    Illya Kuryakin parked the Land Rover in a ditch about a kilometer away from the caves. The Russian checked his U.N.C.L.E. Special as did Jacques Malveaux. Illya looked and saw the late afternoon sun would set soon. Both men wore hiking boots, black turtleneck sweaters and dark trousers.

    “I wish we had more to go on than a guess,” Malveaux said.

    “We could keep driving blindly,” Kuryakin replied.

    “I thought it was Monsieur Solo who made the wild gambles.”

    Kuryakin frowned and said nothing. Instead the two men set off toward the caves. They split up and each approached the caves in a wide arc, keeping a close watch for anything out of the ordinary. The rocky terrain provided little cover. But there was little sign of people around. Kuryakin tensed. At a time like this, the temptation was to relax -- a temptation that, in his line of work, could lead to disaster. If anything, he became more observant. He walked up a small hill and, just as he reached the top, caught a glimpse of a vehicle ahead. Kuryakin backed away, and then grouched down along the rocky soil. He then lay on his stomach until he reached the top of the hill.

    The Russian again looked ahead. The vehicle was a Ford Expedition, parked near the caves, which were on the side of a very tall, jagged hill. He scanned left. There was a large tent. Further left, he saw a man digging a shallow hole. Even from this distance he could tell it was Malik. But what was he doing?

    Then, Kuryakin got his answer. Malik walked toward the Expedition. From the other side of the vehicle -- until now obscured from Kuryakin’s vision -- Malik dragged a corpse. Kuryakin reached to his U.N.C.L.E. Special and detached the scope. He got a look a look at the body and breathed a quick sigh of relief. It was no one he recognized. At least it’s not Napoleon, Kuryakin thought.

    Illya reattached the scope to the gun, but reached into a pocket for another magazine. This one contained the special U.N.C.L.E. sleep darts. He extracted the magazine that contained cartridges and inserted the sleep darts.

    Below, Malik had finished placing the corpse in the shallow grave and was covering it over. Kuryakin had the weapon aimed at Malik’s torso.

    Too many unanswered questions, Kuryakin thought. I have to take him alive, no matter how potentially painful that may be.

    Illya pulled the trigger smoothly. Malik grabbed at his chest, let out a barely audible yelp and fell down by the grave.

    Kuryakin still barely moved. He took the U.N.C.L.E. communicator from his pocket and activated a closed channel.

    “Malveaux here,” the French agent said.

    “It appears this was not such a wild gamble after all,” Illya said. “Any assistance you could provide would be greatly appreciated.”

    Malveaux grunted and paused for a second. “Of course. I will be there presently.”

***

    “What are you saying?” Caroline Travers voice burst out. “You’re some kind of Methuselah?”

    Solo’s eyes focused on Manzeppi. The large man did not flinch. His eyes were clear. His manner was steady and calm.

    “Let’s merely say I’ve been around the block -- more than once,” Manzeppi said. “And the contents of this pool were my greatest achievement. But, despite knowing the composition of the fluid, I have never been able to completely duplicate it. Quite frustrating, believe me.”

    “I don’t believe any of this,” she said, the words coming out rapidly. “Even if I did, what does any of this have to do with me?”

    Manzeppi began to pace. “Every time I die, as long as the body is placed within seventy-two hours, the pool brings me back. There is the occasional quirk -- my personality may be a bit different. Sometimes very different.”

    “You’re not answering my question...”

    “I’m getting to that dear lady,” Manzeppi said, a hint of anger in his voice. “People today expect instant gratification.”

    “Excuse me,” Solo said, breaking the tension. “Are you saying that Colonel Hubris was one of your personalities?”

    Manzeppi laughed but said nothing.

    “And you were dead?” Solo continued. “Illya and I weren’t fooled back there in the church?”

    “Very good, Mr. Solo,” Manzeppi said, walking toward them. “Colonel Hubris had indeed died. But once my corpse was placed in the pool, I revived.”

    Solo grimaced. “And emerged this new Count Manzeppi personality?”

    Manzeppi laughed yet again. “Not new. Actually, it’s one of my reoccurring personas. Perhaps because it’s the closest to my original personality. To be honest, I have gone through so many resurrections it’s very hard to remember.”

    Manzeppi grinned yet again, turned away and checked the table, where the Bunsen burner was heating chemicals in a test tube.

    “After this latest revival, I came to two conclusions. One, I never wanted to adopt the Colonel Hubris personality or anything like it again. Too weak. The basic intelligence was there, but some self-defeating tendencies. Also, as Hubris, I had allowed myself to be recruited by Thrush. Very formidable group, of course, but I prefer my independence.”

    Solo’s mind reeled. This was all too strange, too preposterous to take in. But he was alert. He obviously believes all this, the agent thought. Regardless, he’s shown he’s dangerous. That’s all that matters at this point.

    ***

    Malik only knew darkness. He was floating in it, a dreamless void, impossible to tell how much darkness was above, how much was below. Then, there was a sharp pain off to his left. Left? Suddenly he could sense direction. Yes, the pain was coming from the left. Now, there was a light above, which consumed the darkness. Suddenly, the darkness disappeared and above him, there was a blonde man looking down upon him.

    Kuryakin! The U.N.C.L.E. agent! Malik thought. But as he tried to move, he realized bonds held his arms and legs to the ground. He struggled to look and saw a glimpse of his left hand tied with cloth and bound to a stake driven in the ground.

    “Good evening, my friend,” Kuryakin said in a cold voice. “You’re welcome to yell but you should know two things. One we are far enough away from the caves they probably won’t hear you. And even if they should, we have enough firepower to hold them off. You, however....”

    There was a click. Malik looked off to his right. Another man, one he didn’t recognize, stood above him. He acted as if he had just cocked the pistol he held.

    Malik grinned. “You do not have what it takes to kill in cold blood, Mr. Kuryakin.”

    “Under the circumstances, I would not wager my next paycheck on that assumption.” If anything the voice had just turned even colder.

    The Russian continued. “Do you recall feeling a sharp pain a moment ago.”

    “Yes, why?” Malik said.

    “It was a chemical to revive you. You were hit with a sleep-inducing dart. We needed you to awaken sooner than you otherwise would.”

    “If you think I will talk...”

    “The reviving chemical also contains an extra surprise. Something to make you talk.”

    “I will not....”

    “You will tell us why Colonel Hubris betrayed Thrush, to go independent.”

    “Bah! Fool! He is not Hubris anymore. He is Manzeppi.”

    Kuryakin’s face didn’t betray his thoughts. And if I can goad you, my dear Malik, this will be much less painful than it needs to be.

    “We do not have time for such foolishness,” Kuryakin said.

    “Soon the infinity solution will be perfected!” Malik said, his voice rising. “And there is nothing you can do to stop it!”

    Jacques Malveaux wanted desperately to ask what Malik was talking about but had his instructions from Kuryakin to stay silent, no matter what.

    “Oh that,” Kuryakin said. “That will soon be dealt with.”

    Malik laughed. “A bad lie, Mr. Kuryakin. There is no way you could possibly know of the infinity bath. Otherwise, you would know why Colonel Hubris is now Count Manzeppi.”

    Kuryakin’s instincts told him he had extracted all the knowledge he could reasonably expect. In another moment or two it would become obvious to Malik he hadn’t been injected with so-called truth serum or the more modern variety of mixtures aimed at extracting facts.

    “Now,” Kuryakin said.

    Malveaux fired another sleep dart into Malik, who struggled for a second before falling again into unconsciousness.

    “Now what?” Malveaux asked.

    “You head back to the vehicle, summon help and wait there.”

    “What?”

    “The truth is, we still don’t know how many operatives Count Manzeppi has. And if I should fail, we need to ensure the Count has a hollow victory.”

    The Frenchman started to protest but checked himself. Kuryakin’s voice hadn’t invited debate. Instead, Malveaux turned and began hiking back to the Land Rover. Kuryakin quickly undid Malik’s bonds, dragged him to a nearby ditch and tied him up again. The Russian then stuffed a handkerchief into Malik’s mouth and set off for the caves.

***

    Manzeppi took a pair of tongs, picked up the test tube from its holder and held it up to the light. He then turned and emptied the test tube’s contents into the pool. The liquid began to bubble.

    “The problem was two-fold,” Manzeppi said. “The infinity solution, as I called it -- a bit immodest, perhaps -- began to lose its potency. And, over time, this problem of scrambling personalities like eggs got to be too much to take. I knew I had to do something. And, that Professor Travers, is where you came in.”

    “What in the hell are you talking about?”

    “Your recent research, of course.”

    “Plus-X?”

    “No, of course, not, dear lady. Don’t you recall your recent research paper?”

    “Sure, some discussion about brain chemistry....but the material wasn’t much of a breakthrough. Just some research that came about from my Plus-X project -- a project that never panned out.”

    Manzeppi smiled. “In my case, a fortunate failure. You see, I was seeking out all available research I could find. It seems your research had the answers I was seeking. But I had to get a hold of you to make sure.”

    “The plane,” Napoleon Solo said.

    The bubbling in the pool was getting stronger.

    “Yes, Mr. Solo,” Manzeppi replied. “Some drugs appropriate for interrogation just to ensure I had all the information I needed.”

    Just then, there was a loud popping sound from the pool and a plume of liquid shot up. Solo grabbed at Manzeppi. He didn’t care about the rest of Manzeppi’s ramblings.

    “Caroline -- get behind us!”

    Travers was already scrambling toward the laboratory table. Solo got his arm around the flabby throat and kneed Manzeppi in the back. The large man still managed to struggle, and was clearly stronger than he looked.

    A moment later, Solo heard the click of weapons being cocked. He tried to yank Manzeppi over to use him as a shield, to get the thugs to think twice. But Solo wasn’t sure if Manzeppi wouldn’t throw him instead.

    Suddenly, small objects flew through the air. Solo glanced over momentarily. It was Caroline tossing test tubes. The first splattered on the skinny thug Solo dubbed Laurel. At first he seemed unfazed, then all of a sudden he dropped his assault rifle and his shook his arms. Acid, Solo thought.

    Laurel’s flapping about distracted the fat thug Solo mentally referred to as Hardy, with the thin man stumbling into his partner, deflecting his aim. The shots still came too close to Solo’s taste.

    Simultaneously, Caroline threw two more test tubes, one of which turned into a smoky gas upon breaking. Hardy’s eyes watered and he had to pause for a second before he could fire his assault rifle. Laurel was scrambling about, getting off his jacket and trying to scramble away to get water on the acid stain.

    However, Manzeppi broke free of Solo’s hold, nearly sending him backward into the bubbling pool.

    Solo recovered and concentrated on nothing except the four-hundred-pound man. He knew he had to put Manzeppi down -- now. Even if the thugs killed him, they weren’t the threat Manzeppi was.

    The agent made his hand rigid and stabbed at Manzeppi’s mid-section like a dagger. The breath came out of the big man, but he still made a sweeping motion with his right hand, connecting with Solo’s head.

    Solo felt dizzy but pressed ahead with his attack. He made a side kick into Manzeppi’s right leg. The huge man yelled in pain, grabbing  at his knee, which buckled. But as Solo closed in, Manzeppi recovered, grabbing at Solo’s throat, getting both of his fleshy hands around the neck.

    For a split second, Solo wondered why the shots didn’t come. But Manzeppi’s face looming above him -- the eyes turning red, a sudden bloodlust Solo hadn’t seen before in the big man -- quickly became the only thing Solo could think about. A second later, he could begin to feel breath leaving his body. This was it.

    Solo swung his arms upward, attempting to break Manzeppi’s hold. But the fleshy hands maintained their grip. The breath continued to leave Solo. He couldn’t inhale.

    With everything he could summon, he struck karate blows with each hand into the sides of Manzeppi’s head. The attack had just enough force to cause Manzeppi to let go. Solo made a fist with his right hand, connecting with the outer edge of his hand.

    Manzeppi finally fell. Solo scrambled atop the figure and hit him in the chest once, twice, three times as hard as he could. Manzeppi, dazed, lay limp on the cave floor.

    Solo’s vision was clouding, but he knew he had to keep moving. Caroline where was she? He then looked toward the laboratory table. She was taking cover just as a volley of shots finally came.

    The agent tried to find cover but there wasn’t any. He dived, expecting to feel shots tear into his flesh. But as he hit the ground, he saw both Hardy and the no-neck thug who had driven them to these cave turn and jerk violently. The cave was filled with sounds of gunfire but Solo couldn’t tell where they were coming from. A second later, he could see an exit wound in the back of the no-neck thug’s throat just before he fell, dead.

    Throbbing pain burst inside Solo’s head. But the shots stopped and Solo began to standup. Then, he finally saw Illya Kuryakin standing with a fully assembled U.N.C.L.E. Special. He glanced down. It was obvious neither the no-neck nor Hardy would be getting back up.

    “What happened to Laurel?” Solo said.

    “Who?”

    “Thin gentleman, was in a hurry to get out of here, courtesy of some acid.”    “Ah,” Kuryakin said. “Unconscious and now bound. I encountered him as I entered.”

    Solo looked toward the laboratory table where Caroline Travers was now standing. She looked around a second and finally walked to Solo.

    “Napoleon, I..” She didn’t finish the sentence. He reached for her and she embraced him.    Then she stood back. “I didn’t believe you. I should have...”

    “Forget it,” Solo responded. “I’m not sure I believe it all, myself.” He then turned toward Illya. “So the homing device lasted long enough.”

    “Barely, but close enough that a bit of keen deduction ensured I would make it here.”

    Solo nodded. “You guessed, in other words.”

    “I will not dignify such a remark.”

    Before Solo could respond, Manzeppi began to rise. Solo turned and motioned for Caroline to go to Illya.

    “It appears I was careless,” Manzeppi said, feeling at the side of his head. “How I hate when that happens.”

    “Count, you tell some tall tales,” Solo said. “I’m a bit skeptical about your story, but I do think this infinity pool will be of interest to our superiors. It certainly has been costly enough in terms of lives.”

    “I think not, Mr. Solo.”

    Before Solo could move, Manzeppi had a derringer in his right hand. “An antique, but adequate for the purpose.''

The agent remained calm. Illya, standing next to Caroline, had the U.N.C.L.E. Special ready to fire.

    “You’re covered, of course,” Solo said.

     “Of course.”

    Manzeppi turned back toward the laboratory table. He fired once at the natural gas container. A small hole erupted in the metal. Manzeppi began to laugh.

    Kuryakin aimed at Manzeppi but Solo motioned for him to go backwards. Solo grabbed Caroline and the three of them were picking up speed as the second shot hit the gas container. They kept running as the explosion roared through the cave. Rocks began to fall from above but they stayed on their feet until they got to the cave entrance.

    Solo’s ears rang for a minute but he first looked to Caroline. Her face was dirty but she remained composed. Kuryakin dusted himself off as almost nothing had happened.

    “A rather loud conclusion to the affair,” Kuryakin said.

    “Yes, but...”

    Before Solo could finish, there was a faint laughter in the distance. Caroline’s eyes bulged. “That can’t be,” she said. “You both saw that explosion. He couldn’t have survived.”

    Solo and Kuryakin looked at each other briefly. By now, it was early evening, but there was enough light to look around. The laughter continued.

    “Let’s get up this hill!” Solo said.

    The agents found a path and began to climb. They got up the hill as quickly as they could, taking five minutes to get to the top. Upon reaching it, they saw a large opening. They looked around then, Kuryakin gazed upward and tapped Solo on the shoulder.

    When the American looked up he saw a hot-air balloon, fading into the distance, already out of range of Illya’s U.N.C.L.E. Special.

    “We will meet again, gentlemen,” Manzeppi’s voice boomed from the distance. “At a time of my choosing....”  The laughter grew fainter until, thirty seconds later, it faded altogether.

***

    The authorities, accompanied by Jacques Malveaux, arrived shortly there after, taking Malik and the thin, Stan Laurel look-alike assassin into custody. Also, Kuryakin located the shallow grave that contained the remains of the late Bruno, who failed Manzeppi’s test of competency. It would be at least a day or two to dig into the cave to recover the bodies of Manzeppi’s other associates. Despite the late hour, the U.N.C.L.E. agents went straight to the airport in Nicosia and took the private U.N.C.L.E. jet to Paris.

    Shortly after twelve noon the next day, and after several hours of sleep, Solo and Kuryakin accompanied Caroline Travers to Phillippe Raymond’s office in the Paris station. Alexander Waverly listened in on a Trans-Atlantic connection.

    “Colonel Hubris, or Count Manzeppi or whoever he is must have been delusional,” Waverly said. “None of this makes much sense.”

    “Perhaps, sir,” Kuryakin replied. “Except there was the affair several years ago involving Madame DeSala and the device she arranged to be constructed.”

    “A device based on science, built by a renowned scientist, Mr. Kuryakin, even if the man kept all of his records in a code that has never been deciphered.” Waverly’s voice indicated he was not debating the subject.

    The Number One of Section One paused. “Nevertheless, I must concur with your conclusion that Manzeppi needs to be added to the various independent threats for which U.N.C.L.E. must deal with. Professor Travers?”

    “Yes, Mr. Waverly?”

    “I hope you’re not too worse for the wear. I’d have preferred Mr. Solo prevent your abduction from the outset, but...”

    “I’m fine, Mr. Waverly,” Caroline said. She showed a hint of a smile, then added, “And Mr. Solo did fine. Mr. Kuryakin, too.”

    “Very well,” Waverly said from across the Atlantic Ocean. “Gentlemen, take a couple of days off, but be here by next Monday. Waverly out.”

    Caroline now looked at Solo. She seemed relaxed, her eyes were clear. There was something different about her this morning. A look of relief? Perhaps. But there was something else, but Solo couldn’t quite figure it out.

    Phillippe Raymond turned off the communications console. “Professor Travers, thank you again for your time this morning. I will arrange for you to be escorted to the visitor’s exit.”

    “Never mind about that, Phillippe,” Solo said. “I’ll be happy to show the professor the way.”

    Kuryakin and Raymond glanced at each other for a second. “As you wish,” Raymond finally said. “Good day, Professor.”

    After Napoleon and Caroline departed, the station chief again looked at Kuryakin. “That didn’t take long.”

    “They have an interesting history,” Kuryakin replied, and shrugged his shoulders.

***

    As they reached the security desk, Solo took the visitor’s badge from Caroline’s dress and gave it to the receptionist.

    “Every time you see me, I seem to get into trouble,” she said.

    “Yes,” Solo said. “I suppose that’s one reason I’ve stayed away. Among other things.”

    Caroline smiled, the first time in a long time Solo had seen her do so. “I suppose I’ve learned one thing through all this -- or rather re-learned something.”

    “What’s that?”

    “You can’t take anything for granted. In your line of work, I suppose you know that all too well.”

    “I suppose I do,” Solo said. “So, to avoid taking things for granted, how about a memorable dinner tonight at a five-star restaurant? Say around nine?”

    Caroline took out her glasses and put them on. “I have a little work to take care of, but it won’t take long. Dinner sounds wonderful.”

    The breakfast they had was even better.

THE END

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