Act I

Act I

"Thrown For a Loss"

    Napoleon Solo's head hurt so much it pained him just to look ahead. Even his eyes seemed to throb.

    He shook his head for a moment. The aspirin tablets he had taken earlier in the flight had not taken effect. The flight attendant, noticing this, walked up to his aisle seat in the first-class section.

    "Senore Solo, is there anything I can get for you? A glass of wine perhaps?"

    No, another glass of wine -- or cocktail, for that matter -- was the last thing he needed. He had plenty the past week.

    "Just some club soda, please," Solo said.

    The woman looked at him with her large brown eyes but Solo was oblivious so she said nothing and walked away.

    Solo's thoughts were only how miserable he felt. He hadn't slept much the past seven days. There was the long trip from New York to Rome by air, a not-so-quick bus trip to the coast and finally a lousy boat ride to Terbuf, a rocky, miserable spot on the Balkan map. He blinked as he remembered -- yet again -- the long nights staying up with Clara Richards, emaciated and weak, as she spent her last hours on Earth. Only the surprise of seeing his U.N.C.L.E. colleague Illya Kuryakin had lifted his spirits. But the effect was temporary, with Illya having to leave immediately after the funeral. Afterwards, Solo, with the help of Clara's gypsy friends, had arranged for the meager estate to be settled. Much was still up in the air but Solo couldn't wait. The summons from Alexander Waverly the previous day would permit no dawdling.

    "Mr. Solo, you're going to have to move up your time table to depart Terbuf," Waverly said after Solo answered the whine of his U.N.C.L.E. communicator. "It appears a matter in Rome to which I assigned Mr. Kuryakin is of greater importance than it initially appeared. I'd like both of you there, please."

    Solo had stared at the pen communicator in silence.

    "Mr. Solo, I know you can hear me," Waverly said. "I think you will agree we've been most accommodating of your recent trip. I would appreciate it if you would reciprocate the courtesy."

    "Yes, sir," Solo said without emotion. "May I ask what this matter concerns."

    "Mr. Kuryakin can brief you. Just get over to Rome by tomorrow. Waverly out."

    "Senore Solo, did you hear me?"

    The flight attendant's voice cut through the unfolding memory. "I'm sorry, what..."

    "Your club soda, senore," she said, smiling.

    "Thank you," he said, taking the cup from her and putting the tray table down in front of him.

    "You look troubled, senore. Are you sure there is nothing else I can get for you?"

    A week ago, had he been in the same situation, Solo might have seen this as an opportunity. But the thought hardly crept into his consciousness. "No, really. I've been on the run. I'm just tired. Thank you, anyway, stewardess."

    She sighed softly but Solo's thoughts were already back in Terbuf, remembering Clara's last night and the following morning when her pain finally ended. Years ago, he had nearly married Clara but his work -- the United Network Command for Law and Enforcement -- had ultimately kept them apart. A little over a year ago, having heard about her multiple sclerosis, he had traveled again to Terbuf and they had reconciled, talking out matters and emotions they had left silent. U.N.C.L.E. had ripped them apart in life and now it was cutting short his time for mourning. Solo had once called Waverly the old fox as a term of endearment, but in the past twenty-four hours he had started thinking of a few cruder terms.

    Illya Kuryakin had suspected he should give himself at least an extra hour to make the journey southwest from central Rome to Leonardo Da Vinci International Airport. The snarling traffic along the Roma Fiumicino Autoroute had eaten into nearly all of his cushion. By the time he entered the terminal for Trans Global Airlines flights, he estimated he had at most a seven-minute margin before Napoleon Solo's flight arrived.

    The airport was like much of Rome -- crowded and chaotic, with people scurrying about, seemingly in a great hurry. This offended Kuryakin's sense of orderliness. Rome was more of a city for Napoleon, a place where he could indulge his appetite for fine wine, good food and beautiful women, not necessarily in that order. Well, at least most times that would be the case. The Russian wondered about the mood of his friend. A few days ago, in Terbuf, Kuryakin had seen a side of Solo he rarely experienced.

    It would be incorrect to say Napoleon Solo was not a serious man. He was expert in his job and had a knack for not letting seemingly impenetrable barriers prevent him from succeeding. But Solo also had a self-assuredness that bordered on the offensive, a confidence that could sometimes irritate. Perhaps it was the combination of being both good and lucky. In Terbuf, however, Kuryakin had seen Solo confront the death of an old love. It was almost as if a piece of himself -- a piece long buried -- had died also.

    Kuryakin then spotted Solo coming through the passenger gate. He looked different somehow, Illya thought. Though dressed with his usual elan, Solo looked a bit pale, perhaps a bit lighter than usual. Then again, perhaps that was to be expected. During his brief stay in Terbuf, Kuryakin had hardly seen Solo eat. His friend's eyes were weary, the look of someone who had seen too much.

    As Solo approached, Kuryakin thought some of the life returned to the face but it was still not the same man he had known for years.

    "How goes it, my friend?" Kuryakin said, extending his hand. It was a gesture he didn't often do in Napoleon's company. They had worked so long, so often, it rarely seemed necessary.

    Solo shook Kuryakin's hand but the grip was tentative and brief. "Not the most pleasant flight. Not too many direct connections from Terbuf."

    "I know," Kuryakin said.

    "I'm sorry, of course you do," Solo said. "Well, let's get my bag and get on with it, shall we?"

    "Now don't try this at home," Linda O'Neill said, "but the world can be a rough place. Let's say somebody comes up from behind, like so."

    At that moment, a man in a karate uniform ran up to Linda's back. She elbowed him, grabbed his right arm and threw him over her shoulder. After landing on the mat, she quickly kneeled down and made a punching motion at his ribs, her fist stopping an inch away.

    The dozen students applauded, and one of the boys hooted, and waved his fist in the air.

    The brunette woman got up and smiled, then looked down at the man lying on the mat. She bent over and helped him up.

    "I think that wraps up the show, ladies and gentlemen," Linda said, tugging the black belt to her suit tighter. "I only agreed to put on this show if you all would hit the books harder."

    "Aw, Miss O'Neill, just one more," one of the eighth-grade boys said.

    Linda looked at the man who picked himself off the map. "Well, Rodney, do we have any planks handy?"

    "Sure," Rodney replied. "Anything for your public."

    As Rodney went away, the eight graders, who were sitting on the gymnasium floor, Indian style, shifted their positions. "Now, the only reason I'm doing is this is to demonstrate something. With the proper knowledge and desire, you can accomplish almost anything. Now, a lot of you come from some pretty privileged backgrounds. Your parents must be doing pretty well with their companies to draw an assignment to work abroad in a place like Rome. What you don't see is how hard they might have worked to get where they are."

    "Not another lecture," one of the boys whispered to one of the girls.

    "I heard that Mr. Carroll," Linda said.

    Rodney arrived and held up the wooden plank. "OK, Linda. I'm ready."

    "OK, Mr. Carroll, how tall would you say I am?"

    "Uh, I'm not sure. Maybe five-six?"

    "Five-foot-four, a hundred fifteen pounds dripping wet," Linda said. "Take a look at that board. Pretty solid, huh?"

    "Yeah, guess so."

    "All right, Rodney. Hold on tight."

    The man held up the board in front of him, his knuckles turning white. From a standing start, Linda kicked at the board, yelling loudly as her kick reached its apex. The board snapped in two and Linda landed gracefully.

    The students applauded again, even Larry Carroll, the wise acre of the class.

    "Now the only reason I could do that is because I was taught pretty well and I had the desire to do well," she said. "But you've got to put the same kind of effort into our algebra lessons. Now, do you want to see some more?"

    The students hooted in unison.

    "No more free samples," Linda said. "You want to see more of this stuff. You gotta pay. And that means you all ace the mid terms."

    That got a mixed reaction, with some mock booing but Linda could tell she had gotten the message across.

    "All right, end of lecture. Thanks for staying after school. You know your homework, go do it, OK? See you tomorrow."

    As the students dispersed, Rodney Culpepper went up to Linda. "A little unorthodox way of teaching math and algebra, isn't it?"

    "It's a razzle-dazzle world," Linda said. "Sometimes you got to give them some sizzle with the steak."

    "Well, I hope he agrees," Rodney said, pointing behind Linda.

    A pudgy, clean-shaven bald man wearing an ill-fitting suit approached. "Not exactly the standard curriculum, is it Linda?"

    "Rodney and I were just discussing that point," Linda said, taking her hair down. "This is just my way of reaching out, Mr. Knight."

    "Leonard, please," Knight said. "Your math students are already this school's best performers, Linda."

    "Well, that group has one or two laggards who are smart enough, they just need some motivation," she said. "So I put on a bit of a show here, with Rodney's help."

    Leonard Knight looked up briefly at Rodney. Then, turning back to Linda, he said: "I wish you would have told me. I am the principal of this school for Americans after all."

    "OK, Leonard, next time I'll get your permission first."

    "What next time?"

    "If they ace the mid terms, there'll be a next time. If not here in the gym, maybe off hours."

    Knight shook his head. "I heard you were a bit of a dynamo."

    "Just trying stuff and using what works," she said.

    "Linda!"

    Just then, another man came into the gym. He had the look of old money, his pin striped suit looking fresh, with crisp creases in his trousers. His black hair was short and neat and his round glasses looked as if they didn't have a single spot on them.

    "I heard you were here," Benton Douglas said, just before he gave Linda a quick kiss.

    "Benton, this isn't like you, getting off work early, I mean."

    "Who's off work? I was lucky to get away from the Embassy for fifteen minutes," Douglas said.

    "Benton, this is Leonard Knight, the school principal, and my pajama-ed partner is Rodney Culpepper, another teacher here."

    "Great," Douglas said. "Listen, the real reason I came by is to let you know that we've got to change our plans for tomorrow night."

    "Oh, Benton, you've been promising me a good dinner for weeks. Now you're canceling?"

    "Not exactly," Douglas said. "The Embassy has scheduled a special kickoff reception for that conference that's in town."

    "What, the ecological conference?"

    "The very one," he said. "I've got to help out the Ambassador. But I got you an invitation. At least we can spend some time together."

    "Oh not one of those stuffy affairs," Linda protested.

    "Now you know you look great in that evening dress of yours," he said.

    Linda rolled her eyes. "And just how long will I get to talk to you?"

    "I'll try and make time."

    "Well, I suppose you look decent in a tux. All right, I suppose."

    "Great," he said. "Well, gotta get back. There's a ton of things to plan for tomorrow night." He gave her another quick kiss and started to walk away.

    Linda rolled her eyes, then looked at Rodney. "Sometimes it's a little hard dating somebody who's such a workaholic."

    "Oh, Linda, Benton seems like a good guy," Rodney said.

    "Just like a man, defend your own kind," Linda said. "Well, I bet if you checked his daily planner, he wrote out the specific time he gave me those two smooches. Well, fellas, I better change and get going myself. See you tomorrow." Knight just looked at her in silence as she left the gym.

    "A nerve gas bomb?" Napoleon Solo asked.

    "Yes, a fairly crude design but it would have been effective had it gone off," Kuryakin said as he pulled the Fiat into the garage.

    "Any message?"

    "A note, with letters cut out from magazines. It said something to the effect that next time there would be no warning unless the industrialized nations got serious about cleaning up the environment."

    The two men got out of the car and walked toward an elevator. Kuryakin took out a key and used it in a slot. After reaching the ground floor, the rear wall of the elevator car opened and they walked into a hallway. After a taking a circuitous route they reached the main offices of U.N.C.L.E.-Rome.

    "Mr. Cavetti will want to talk to both of us, I'm sure," Kuryakin said. "He wants to be in on the action. He's a bit territorial that way."

    "Swell," Solo said, no emotion in his voice.

    A few minutes later, they reached the office of Ricardo Cavetti, the Rome station chief. His office was a smaller version of Waverly's New York office. A twin to the Waverly office was next door, but its use was reserved for Waverly or the other four members of U.N.C.L.E.'s Section One policy-making body.

    "Welcome Senor Solo. Did you have a good flight to Roma?" Cavetti said.

    "Not especially," Solo said.

    Cavetti stared at Solo for a moment. "I was told you were handling a personal matter, Senor Solo and I should be considerate. But I do not appreciate an insolent attitude."

    Solo looked at the graying man for a moment. The agent, tired from the ordeal of the past few days, didn't especially feel like making chitchat but hadn't felt he had insulted the man, either. However, Solo was also aware of territorial impulses. Station chiefs sometimes resented it when "uncle Alex" -- it wasn't always a nickname given with affection -- assigned enforcement agents from one of the five major regional offices to an affair originating with a smaller station office. After all, these station chiefs believed, their enforcement agents were good operatives as well. Some station chiefs, like Phillipe Raymond in Paris, were quite flexible and Solo had a high regard for them. But Cavetti had a reputation as arrogant and pretentious. In his current dismal mood, it would be harder for Solo to hide his feelings, but he decided to give it a try.

    "I apologize," Solo said. "Please continue."

    "Certainly," Cavetti said in a slight Italian accent. "Has Mr. Kuryakin, how do you say, filled you in?"

    "Yes, a nerve gas bomb found just outside the U.S. Embassy moments after a mysterious telephone call was received there. A warning was attached that industrialized nations need to be serious about cleaning up the environment or else there would be no warning next time. Apparently, a simple device."

    "Yes, our thinking is that it is not Thrush but some other menace. A radical environmental group of some kind. It has all been kept silent from the public to prevent any panic with the ecological conference about to start. Mr. Waverly sent Mr. Kuryakin here to do a routine security check when the bomb was found. Now he believes U.N.C.L.E. should have more of a presence, so he has sent you to join your illustrious colleague."

    The man was dripping sarcasm, Solo thought. But he was too tired to care by this point. Another menace, another job. Did any of it really matter?

    "The conference starts on Thursday?"

    "Correct," Cavetti said. "But the United States Embassy is holding a reception, a sort of pre-conference social event tomorrow night, Tuesday. Many of the delegates will be there."

    "Security should be tight. Perhaps Mr. Kuryakin and myself can be there as well. Can you arrange that?"

    Cavetti reached into the breast pocket of his suit coat and withdrew an envelope. "We are a perfectly functioning station, Mr. Solo. I have already thought of that. It is black tie."

    Solo took the envelope and said nothing. But his dislike of the stuffy U.N.C.L.E. bureaucrat was flowering into a true hatred by the minute.

Act II

"No Kicks From Champagne"

    "I'm sorry, Napoleon, but I sometimes have trouble with your American slang," Kuryakin said. "Just how do you spell dumbass?"

    "C-A-V-E-T-T-I," Solo said, as they entered the conference room.

    Kuryakin had hoped the banter might improve his friend's mood, but he could see what troubled Solo went beyond an ill-tempered U.N.C.L.E. official.

    "I'm sorry, Illya," Solo said, rubbing his eyes. "I suppose we should get down to business."

    "The business can take care of itself, at least for a moment," Kuryakin said. "I understand the strain you have been under. I witnessed part of it, remember?"

    "Oh, it goes beyond that," Solo said. "This organization cost me Clara. We could have been together all these years, instead of only at the very end."

    "Isn't that a bit simplistic?" Kuryakin said. "If it were really that easy, why did you not resign and marry the woman all those years ago?"

    "I keep asking myself the same question."

    "Then you're not telling yourself the reason. This organization is a part of you, as much as your lungs or heart or brain. She had a choice too, remember? Perhaps it should have worked itself out. But it didn't. You and she had the chance to reconcile those differences. Not everyone receives such an opportunity."

    "I can't help but feel it's all so pointless, somehow."

    Kuryakin held back a sigh. "Perhaps we should now address this new business. A nerve gas bomb, somehow, does not seem pointless."

    "Well, I have given it some thought," Solo said.

     Kuryakin felt his own spirits rise, at least a little. Perhaps through the work Solo could begin to get on with his life.

    "And what are your thoughts?"

    "I don't know how, but this all seems a little too pat."

    "Who is Pat?"

    Solo smiled, for what seemed the first time in eons. "Sorry, American slang again. It means the apparent explanation seems too easy. An ecological terrorist group sounds unusual and is the kind of thing that might capture the bureaucratic mind," he said. "But I can't help but feel something a little more complicated is involved. I think I do want to go to that reception at the Embassy tomorrow night."

    "Looking for anything in particular?"

    "Just anyone who shouldn't be there," Solo said. "Who knows? We might even spot a Thrush."

    "There has been no sign of their involvement in this affair," Kuryakin said.

    "That's when I begin to worry."

    Clara was fighting back the tears. "It's no good, Napoleon," she said. "I can't live with the uncertainty of your work.  The next time you went on assignment might be the last time I ever see you alive. I can't live that way."

    "Clara, it's important work," Solo said. "I can't just give it up."

    "Damn you, Napoleon, I knew you'd say something like that!" Clara said, her skin becoming more pale by the second. "You love your U.N.C.L.E. more than you do me."

    "That's not true, I---"

    Her face was turning thin, more gaunt. The skin was now white. Skin? No, it was...a skull? He grabbed her, but all he held was a skeleton inside a dress.

    "Mr. Solo, please report to me an once. I hope you haven't made plans for the next few days."

    Solo turned, still holding onto the skeleton. It was Waverly, pointing at him.

    "Mr. Solo, we've been most accommodating," Waverly said, walking toward him, still pointing. "It is time you reciprocate the courtesy."

    Solo screamed at he sat up in the hotel bed. He stared around the darkened room. His chest heaved as he shook his head. Crazy, damn dream, he thought. Suddenly, he realized it hadn't been the first time. Over the past week, he had awakened feeling as if he had experienced some nightmare. But the details were too fuzzy to recall. This had been the first time everything seemed so vivid, so real.

    The agent pulled the sheet off and stood up. He rushed toward a table where he had placed a flask containing Scotch. He found a cup and poured himself a drink and quickly guzzled it. Solo coughed for a second from the rapid consumption of the alcohol.

    He sat down on a chair at the table. Solo then felt chilly, only then noticing he was drenched in sweat. Getting up quickly, he walked into the bathroom, stripped off his underwear and took a hot shower. As the water sprayed over his body, the reality of the dream faded, but he still felt depressed. How many people had he seen die over the years. How many had he killed? Yet this one death seemed to possess him, somehow.

    Tuesday had been a routine day at the Paluzzi School for Linda O'Neill. She had felt gratified the eighth grade class, however, had shown renewed vigor in the way the students approached their work. She pondered a similar demonstration for the seventh grade class she taught but decided she'd better wait a couple of weeks. Principal Knight might not appreciate yet another self-defense-as-math-motivator session so soon.

    A little after four, Linda arrived home at her apartment and decided to relax with a warm bath. She expected hassles tonight. Benton Douglas had taken her to one other dinner, a more informal affair, at the Embassy. Security was tight, always, and with tonight's dinner pegged to the ecological conference, the military guards might be more in evidence. She also fretted about her appearance in the evening dress. She felt more comfortable dressed for karate and judo than getting in the strapless dress. As she lay down in the tub, the warm water enveloped her and the anxiety seemed to melt away. Linda sighed. She was kidding herself. Her real anxiety was the uncertainty just where her relationship with Benton was going. He was a nice guy and all, but seemed to be attached permanently to a computer keyboard at work.  Oh well. At least she'd get a nice meal out of it.

    Kuryakin arrived at Solo's hotel room just a little after seven. The Russian had already changed. He was curious about his friend's mood. Solo had hardly talked during the brief while each had conducted some paperwork at the Rome station. The American's main activity seemed to be finding ways to avoid Mr. Cavetti.

    When he reached the room, Kuryakin knocked four times, a prearranged signal. The door opened and Kuryakin saw that Solo was running behind. He was still struggling with the tuxedo shirt and hadn't yet put on his vest or coat.

    "Sorry, I lost track of time," Solo said.

    Kuryakin said nothing, entering the room as Solo retreated from the door to look at a mirror. "How are you feeling this evening?" Kuryakin said.

    "Lousy," Solo said. "Like most people one asks how they're feeling."

    "Care to talk about it?"

    "Not much to say," Solo replied. "Same thing as yesterday, and the day before that. I just have to work my way out of it. Simple as that."

    At least he acknowledges the problem. That is a start, Kuryakin thought. "I made a discreet inquiry after you left the office," the Russian said. "No signs of any Thrush activity in the area according to the latest station intelligence reports."

    Solo said nothing as he began to tie the bow tie. He found himself not saying a lot much of the time these days.

    The agent slipped on the tuxedo vest and then the jacket. The two men left the room in silence.

    The Marine guards were prominent at the entrance to the Embassy but were only window dressing, Solo thought as they approached. The more telling thing was the number of tuxedo-clad men with a slight bulge under their coats. They'd be inconspicuous to the casual guest. But to someone in Solo's line of work, they stood out as if signs hung around their necks.

    Kuryakin entered first, producing his invitation. The attendant looked it over carefully and eyed the Russian for a full minute before letting him pass. Solo let another guest slip in between himself and Kuryakin and had to wait a bit before he entered the Embassy. Guests were led to a cavernous ballroom where a couple of hundred people were milling about.

    Solo caught up to Kuryakin. "Well, no particular agenda," Solo said. "I guess we'll just..."

    Kuryakin noticed the look of confusion on Solo's face and turned around. About thirty feet away, the Russian saw the platinum blonde woman wearing a strapless evening dress and smoking a cigarette. It had been some time but she looked unchanged from the last time Kuryakin had seen her.

    "Is that who I think it is?" Kuryakin said.

    "Angelique," Solo said, oddly emotionless.

    "Well you said we should look about for somebody who shouldn't be here," Kuryakin said. "I'd say a major Thrush operative applies."

    Just then, Angelique's eyes flashed with recognition of the U.N.C.L.E. agents and she let out a little wave, before she began to walk away.

    "Almost as if on cue," Solo said.

    "We have not even been here five minutes," Kuryakin said. "Obviously, this portends the involvement of Thrush. But why make it so easy for us?"

    "Yes, it's as if they had taken out an advertisement," Solo said. "Not at all subtle."

    "As I recall, she seems to like games. I suppose I should see what game she wants to play."

    "I thought you had a rather healthy disdain for Angelique," Solo said.

    "I do," Kuryakin said. "When I see her smile, I start to look for a dead body."

    "No, I'd better do it. She's probably expecting it."

    "Are you sure you're up to this, Napoleon?" Kuryakin said. "I realize you and she have a bit of a, eh, unusual relationship for adversaries. But remember that time with the spider in the flower? Given your present state of mind..."

    "And what state is that?" Solo said, interrupting.

    "Well, you must admit you have not exactly had your normal mental edge," Kuryakin said, with a hint of emotion in his voice.

    "The day I can't handle Angelique is the day I start applying for work elsewhere," Solo said.

    "Or get fitted for a casket."

    Solo gave Kuryakin a dirty look. "I'll be sure to drink some warm milk first," Solo said as he walked in the direction Angelique had headed. Kuryakin rolled his eyes. Just then, a waiter walked by carrying a tray of filled champagne glasses. Illya took one and gulped the champagne down.

    "I know I said I'd spend some time with you, Linda, but the Ambassador is nervous and has me running around more than usual," Benton Douglas said. "I'm not sure when I can get back."

    "You promised me a later dinner when this thing was over," she said. "It gets a little dull staring at a lot of people you don't know."

    "I'll try and make it, I just can't promise. Listen, gotta run. See you later."

    Linda sighed. Benton hadn't even noticed the evening dress, and had hardly said two dozen words to her all evening. This evening promised to become a big bust real quickly.

    She walked about the ballroom until she saw a blonde man gulping down a glass of champagne. He looked rather striking. From this angle she could make out the sharp blue eyes. He filled his tuxedo well and even what few movements she had witnessed he seemed lithe, like a cat. Linda found herself wandering in his direction.

    "Careful, Tex. You can get yourself intoxicated real quick like that," she said. Oh why did I have to say something stupid? she thought.

    The blonde man looked up. "Sorry, taking out my frustrations the wrong way. But I am a bit out of my natural element here."

    Gee, maybe that wasn't so stupid, after all. "And what element is that, mister..."

    "Kuryakin, Illya Kuryakin. Oh, I am not one for elaborate receptions and such, I suppose."

    "Illya? Well, my name is Linda O'Neill. You looked like you could use some company. Certainly, I could," she said, extending her hand.

    Kuryakin shook it gently. "Pleased to make your acquaintance," Kuryakin said. "I came with a friend, but he seems to be a bit occupied."

    "Oh, you didn't come with a date?"

    "No."

    "I only thought I did," she said. "Kuryakin. Sounds Eastern European, perhaps?"

    "Russian," he said. "But I have worked in the West for many years. I'm a kind of international businessman."

    The best kind, Linda thought. "I'm a teacher myself. I teach math at the Paluzzi School. It's a school for Americans. We get a lot of kids of Embassy personnel and business people stationed in Rome."

    "How did you get here?"

    "I'm dating an employee of the Embassy," she said. "That's him over there."

    Kuryakin looked and saw a tall bespectacled man who seemed to be instructing the cooks as they provided food to guests. He seemed to be scurrying from serving line to serving line at the reception.

    "What is he doing?"

    "A bit of everything," Linda said. "Seems like he's never in one spot long enough to find out. He has some kind of impressive title. Has the words deputy and assistant in them."

    "I am sure he means well," Kuryakin said.

    "Maybe," Linda said. She looked at Kuryakin's eyes, which darted around the room. In his own way, Illya was preoccupied but he at least acted interested in what Linda had to say.

    "I wish I could stay and talk and some more..."

    "Linda. Linda O'Neill."

    "I am sorry," Kuryakin said. "My employer is keen for me to track the outcome of this conference. It is probably unwise for me to socialize too much right now."

    "Oh," she said, disappointment in her voice. "Another workaholic."

    "Work what?"

    "Sorry, American slang. You speak English so well,  I almost forgot you're Russian. Well, if you ever get some time off, drop by the Paluzzi School sometime."

    "If I can fit it into my schedule. I can't promise," Kuryakin said. "If you will excuse me." The Russian walked off.

    Linda sighed. It just wasn't her night.

    Angelique looked out a window as Solo approached.

    "Darling, it's good to see you again. It's been much too long," she said without looking back.

    Solo could see her reflection and his own in the window. "Paths have a way of diverging, Angelique."

    She turned around and looked at him. "That resignation in your voice. Doesn't sound like the Napoleon Solo I know. Or is this a new variation of the game, eh?"

    "No games," he said. "Not tonight. I really don't feel like playing."

    "Now I know you're not yourself," Angelique said. "What is wrong, darling?"

    "Long story. Doesn't really involve you." He paused. "So what brings you to Rome? I doubt this is a social call. And I suspect your invitation may be a forgery."

    "Only the best forgery, darling," she said.

    "Now why would one of Thrush's top operatives stop to socialize at a gathering like this?"

    "You want to find that out, you'll have to play the game."

    Solo frowned. He just wasn't in the mood for the verbal parrying and thrusting. Or any other kind of parrying and thrusting, for that matter.

    "Napoleon, you're taking all the fun out of it. If you insist on being such a dour creature, I may have to strike up a conversation with your Russian friend."

    "He's not exactly your number one fan, if you recall."

    "Oh, I am sure he is still much too serious," Angelique said. "Compared to you this evening, he is like a clown in the middle of a three-ring circus."

    "Sorry, darling, but tonight I have a headache," Solo said.

    Angelique's eyes narrowed. "Very well, darling, play it your way. I've done what I needed to do this evening." She then walked away, but looked back for a moment and smiled.

    Solo squinted. Then began to scan the room. Maybe Illya was right. Maybe there was a dead body to look for.

    Kuryakin had moved around the ballroom several times. The first couple of trips he had seen Solo talking to Angelique. He hesitated to interfere, even observe. Napoleon likely would have resented the maneuver. He only hoped Solo's instincts for self-preservation would cut through the mental clutter and emotions his friend was experiencing if Angelique would attempt anything. Somehow, though, Kuryakin thought it unlikely. It was almost as if Angelique was putting on a performance, making an appearance of the femme fatale. God only knew for what purpose.

    The Russian felt suffocated by all the security. The men with the guns under their tuxedos were not particularly subtle and the reception had a stale air about it. The ecological conference that was to start in two days was going to be contentious. One could see the delegates present were speaking with an air of forced civility. It was not so much a social event as a dress rehearsal for the conference itself. Staying any longer would be pointless so Kuryakin decided to leave.

    Illya felt himself under the watchful eye of security men as he walked down the corridor to the exit. A hostess smiled and spoke a perfunctory good-bye greeting but Kuryakin didn't pay attention to the words. He decided to walk to the hotel, which was perhaps a dozen blocks away. But the stale mood of the reception permeated him and he felt a walk in the fresh air would be invigorating.

    Kuryakin breathed in deeply and tried to clear his head. This affair was a confusing mix of ingredients. First, it appeared a terrorist group instigated events. Now, all of a sudden, Thrush enters the picture in the person of Angelique -- making an altogether unnecessary appearance. Why should Thrush tip its hand in such a manner?

    About a block later, Kuryakin's senses screamed out at him. Men were following him. How many he wasn't sure. For a moment, he began to regret his choice of leaving alone but quickly killed the thought. Self-recrimination wasn't a luxury he could afford at this moment.

    Kuryakin tensed as he heard the footsteps of someone coming up from behind. He sidestepped the rushing thug, who stumbled past him. But a second man was on top of him, grabbing at his arms. Kuryakin forced the man to the side, into the wall of a building. The man held on, however, forcing Kuryakin to elbow him hard in the ribs. The Russian turned around and flung his arms outward, breaking the thug's grip. Before the attacker could recover, Kuryakin formed a fist with his right hand and struck under the thug's chin with the heel of the hand. The original man returned by this time and swung at the Russian, connecting with a glancing blow to the face. He did not let up and hit Illya on both ears with his fists. As he recoiled from the twin blows, the second thug again grabbed at Kuryakin.

    Illya felt dizzy and his head throbbed with pain. The man in front kept hitting him. His technique wasn't particularly good but the results were devastating. If only he could get a few seconds to clear his head. But the thugs weren't relenting.

    Kuryakin's vision began to cloud when he heard another set of footsteps. But they sounded different. High heels on the sidewalk?

    Suddenly, Kuryakin felt the thug behind him yell and recoil in pain. Kuryakin ignored him, instead striking the man in front of him, using the extended fingers of his left hand to strike the thug's solar plexus. As he doubled over, Kuryakin struck a karate blow, breaking the man's shoulder blades. For good measure, he clipped his head with another karate blow to ensure he would remain subdued.

    Illya now turned. It was the O'Neill woman, kicking off her dress shoes and tensing, her hands rigid. The thug lumbered toward her, but she struck a karate blow to the shoulder. Her other hand connected with a karate blow to the side of the neck. He still wasn't giving up, though. She stepped back, jumped up and kicked his head. He fell straight back, hit the sidewalk and lay sprawled.

    Kuryakin rubbed his head. Linda grabbed her shoes and walked up to him. "Are you all right, Illya? Why were those men attacking you?"

    Just then, Kuryakin heard a car door shut. Just up the street. He ran from Linda toward the direction of the car. But he could hear an engine fire right up. The car had been obscured by shadow but it appeared to be some make of BMW and roared away along the side street.

    Kuryakin walked back to the woman. "Where did you learn to fight like that?"

    "I'm a third-degree black belt," Linda said. "Never had a chance to use it like that before. I think we'd better get the police. And maybe a doctor for you, you don't look so hot."

    Kuryakin felt where one of the thugs had struck him in the face. Not exactly sure about American slang, he guessed at a proper response. "I do not feel so hot, either."

    Thirty-two minutes later, Leonard Knight was reviewing papers at his office desk. He then heard a series of rapid knocks on his office door.

    "Come in, Rodney," Knight said.

    Rodney Culpepper rushed into the room, carrying three photographs, putting them on Knight's desk.

    "What are these? Where are the men? I thought you were going to grab either Solo or Kuryakin," Knight said.

    "Kuryakin left first. Our men attacked, but this happened. I was lucky that I had an infrared camera in the car."

    Knight examined the photographs. In one of them, Linda O'Neill was in midair delivering a kick to the chin of one of the Thrushmen who had been sent on the assignment.

    "It was Linda. She happened by and used some of her damn martial arts on our operatives," Culpepper said.

    Knight looked at the pictures once more. He eyes studied every square millimeter. The images weren't especially sharp but Knight saw what he needed to see.

    "It would appear, Rodney, as if U.N.C.L.E. is playing the same game with Solo and Kuryakin that we are with Angelique. Damn that Alexander Waverly."

Act III

"The Realm of the Dead..."

    The taxicab pulled up outside the Raphael Hotel. "You really did not have to do this," Illya told Linda.

    "Don't be silly. You're hurt," she said, opening the door to let Kuryakin out.

    "At least let me pay for the taxi," he said, taking out some lira notes. "There should be enough there for you go make it home, as well.

    "I suppose," she replied, taking the money. "Will I see you again?"

    "Perhaps," Kuryakin said, rubbing his sore and quickly swelling jaw. "Still, for me, this is a business trip. I may not be available for socializing for some time."

    "You may be worse than Benton," Linda said. "Get well. But don't take too long." She closed the door and the cab pulled away.

    Solo knocked four times on Kuryakin's room. After a long pause, the door opened, Kuryakin holding a towel up to his face.

    "Oh, it is you," Kuryakin said. Solo entered the room, closing the door behind him. Kuryakin walked over to a table, unwrapped the towel, then put more ice cubes in the towel's center. He then wrapped up the ice and held the towel to his face.

    "I got tired of waiting for you to finish your dalliance with Angelique so I left," Kuryakin said. "I encountered a couple of unfriendly birdmen a couple of blocks away. They nearly succeeded in abducting me."

    "What happened?"

    Kuryakin sat down on the small couch in the center of the room. "A woman I met at the reception. She attacked one of the Thrushmen, enabling me to subdue the other. Before I could assist her, she had already defeated the gentleman."

    "How?"

    "A black belt. She teaches at an American school here."

    Solo arched his eyebrow.

    "I am not sure I believe it, either. She called the police and, not wanting to inform her I was an U.N.C.L.E. agent, I let her. I wouldn't be surprised if their superiors arrange to get them out of jail tomorrow somehow."

    "And just who is this fighting wonder?" Solo said.

    "She says her name is Linda O'Neill. Just to be on the safe side, I called the Rome station after she took me back to the hotel."

    "She took you to the hotel?"

    "She insisted and, to be honest, I was not up to protesting," Kuryakin said. "Figured I might end up like one of our Thrush friends. She seemed rather frustrated that her date at the reception was taking her for granted and decided to leave early. I was lucky she did. Otherwise, I would probably be nursing more injuries and probably be having to figure my way out of some dingy cell of some sort."

    "Well, as it turned out, I didn't spent all that much time with Angelique," Solo said. "I wasn't up to her games, I suppose."

    "You'll forgive me if I do not express my sympathy that you were deprived of an evening with Angelique."

    "Is there anything I can get for you?"

    "Yes," Kuryakin said. "Privacy. It is a bit embarrassing that I let myself get caught by two such junior-ranking Thrush thugs. And to be rescued by an amateur, black belt or not, might be a bit hard to live down back in the office. I may need to nurse my ego as well as my injuries."

    "All right," Solo said. "I'll buy you breakfast in the morning." He moved toward the door.

    "You had better," Kuryakin said as Solo left the room.

    A few minutes later, Solo eased open the door to his own room. He scanned the room and immediately saw a blonde woman was sitting in the loveseat that faced away from the door.

    Solo withdrew the U.N.C.L.E. Special from his shoulder holster as he closed the door. As it latched, Angelique spoke. "It took you long enough, darling. I was beginning to get impatient."

    Solo walked around the loveseat. Angelique sat there, wearing the same evening dress, but this time with a wrap around her shoulders.

    "Didn't anyone tell you it was impolite to point," she said, gesturing to the gun. "I don't believe you'll need that, darling."

    "Sorry, I was looking in on Illya. Seems like he got roughed up a bit."

    "One of the hazards of the game, I'm afraid."

    "I told you, this time I'm not in the mood for your games," Solo said coldly. He replaced the gun in its holster.

    "You know, you wouldn't believe what you can find out these days, especially if you have access to airline computers and such," Angelique said. "After that stuffy reception, I had one of our more technically minded people do some checking on your recent travel records. I can't imagine why the U-N-C-L-E would send its best operative to a god-forsaken place like Terbuf."

    Solo said nothing but he could feel the stare of Angelique's eyes.

    "You've lost somebody, haven't you? Some long-lost love, perhaps? I suppose I could find out the details with a little more checking. Your dossier does make for delicious reading. But my employer doesn't like using the facilities for personal use. But that might explain your behavior, would it not?"

    The agent pulled up a chair and sat down. "Believe what you want."

    "I thought I might seduce you tonight. But after that dreary affair, I decided that wouldn't be the most appropriate course of action."

    "Oh, why is that?"

    "It's all rather simple, darling. Do you know what your trouble is? You're split between two worlds."

    Solo frowned, genuinely puzzled by the remark.

    Angelique sensed his confusion. She stood up from the loveseat. "Right now, you have one foot in the realm of the dead and one foot in the land of the living. Intellectually, you can accept the loss, but emotionally you cannot. Men like yourself suffer from one weakness. No matter how tough you think you are, there is a soft center somewhere deep inside. Whoever she was must have touched that center at one point. Am I close?"

    "You seem to be doing so well, you tell me."

    "Darling, you need to come back to the land of the living. Any success I have in this affair will only be satisfactory if I know Napoleon Solo has been bested while he was at the top of his game. Unless that is the case, any triumph will be quite hollow. And I certainly shan't bother trying to seduce you unless I know you're at your best."

    "Let's change the subject for just a moment, Angelique. Your appearance tonight was quite showy," Solo said. "And a bit obvious."

    "Yes, wasn't it?" Angelique said as she opened the door. "Perhaps you're about to bring that other foot back to the land of the living. I certainly hope so." With that, she left, slowly closing the door.

    The U.N.C.L.E. agents had a late start the next morning. Instead of having breakfast, Solo and Kuryakin met for a makeshift brunch instead.

    "You're looking a bit more chipper than last night," Solo said.

    "Appearances can be deceiving, but I will survive," Kuryakin replied as he cut up the eggs with a fork.

    Solo took a quick look through his copy of the International Herald-Tribune. "Well, not much happening in the world, as best I can tell," the agent said, more a way of thinking out loud than really making conversation. "The ecological conference seems to be big news. The Vice President is leading the American delegation and the British Prime Minister is supposed to address the conference on the first day. Only other item out of Italy in this paper is a story about the Pope. He's supposed to be making a major speech on Thursday, same day the conference opens. First big public appearance in a while. Didn't see much in the Rome newspapers this morning, either."

    He put the paper down. "I had a visitor last night," Solo said. "Angelique."

    The Russian rolled his eyes. "I might have known."

    "It wasn't that kind of visit."

    "Pardon me if I seem skeptical."

    "She said something about how I have only one foot in the land of the living."

    "What is that a reference to?"

    "Either she knows about my little journey Terbuf last week or she is good at surmising a situation."

   "I hesitate to agree with her, but she is right," Kuryakin said.

    Solo gave Kuryakin a brief dirty look, then changed the subject. "She said something else interesting."

    "Go on. My anticipation for the words of Angelique knows no bounds."

    "I said something about how her appearance at last night's reception seemed awfully theatrical. She almost took it like a compliment. She said something like, 'Yes, wasn't it?' But it was the way she said it. Very smug. Made me think we're missing something."

    "That's not very much to go on," Kuryakin said. "What is our next move?"

    "You take a rest," Solo said. "I'm going down to the Rome office and check records. Maybe there's something about Angelique's recent movements or something. There's something about this affair that doesn't quite figure."

    "I am perfectly capable of functioning."

    "Let's just say I'm trying to ease my conscience," Solo replied. "Besides, you may need your rest. I have a feeling something will happen very soon."

    Kuryakin started to speak, but Solo was already getting up from his chair and putting lira notes on the table. A moment later, he was walking out of the hotel restaurant.

    Linda O'Neill felt wonderful. The day was sunny, the Rome air unusually clear. After going home from the Paluzzi School, she felt like walking around the ancient city. She kept thinking about the mysterious blonde man she had met the previous night. Illya acted very coy, saying almost nothing about himself and few words about anything else. But there was something about him, she couldn't describe. When she saw him being attacked, she reacted on instinct, somehow, her martial arts kicking in. Linda realized a few moments later how potentially foolhardy she had been. Still, she tried to act cool toward Illya, as if this were no big deal.

    Linda smiled and shook her head. Chances are you'll never see him again. It was all some weird coincidence or something last night. Forget about it. Yet, there was something about those blue eyes...

    Suddenly, Linda felt something was wrong. It took her a minute to realize it but the same large beefy man had been walking behind her for the better part of an hour now. He hadn't gotten especially close, but he was always about the same distance away. She remembered stopping to look at an old building and he'd be there, seemingly looking at a storefront. She didn't know why it hadn't registered before but all at once, she remembered seeing him a few times before.

    Linda quickened her pace, trying to play it cool. The streets were crowded and it would have been difficult to run without stumbling into people. She glanced across the street. There was another man, taller, skinnier, with thinning hair but with an even more sinister look. Linda glanced behind her on both sides of the street. The two men were about parallel.

    Her mind raced. Why would anybody be following her? They were not the same men who attacked Illya last night. But whoever they were, they clearly were following. Linda sighed. She was awfully lucky last night with the karate maneuvers. But several rather nasty scenes started to play themselves out in her mind. Martial arts techniques only work if you get to use them.

    Linda could feel her heart starting to beat faster. Could it only be her imagination? No, not after almost an hour. She tried to be casual but started to look around. Then, she realized she was getting closer to the Raphael, the hotel where she had dropped off Illya. Oh, don't be silly, she thought.

    But she again glanced back and saw the two men still following, working their way around people on the teeming sidewalks. The Raphael was only a couple of blocks away. She remembered the old joke. Just because you're paranoid doesn't mean you don't have enemies. She decided she was going to see if Illya was at the hotel.

    "Linda O'Neill is a what?" Rodney Culpepper said as he glanced back at Leonard Knight.

    "An U.N.C.L.E. agent. Has to be," Knight said.

    "Leonard, I've known Linda since you hired her. There's no way."

    "She disabled two of our men quite easily."

    "She's a black belt, for god's sake," Culpepper said. "And those two buffoons were hardly our best men."

    "Rodney, don't be so naive," Knight said, standing up behind the desk. "I know she's likable. I debated myself for a while. But it's the only thing that makes sense. Why would she come to the aid of Kuryakin last night?"

    Culpepper waved his arms in the air. "She saw somebody in trouble and got overly brave. How should I know?"

    Knight stood still, his arms behind him. "No, can't be. I tell you U.N.C.L.E. is playing a devious game, mirroring our own."

    "Leonard...."

    "Alexander Waverly planted that woman, suspecting we were a Thrush cover. Then he sends over his 'star' agents, Solo and Kuryakin, to draw attention. All the while his real operative is right there, under our very nose! That man, Waverly, isn't human. It's as if he were taunting me, using my own strategy against me."

    "Leonard, you mustn't over-react, not when we're so close to our goal," Culpepper said.

    Just then, the telephone on Knight's desk rang.

    The Thrushman moved precisely as if he were an automation, to pick up the receiver. "Knight here."

    "Mr. Knight. It is Artemide," a voice said.

    "Report."

    "We kept the woman under observation as you instructed. She spotted us, though it seemed to take an unusually long time for a professional agent to do so. However..."

    "However, what?"

    "Upon discovering she was under observation, she headed straight to the Raphael."

    "I knew it!" Knight said, straining to keep down the excitement in his voice. "Maintain observation. If they move, report at once. Knight out."

    The Thrushman beamed with satisfaction. "She walked right to the Raphael. The very hotel where Solo and Kuryakin are staying. Angelique confirmed that."

    Culpepper sighed. "I still don't believe it."

    Knight didn't seem to hear the words. "That Waverly is a devil. But I am onto him."

    Kuryakin stretched as he rode the elevator alone. He had napped and rested much of the day and now felt restless. He decided to report to the Rome station. Perhaps Napoleon had discovered something in his research.

    As the door opened, he immediately saw Linda O'Neill. She was obviously nervous, looking around the lobby anxiously, as if she were unsure what to do next. What is she doing here now? Kuryakin thought.

    The Russian approached her hesitantly. He was nearly upon her, when she finally spotted him.

    "Oh, Mr. Kuryakin."

    "My benefactor," he replied. "To what do I owe this visit?"

    She took him by the arm and led him to the side of the lobby. "I think I'm being followed. I know it, in fact."

    "Why would anyone follow you?"

    "I thought it might have something to do with last night."

    Kuryakin started to speak but paused. What if she is correct? he thought. Perhaps I better not dismiss the possibility.

    "Let's take a look shall we?"

    "But..."

    "I thought you were a black belt."

    "I just don't beat people up for the fun of it!" Linda said. "I reacted because I saw you were in danger. I was a nervous wreck afterward."

    "You did not appear a nervous wreck."

    "Believe me, my knees were knocking after I got home."

    "Let us not overreact."

    Illya took her by the hand and they walked casually out of the hotel. Actually, his stride was casual but hers was halting. Kuryakin almost immediately spotted both men, who were trying to look nonchalant but they had tensed the moment the couple had exited the building.

    "I think I see what you mean," Kuryakin said softly to her.

    "What are we going to do?"

    They kept walking. "Act as if you are enjoying my company."

    Linda looked puzzled but tried to look as if she were laughing at a joke. Kuryakin reached into his sport coat pocket and fumbled for the communicator.

    It was nearly time for the train to leave. Napoleon Solo stood at the rear of the final car, looking back at the rail yard. No sign of her. Where was she? She knew it was time.

    Time? Time for what? What train is this?

    Just then, Clara came up to the side of the train. He could see the flaming red hair through the black veil over her face.

    What is going on here? Solo thought.

    She was now next to Solo, looking up at the caboose from the platform. "I'm sorry, Napoleon," Clara said. "It's time for you to go."

    "Clara, what?" Solo said, getting ready to climb down.

    The train lurched forward, throwing Solo to the side.

    "You have friends who need you," Clara said, waving her right hand.

    Solo awoke with a start. He looked around the conference room. The reports were still on the table. What were they? Oh yes, the latest dossier information on Angelique, he thought. Nothing conclusive. I must have dozed off. Either I'm not sleeping or I'm having these crazy nightmares.

    He stood up and stretched for a moment, then he began to button up the long sleeves of his dress shirt. What was that thing Angelique said? he pondered. Oh yes. "You have one foot in the realm of the dead and one foot in the land of the living."

    Solo sighed. Maybe she was right. In any case, it was time to stop feeling sorry for himself. Whatever answer he was looking for wouldn't be in these files. Suddenly, Solo felt disgusted at himself. While he had been moping around, Illya had been attacked and was lucky to not have been captured. He wasn't sure of Thrush's intentions but realized it was time for him to enter the game.

    His thoughts were interrupted by the whine of the communicator pen. A few seconds after rigging it to receive, the transmission came through.

    "Napoleon? It's Illya. I'm in a spot of bother."

    "Where are you?"

    "I'm near our hotel. We are being trailed by a couple of bird watchers. They are starting to close in."

    "Who is we?"

    "Miss O'Neill, the woman who helped me out last night. They were following her and she decided to drop in at the hotel. I was on my way out and we ran into them fairly quickly."

    "All right. I'd say you are at least a dozen blocks from this office. What is traffic like? Can you hail a taxi?"

    "Traffic is starting its late afternoon gridlock. I am not sure we can make it on foot. Miss O'Neill, while an admirable martial artist, is a bit nervous. Fighting people is a bit out of her ordinary routine."

    "Is there a place you can hide out, somewhere in-between here and your present location?"

    A pause. Solo's eyes darted back and forth and he waited for the answer.

    "The school," a female voice said.

    "The school?" Kuryakin replied.

    "What are you talking about?" Solo said.

    "The Paluzzi American School," said Linda, who quickly spat out the address. "I'm a math teacher there. It's maybe three, four blocks from here."

    "All right, both of you head there now," Solo said. "I will swing by the special ordinance section and get out there as quickly as I can. I might be able to sneak over on some side streets and avoid the really heavy traffic. Solo out."

    "Is that really some kind of communications device?" Linda said, her pace starting to quicken, matching Illya's.

    "Yes, my company is quite fond of gadgets."

    "Just whom do you work for? And who was that man?"

    "An uncle, to both questions. Now let us hurry."

    In fact, Kuryakin noticed there was now a third man coming up the rear. So there were now two people following a half block away. The man across the street trailed, at most, a quarter block. Only the growing crowds on the sidewalk prevented them from getting closer.

    "There, the next block," Linda said, pointing.

    Kuryakin swore he could sense the men pulling up as if they were pausing. But he didn't look back, instead they were now trotting as they crossed a small side street and approached the front door. The lobby was Spartan, with a small reception desk but there was no one there at the moment.

    "Look's like the receptionist has gone home," Linda said. "This is an old building, the classrooms are split over two floors and there's a small gym in the rear."

    Kuryakin locked the door. "Let's go upstairs," he said. "That staircase looks as if it would make plenty of noise to warn us if they come rushing up."

    As they trotted up the stairs, Linda got more anxious. "What is this all about, Illya?" she said, moving her hands emphatically.

    "It's a long story."

    As they got to the foot of the steps. Linda pointed to her classroom, the first on the left. They walked in quickly, with Illya going to a window that provided a view of the street. Linda stood just beside him, then turned as the floor creaked.

    "Rodney, you scared me," she said, breaking into a smile.

    Culpepper, however, frowned as he took a pistol out of his suit coat and pointed it at them.

    Kuryakin turned around calmly, with resignation, as if he had an idea what was happening but Linda began to breathe more quickly.

    "Rodney, what do you think you're doing?"

    Just then, Leonard Knight strode into the room, carrying a Thrush rifle. "He is obeying my orders, a bit reluctantly," he said. "Then again, he had trouble accepting the fact you're an U.N.C.L.E. agent like your friend Mr. Kuryakin."

Act IV

"...Or The Land of the Living?"

    Solo parked the motorcycle in an alley beside the Paluzzi School, took off his helmet, then patted down his jacket and pulled up his belt. The cycle permitted him to swerve around the busy traffic and maneuver down side streets that he could use as a short cut. It might not be the safest strategy at this point, but traffic precluded getting a car over here anytime quickly. Hopefully, he could help Illya hold off the Thrushmen until the Rome office could provide some kind of return transportation later.

    As he walked around the building, he saw no sign of Kuryakin or the teacher. Well, they would probably be inside -- if they had avoided their Thrush pursuers, Solo thought.

    He circled around to the front door but found it locked. He glanced around, and while the foot traffic was starting to thin out, there were still plenty of passersby to notice a break in. So he quickly doubled back through the alley and found a rear entrance. Taking another glance around, Solo found himself apparently alone. He took out a clump of what looked like clay, but was really a mild plastic explosive, from the pocket of his suit coat and stuck it in the lock. Then, he took a wire from the same pocket, connected it from his watch to the clay. Touching a button on the watch ignited the explosive, which shook the door and smashed the lock. The sound was brief and not very loud.

    Solo forced open the door. He was in a small gymnasium, which was only half lit. I've seen this scene before and don't much care for it, he thought. Still, I better make it look good.

    The agent removed his U.N.C.L.E. Special from the shoulder holster and carried the gun at his side. Suddenly, a spotlight illuminated him.

    "Mr. Solo, good of you to come," a voice said from the darkness. "Are you here to go back to school? Don't move, or else you're likely to find this will be short visit."

    Somehow, you can always count on a Thrushman to show off his superior thinking, Solo thought to himself. He said nothing, however, and placed the gun carefully on the gymnasium floor.

    The storage room was surprisingly large -- certainly out of proportion to the small classrooms and other facilities. Boxes were stacked throughout, and some stacks were almost halfway to the ceiling. There was also a grubby looking sink at the rear of the room. The windows were fortified, however, and the metal door looked quite thick.

    Linda O'Neill sat up on the floor, up against a stack of boxes, her hands tied in front of her.

    "What the hell is U.N.C.L.E., Illya?"

    Kuryakin sighed, sitting in a similar fashion, up against another stack of boxes. It didn't appear the room was bugged, but he couldn't be sure. And, when dealing with amateurs, it was always difficult to get them to think in a paranoid fashion and be discreet about what they said. Anyway, time was probably running out anyway.

    "It is a kind of international law-enforcement agency."

    "They think I'm an U.N.C.L.E. agent. I've never heard of it until today."

    "Undoubtedly your little demonstration. Probably it was their men you defeated."

    "But --"

    Just then, the door opened, and a man in a suit came tumbling in. He fell awkwardly, his hands tied in front of him. Knight then entered, with Culpepper following, holding a Thrush rifle.

    "Really, Mr. Solo. Did you really think you could hold all those escape devices?" Knight said in a smug manner. "Now you can spend some time with your colleagues."

    "C'est la vie," Solo replied as he sat up.

    "I have to hand it to your Mr. Waverly," Knight said. "Employing my own strategy against me."

    "What the hell are you talking about, Leonard?" Linda said sharply. "You are talking nonsense."

    "Sticking to your cover to the end. In a way, I have to admire that," Knight said. "But in the end it won't keep me from achieving my objectives."

    "You're nuts--"

    "Obviously, we underestimated you," Solo interrupted. "You wanted us to think Angelique was the major operative, didn't you?"

    Knight let out a little laugh. Linda started to speak, but Kuryakin shook his head at her.

    "I have an idea how your Mr. Waverly thinks," Knight said. "The man is a devious genius, no question. To make the plan work, we had to give him a mystery to solve. The nerve gas bomb, of course, fit the bill. That would pique U.N.C.L.E.'s interest. First, make it look like a terrorist threat to the ecological conference. Then, Angelique -- one of Thrush's most audacious and notorious operatives -- appears. Now, U.N.C.L.E. becomes pleased with its own intelligence. U.N.C.L.E. knows it is no mere terrorist threat but Thrush that's behind the ecological conference."

    Solo smirked.

    "What is so funny, Mr. Solo?"

    "Nothing."

    "I have to admit I was surprised that Waverly would use his two star agents as decoys -- the same way Thrush is using Angelique. I, quite naturally, believed you two were the real threat. All the time, you slip a mole into my midst as my new math teacher. It wasn't until she rescued Mr. Kuryakin, of course, that I had any idea."

    "You know what they say," Solo said. "Great minds think alike."

    Knight grinned then began to speak once more. "Yes, but I doubt even Waverly realized the true goal...."

    "Leonard, I don't think this is advisable," Culpepper interrupted."

    "Considering the mistakes you've made -- the inability to detect this U.N.C.L.E. mole -- you are not one to talk, Rodney," Knight said sharply. "Mr. Solo is the U.N.C.L.E. equivalent of Angelique, a showy figure who steals credit from those who do the real work. No, Rodney, I don't mind talking. I've spent years setting this up. I've earned this moment."

    Solo tried to keep his best poker face. He had hoped the pompous Thrushman would talk. When Culpepper spoke up, he feared Knight would show discretion. But Solo had to fight the temptation to grin when he saw Culpepper's warning had the opposite effect.

    "The ecological conference is just a ruse," Knight continued. "Our real target is the Pope. He is conveniently making a major public appearance just as the conference is getting started. It took us some time to arrange that convenience but it is worth it."

    Solo arched his eyebrows, looking over at Kuryakin who had a similar reaction. Linda's face, meantime, was turning red.

    "You're going to kill the Pope?" she screamed. "What--"

    "Your colleague -- rather former colleague -- Rodney will take care of that task," Knight said. "When the Pope dies, our man inside the church power structure will take command. The Cardinals who vote don't know this, of course. But we also have a man inside the Vatican who will help manipulate the voting procedure. That's part of the problem in doing things in secret. With secrecy, it's sometimes hard to find out you're being controlled. In the space of a few short days, the church shall become a large subdivision of Thrush. I've spent years working for this moment. I've had to play the role of colorless bureaucrat, pretending to be running this school while people like Angelique get the glory. But this will be my triumph, while Angelique will be nothing more than window dressing. Ironic, isn't it?"

    "Who is--" Linda started to say.

    Solo cut her off. "You won't get away with it."

    "Really, Mr. Solo, I expected better of you. But you'll make handsome trophies, just the same. Good evening, all. Mr. Culpepper and myself have a long day tomorrow."

    Knight exited immediately. Culpepper paused for a moment and looked at Linda but her eyes burned with rage. He said nothing and left, closing the heavy metal door behind him.

    "Why wouldn't you let me speak?" Linda said sternly. "And who are you, anyway?"

    "Didn't you tell her the room might be bugged?" Solo said to Kuryakin.

    "Somehow, I didn't think she'd listen," Kuryakin replied. "I thought you might be more clever and not get captured."

    "Well, if the jig isn't up, it soon will be," Solo said, raising his hands to his mid-section where he started tugging on his belt.

    "Did they get the portable flame thrower?" Kuryakin asked.

    "Afraid so."

    "The miniature bombs?"

    "First thing."

    "Communicator, of course."

    "Of course."

    "Watch with the knockout gas and plastic explosive detonator?"

    "They were quite thorough."

    "So what are you doing?"

     "What are you two talking about?" Linda said furiously, her face turning red. "You act like you do this all the time."

    "Only on alternate Thursdays," Solo said.

    "What is that, anyway?" Illya interjected.

    "Well, it turned out the ordinance section had a relative antique. A genuine Class A belt."

    "You're joking. I thought they decommissioned that twenty years ago."

    "I had a feeling I might end up in a room with you," Solo said.

    "But a Class A belt, come on, Napoleon."

    "Well if I don't disembowel myself taking this protective wrapping off the buckle...."

    "What are you doing?" Linda said.

    "Just watch," Solo said.

    The agent began to move his bound hands up and down in a sawing motion over one corner of the razor belt buckle.

    "Legend has it the technician who got the idea behind the Class A belt was reading some paperback spy novel where the hero used a razor-sharp belt buckle and decided to see if he could make a practical model," Solo said. "I once asked a veteran member of the ordinance section if this were true. He would only smile and said something like, 'That's like asking whether Paul Bunyon really had a big blue ox.' Anyway, it was considered the first classic U.N.C.L.E. escape device."

    Solo separated his hands as the bonds fell away. "How about that? It really does work."

    He then slipped off the belt and peeled away most of the rest of the protective foil covering the buckle. Solo instructed Kuryakin to press his hands apart as much as he could. The Russian held up his bound hands and his colleague began working on the ropes. Ninety-five seconds later, Kuryakin was free.

    Solo handed Kuryakin the belt, holding the buckle by the only spot that had the protective covering. "You go to work on her bonds. Be extremely cautious with the buckle. I'm going to take inventory."

    The agent looked around the room and started to open a box. It only contained stationary.

    "I still can't believe all this," Linda said as Kuryakin cut at the ropes. "And why did you keep interrupting me, whoever you are."

    "Solo, Napoleon Solo."

    "Nobody is named Napoleon anymore," she replied.

    "You're right. My real name is Sparticus but I thought Napoleon would draw less attention to myself. Anyway, to answer your question, I didn't want them to realize their mistake in thinking you were an U.N.C.L.E. agent."

    "And why not?"

    "For one, this Leonard --"

    "Leonard Knight," Linda said.

    "Mr. Knight was on such a roll explaining his plans I thought it a pity to break his concentration," Solo said as he moved about the room, checking boxes. "Anyway, there's another reason."

    "Which is?"

    "Obviously, Mr. Knight is a Thrush bureaucrat who, as he said, believes people like himself do the real work of the organization while other, more prominent operatives grab all the credit. He seems to resent field operatives, whether they are on his side or not."

    Linda's ropes fell away and she started to rub her arms as Kuryakin stood up.

    "It seems pretty clear," Solo continued, "that he also means to show us off, as a kind of sign of his accomplishment, to his superiors. Trophies, if you will. If you had convinced him you're not an U.N.C.L.E. agent, you'd have shown he had no use for you whatsoever. He might have killed all of us just to hide evidence of a fairly major mistake. Damn."

    "What is it?" Kuryakin said.

    "Nothing useful in any of these boxes for escape purposes," Solo said. "That means doing it the hard way."

    "What do you mean?" Linda said.

    "We've got to get the guard outside in here. Stack these boxes up to that window. When I give you the signal start banging at the bars with something metal. Make a lot of noise. Illya, give me back the belt."

    Artemide sat in a chair in the hallway, looking ahead and keeping the Thrush rifle at his side. Suddenly, he could hear clanging from inside the room behind him. Immediately, he grabbed the weapon and stood up. The prisoners shouldn't be up and about. He took the safety catch off, figuring he would fire first and ask questions later. He took a key from his pocket, unlocking the door. He then kicked the door, catching a glimpse of the woman and the blonde man sanding on boxes, apparently trying to force open the barred window.

    He moved forward, cocking the gun, preparing to fire. The two turned back, alarm on their faces. Artemide smiled as he extended the rifle.

    Suddenly, Artemide screamed as he felt his left arm being cut open. Blood spurted out as the wounded arm let go of part of the weapon, while keeping his right hand ready to pull the trigger. The Thrushman tried to turn around and find his attacker. Solo, however, had the belt ready and swung the buckle again, this time connecting down the right side of Artemide's face. The Thrushman squeezed off a couple of shots, but the gun was now aimed at the floor. Kuryakin jumped down from the boxes and struck Artemide with a karate blow to his right arm, forcing him to drop the rifle. Solo moved and hit another blow, this one to the neck that knocked the guard unconscious.

    Kuryakin picked up the rifle as Solo wound the belt into a circle, keeping the razor-sharp buckle away from himself.

    "Oh God, did you have to do that?" Linda said, getting down from the boxes.

    "He'll probably live. Those wounds are messy but not fatal. Doesn't look like I got any arteries," Solo said.

    Kuryakin bent over and found a Beretta pistol inside the unconscious man's sport jacket. He handed the gun to Solo, who put it on the right side pocket of his own suit coat. The Russian then looked for something to tie up the guard. He found an electrical extension cord on a small shelf and began to tie the Thrushman's arms behind him.

    "They took me down a flight of steps so I assume we're in the basement," Solo said. "Where's Knight's office?"

    "On the top floor, the third floor."

    "Linda, this could get difficult," Kuryakin said. "Perhaps you should just go now."

    "No way, I'm sticking with you guys."

    "All right, but try and keep out of the line of fire," Solo said.

    Once the guard was secured, the trio edged out of the room and moved toward the stairway. Solo peered around the corner as the Kuryakin and Linda held back. Then Solo motioned for them to follow him up the stairs. They reached the ground floor without incident and kept moving upwards.

    "When he gets to the third floor, we'll take a right at the top of the steps," Linda said. "There's a short hallway. Knight's office will be the fifth door on the left."

    "You will wait for us on the second floor," Kuryakin said.

    "What?"

    "You have done enough."

    Linda started to argue but Solo motioned to be quiet. She stopped talking but her face turned red again.    

    Leonard Knight poured the wine into a small glass and handed it to Rodney Culpepper.

    "To tomorrow," Knight said, holding up his own glass. "Years of work are about to pay off."

    Culpepper picked up the glass and sipped. "I'm still not sure you're correct about Linda. Still, even if you are wrong, we've gone too far now."

    "Don't tell me you have romantic feelings for the woman," Knight said.

    "No," Culpepper said. "Thrush doesn't permit that luxury. Still, I had been contemplating asking her out if she had ever dumped that stuffy boyfriend of hers."

    Knight stood up from the desk. "Cheer up," he said. "Tomorrow we execute the plan. The bomb on the Pope's motorcade route will never be found in time. The team from Thrush Central will take possession of our U.N.C.L.E. agents. And, within a couple of weeks, our man will be the new Pope."

    "I'll wait until tomorrow before I celebrate much," Culpepper said, gulping down the wine.

    "Forgive me a bit of exuberance," Knight said. "For years, I have played the role of the colorless administrator in establishing this cover. All during that time, the Angeliques, the Martons, the Vulcans and their like have drawn the attention, the rewards from Thrush. But I am

on the verge of something they have never accomplished."

    Solo hugged the edge of the stairway, trying to be as silent as possible. He held the belt on both ends, with his left hand holding it just beneath the buckle. Just as he got to the top of the stairs, Solo could see the guard's shadow. He seemed to have his back to the stairs. So the agent moved around the corner, bringing the belt down over the guard's head and pulling tight. The Thrushman shot his rifle into the ceiling but Solo kept his grip. The guard tried to turn around; Solo respond by tugging as hard as could. He heard a sickening crack as the neck broke and the guard's body went limp. However, the agent could see at least two other Thrushmen aiming their rifles in his direction and he retreated around the corner to the top of the stairs.

    Kuryakin was waiting there, hunched down, aiming the Thrush rifle. He fired just as Solo moved around the corner. The Russian picked off one man immediately while the other sought cover in an office.

    The burst of gunfire interrupted the conversation.

    "What the hell?" Knight said, fear in his voice.

    "You idiot!" Culpepper said angrily. "They've escaped. You should have let me kill them! But no you had to have your moment in the sun."

    "Don't speak that way..."

    Culpepper ignored the tirade, instead moving around Knight's desk and reaching into a drawer and finding a clear glass ball with a white liquid inside. He then rushed to the office door, opened it a crack, then tossed the object outside. A few seconds later, smoke sifted throughout the hall after the ball shattered. Culpepper then went to the window behind the desk and opened it.

    "Where are you going?" Knight demanded, his voice now in a rage.

    "I'm going down the fire escape. Those guards won't hold off Solo and Kuryakin for long. Maybe I can still execute the plan if I get away."

    "You coward!"

    But Culpepper ignored Knight, instead he already was scampering out the window.

    Solo took the Beretta out of his suitcoat pocket, took a deep breath and darted into the hallway. The Thrushman who moved for cover inside an office peered out again, starting to aim his rifle. Solo, though, fired first, the second shot striking the man's forehead. He went limp immediately, and was dead by the time he fell on the floor. But another guard, previously unseen by Solo, darted out from another office, surprising Solo from behind. He grabbed the U.N.C.L.E. agent with his large muscular hands, wrapping them around Solo's throat. Kuryakin tried to aim but the smoke made the shot difficult and he wasn't sure whether the cartridge would pass right through the Thrushman and into Solo.

    The agent slammed his right elbow hard into the man's ribs but the Thrushman didn't move. So Solo then pushed back as hard as he could, slamming the man into the hallway wall. Solo swung his arms from underneath, breaking the man's grip. He then heard a gunshot ring out and the large man grabbed his sides. Solo glanced to his left and saw Kuryakin get up from where he had fired the shot.

    Napoleon turned and immediately rushed for Knight's office at the end of the hallway. He grabbed the Beretta in a two-handed grip and carefully entered the space.

    Solo hadn't expected this.

    Leonard Knight sat at his desk, a blank stare on his face.

    "Knight, are you ready to give up?" Solo said.

    "All those years. Even if the plan works, I'll be discredited once Culpepper tells Thrush."

    "Where's Culpepper?"

    "Down the fire escape."

    Solo saw the open window behind Knight.

    "I'm ruined," Knight said, sweat starting to come down his forehead. "All my planning. This was all my idea. I found the mole inside the Vatican. I found the man who would become the Cardinal who would be voted Pope. I--"  His face contorted and he lurched toward the desk, pulling out a gun.

    Solo fired twice, striking Knight both times in the chest. The Thrushman dropped the gun and stood up. He stared down at his chest, where the blood already had stained much of the dress shirt. Knight's eyes rolled upward and he fell back, out the opened window and onto the fire escape.

    Kuryakin entered the office and saw Knight's body sprawled out the widow. "It looks like he failed to make a passing grade."

    "Come on," Solo said. "We've got to get Culpepper, he went down that fire escape."

    Linda stood anxiously on the second floor. Then, on the other side of the wall she heard a noise. Something crashing about, with a clanging noise. "The fire escape," she said to herself.

    She raced down the steps to the ground floor, then rushed to the gym and ran to the back door.

    Even in the darkness, she should see the ladder to the fire escape drop to the back alley and Rodney Culpepper scramble down. He climbed down deliberately, his eyes meeting Linda's.

    "Rodney, you can't do this," she said.

    "Linda, don't make me hurt you," Culpepper said. "I have a job to do. That idiot Knight and his conspiracy theories. I know you're not an U.N.C.L.E agent. Get out of my way and I'll leave you alone."

    "I can't let you kill the Pope."

    "Don't be a hero. I have killed many people. Don't think your martial arts will save you."

    Linda rushed him, trying to strike a karate blow. But Culpepper blocked her by extending his right arm. He then struck her with his left, clipping the side of her head and she staggered back.

    "This is real life, not a demonstration," Culpepper said. "Last chance."

    Linda launched herself, kicking his chin, sending him backwards into some garbage cans. But he got up quickly and rushed her again. He attempted a karate blow but this time she blocked him. As she was doing so, however, Culpepper tripped her, swinging his leg in a half-circular motion. She fell to the ground and sat up slowly.

    Now, Culpepper had a handgun aimed at her. "I said this wasn't a game. You're good, Linda, on the mat. But martial arts are no good in this situation unless you're prepared to kill. You're not. I can't waste any more time."

    His finger started to squeeze the trigger but he jerked as the sound of a shot rang out. He stumbled again but steadied himself and tried to aim upward. He shot blindly upwards and was answered by another shot. He collapsed.

    Linda looked up and saw Napoleon Solo, his gun emitting smoke, followed by Illya Kuryakin.

    She got up to her feet and ran to Culpepper. Tears streamed down her face as she rolled him over, only to see a blank stare.

    "I'm sorry," Solo said quietly. "He was about to kill you."

    "No, no, don't apologize," Linda said. "You're right, it's just, I -I never thought of Rodney as an assassin."

    "Unfortunately, that is the most dangerous breed," Kuryakin said as he removed his sport jacket and covered the top of Culpepper's body. He then took Linda's hand and they walked with Solo out of the alley.

    There was little public notice of the mop-up operations. The only clues were found in two short stories that appeared in the back pages of the local newspapers.

    One item concerned the death of a Vatican administrator. No cause of death was listed in the obituary but there were the usual statements of appreciation from other Vatican officials. What the story didn't reveal -- because the details had been kept secret -- was the administrator had taken a .45 semi-automatic pistol and shot himself in the head. The other small story, appearing the next day, concerned the retirement of a veteran Cardinal based in Milan, who had enjoyed a thirty-nine-year career. The story, however, failed to report where the Cardinal would go in his retirement. In reality, he already was in a security installation undergoing intensive interrogation.

    Solo folded the Italian newspaper. "Well, I guess we can be glad Mr. Knight was such an orderly man. His files were neatly organized. Too bad for Thrush he didn't have time to destroy them."

    Kuryakin sipped his coffee. "I believe the term is anal retentive," he said. "He had files in his office and at home. The code, as it turned out, was not a new one and Mr. Cavetti's cryptographers were able to break it fairly quickly."

    Solo looked out the cafe window. "I suppose Mr. Cavetti will be claiming a huge amount of the credit."

    "Do you really think the old fox will believe him?"

    Solo smiled. "In the end, it doesn't really matter."

    Linda O'Neill came back to the table. "I suppose you boys were talking shop while I was powdering my nose."

    "Don't worry, we're through," Solo said. "By the way, any chance the school will reopen?"

    "Benton Douglas was in charge of the security investigation," she laughed. "He's given those of us who weren't part of Thrush -- and that included almost all of the teachers -- a clean bill of health. Some well-heeled donors have stepped forward. They want to reopen with new management. It looks like it will happen."

    "That's wonderful," Solo said, as he got up from the table. "I have to make arrangements for our return to the United States." He took out some lira notes from his pocket and put them on the table. "I'll see you both later. Oh, and Linda, thanks again for your help."

    Linda looked at Illya. "Did you arrange that little departure?"

    "Actually most the time I do it for him," he said.

    "When do you have to go back?"

    "Probably the day after tomorrow."

    "That means I have enough time to show you some moves."

    "What about this Benton Douglas?"

    "He's just a busy, busy man. How about this? I challenge you to a match. Best two out of three falls."

    "What do you get if you win?" Illya asked.

    "You."

    "And what do I get if I win?"

    "Me."

    Solo opened the door to his hotel room. He paused as he smelled the perfume. He eased the U.N.C.L.E. Special out of his shoulder holster, then closed the door behind him.

    Just then, Angelique emerged from the bathroom, wearing only a long, sheer negligee.  "Took you long enough, darling."

    "What are you still doing here? Not that I mind," Solo said. "But your confederates left behind quite a mess."

    "It wasn't my fault, darling," she said. "I performed my portion of the assignment flawlessly, even if it was a sad use of my talents. The U-N-C-L-E had been deceived. That was all I was permitted to do. I can't be held responsible that Mr. Knight and his minions failed in his mission. And since they are either killed or captured, Thrush really has no other perspective on this affair than mine. Oh, and put that silly gun away, Napoleon. You won't be needing it."

    He put the gun back in the shoulder holster. "You might try and kill me with some hidden weapon."

    "Now where could I hide a weapon with this outfit on?"

    "Could be done," Solo said smiling.

    "The only weapons I have are in plain sight, darling."  Angelique walked up and put her arms around Solo. "I need to find out one piece of intelligence. Are you really back in the land of the living?"

    Solo said nothing. Instead, he drew her closer and they kissed. First two short kisses, then one lingering one.

    "Does that answer your question?"

    "I will need to do more research," she said as they embraced once more.

THE END

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