Act I

"Absolutely, Positively...."

Henry Williams grumbled to himself. Another two hours until the end of the shift. Another couple hundred packages to process today. Another two days before the weekend. Another eight years before he could retire with thirty years of service and a decent pension.

Big packages, small packages. All coming down the conveyor with the same monotony. Day after day, supervisors bitching at you all day long. The money was good but the deadline pressures were constant. The company promised delivery on time, and customers took it for granted. Positively, absolutely. What they didn't see were the mind-numbed workers, sorting, coding and preparing packages for shipment What a mind-numbing existence, Williams thought.

It was the man's last conscious thought.

Just then, Williams' eyes took on a glassy stare, his mouth opened and just hung there. He moved from his work station and began walking, his pace slow but steady.

"Hey, Williams! Where the hell do ya think you're going?" a supervisor yelled from across the way.

Williams paid the supervisor no heed. His arms were down at his side, not moving. He walked a short distance to the locker room and went straight to his locker. He dialed the combination quickly and reached for a bag at the foot of the locker. He withdrew a machine gun, then shut the locker.

By this time, the agitated supervisor was trotting toward the locker room. "Williams! Get back here right now, or you're fired! You fat slob...."

The supervisor couldn't get any more words out as Williams exited the locker and opened fire. The shots tore through the supervisor's torso and the man was dead before he hit the floor. Williams then turned and opened fire on a small group of employees. Others in the cavernous processing center began to run, some stepping over their coworkers in a furious bid to escape. Williams got off another burst in their direction. Three more people fell as the bullets ripped open their backs, blood spurting everywhere. The machine gun then clicked empty and Williams took a small pistol from his pocket, pressed it to his temple and fired.

The only noise now was the clunk of packages falling to the floor from the end of the still-moving conveyor.

Napoleon Solo finished reviewing the last of the reports then rubbed his eyes. The past few weeks had been filled more with paperwork than field assignments. That, combined with the oppressive humidity of late August in New York, had induced a funk in Solo. The chief enforcement agent of the United Network Command for Law and Enforcement had spent the last ninety minutes reading summaries of Section Two activity from U.N.C.L.E.'s various offices around the world. While there were the usual trouble spots, there were no major cases brewing. In Europe, businesses and governments of many countries virtually shut down during August to enable everyone to go to the beach or the mountains. Maybe Thrush and other troublemakers are copying the European model, Solo mused. If he still smoked -- a habit he gave up some years ago -- Solo probably would have lit a cigarette now out of boredom.

The buzz of the intercom broke through Solo's mental haze. "Solo here," the U.N.C.L.E. agent said after flipping the switch.

"Mr. Waverly wants to see you and Mr. Kuryakin." It was the voice of Lisa Rogers, secretary to the Number One of Section One.

At last, Solo thought. "We'll be right there," he said. He flipped another switch, this one to the communications room. "Solo, Section Two," he told the communications officer on duty. "Please call Mr. Kuryakin and have him go up to Mr. Waverly's office." After receiving an acknowledgment, Solo quickly rose from his seat and grabbed his suitcoat from a nearby coat rack. His pace quickened with each step as he exited the office.

Within minutes, he was a dozen paces from Alexander Waverly's office. Just then, Illya Kuryakin caught up with Solo. "Ah, Napoleon, you seem a bit anxious."

Solo smiled. "I've been dealing too much with paperwork of late, I guess," he said.

"Yes, but I believe your countrymen have a saying," Kuryakin said. "Beware what you desire, or some such?"

"Be careful what you wish for," Solo corrected him.

The automatic sliding door to Waverly's office opened before Kuryakin could comment further. The two agents saw Waverly sitting at the familiar round conference table, puffing away on his pipe. What caught Solo's eye was the reading material Waverly seemed to be scanning. Waverly was strictly a reader of "respectable" newspapers like The New York Times or The Wall Street Journal. He even thought The Times of London had gotten too low-brow in recent years. Yet here was Waverly reading over the Daily News, with a copy of the New York Post also on the table. Both were tabloids, scrapping for survival and each had more crime news in a single edition than The New York Times might publish in a week.

The agents stood for a moment before Waverly noticed them. "Oh? Oh, sit down, gentlemen," Waverly said. "Tell me, have either of you read very much about that incident the other day at the parcel-shipment company, the one with the processing center over in New Jersey?"

Kuryakin nodded his head no. "I saw a relatively small item in the newspaper," Solo volunteered.

"I must admit I had originally passed it over myself," Waverly continued. "Then, some interesting information came to our attention, so I was catching up on some alternative reading with more detail. An employee with more than twenty years of seniority gets a machine gun out of his locker, kills some of his co-workers then kills himself. Rather gruesome scene, I must say."

"I believe I saw something about this on the television news," Kuryakin said. "The authorities believe he snapped from the strain of the work. It has happened before in other places, such as post office branches or other types of work where there is much pressure."

"Quite so, Mr. Kuryakin," Waverly responded. "An unfortunate byproduct of our society -- or so it would appear."

"Appear, sir?" Solo said.

"Six months ago, in Atlanta, there was a similar such incident at a large post office branch," Waverly said. "Two months ago -- almost to the day -- a worker at an automobile-assembly plant near Detroit sneaked a weapon into work and killed six people before killing himself. Both appeared to be random events."

Waverly paused for effect and neither Solo nor Kuryakin made a noise. By now, they knew their superior's habits. He was about to make a point, albeit a bit dramatically, perhaps.

"Except," Waverly said, "it turns out there is a single common denominator. All three of the men performed these acts of violence all were treated at a clinic in New York."

"What sort of clinic?" Kuryakin asked.

Waverly didn't answer immediately, instead flipping a switch on the control console on the table. A large screen descended from the ceiling. When it was in place, a picture of an imposing mansion appeared. "The Tegland Clinic, operated by one Gregrory Kleindorf," Waverly said.

The display changed to a picture of a bespectacled African-American man, heavyset, with a beard and shaved head. "Dr. Kleindorf has emerged the past few years as something of an expert on stress. His clinic is known for leading-edge treatment."

"So how did three members of the working class come to receive treatment at such an exclusive facility, sir?" Solo said.

"Dr. Kleindorf, it appears, has been rather outspoken about the need to get new treatments to the masses. Says he has convinced donors to the clinic of this need and that there are special funds for the treatment of average people. All done gratis."

"That's rather convenient, unless you end up dead," Kuryakin said.

"Precisely," Waverly said. "Still, this didn't become a priority matter until one of the fellows in research started playing around with some databases. It turns out that earlier in his career Dr. Kleindorf was associated with one Dr. Leland Elmont. Do you recall the gentleman?"

"Of course," Solo said, pausing for a moment as the memories came flooding back. "Dr. Elmont had a clinic right here in the city. It was a front for a Thrush operation. The late Dr. Elmont, in conjunction with another Thrush scientist, Dr. Agnes Dabree, had developed what was loosely called a 'brain killing' device. People treated with it -- formerly successful people -- suddenly became incompetents. Let's see, there was that diplomat who started bungling sensitive assignments and a shipping magnate who went bankrupt and committed suicide. And, of course, they intended to use it on you when we smashed the operation."

"Bravo, Mr. Solo," Waverly said. "Dr. Kleindorf was not associated with the Elmont clinic, but he had studied under Elmont a few years earlier."

"Are you suggesting Dr. Kleindorf has picked up where Elmont and Dabree left off?" Solo said.

"To be frank, I don't know," Waverly said. "But under the circumstances, I think the matter bears investigating. There are too many coincidences involved. There's something else to consider."

"What's that?" Solo asked.

"We never did find Dr. Dabree. I believe you were the last one to see her, Mr. Solo."

Solo arched his eyebrows. "Yes, I was hanging below an elevator. I had forced the elevator door open. She saw me and rushed at me with a knife hidden in an umbrella. I moved to the side and she fell down the shaft."

"Never to be seen again," Waverly said. "If Dr. Kleindorf is working on mind-altering experiments it's certainly possible that Dr. Dabree is involved as well. If so, she might have a personal interest in dealing with you, Mr. Solo."

"What's our first move, sir?"

"Oh, I'll leave that up to you fellows," Waverly said. "Some of us never get away from paperwork, Mr. Solo, Mr. Kuryakin."

Solo squinted for a moment. Even the old fox can't read minds, Solo thought, remembering what he was thinking when he'd received the call to come up to Waverly's office. Or can he?

The mental question went unanswered. "Now, if you'll excuse me, I have some more I must attend to," Waverly said.

Twenty minutes later, Solo and Kuryakin convened in a conference room.

"All right, I look into obtaining any architect's drawings for the Tegland Clinic," Kuryakin said. "Of particular interest will be anything I can find regarding ductwork or electrical systems. Hopefully, I can come up with something over the next day or two. And what do you have in mind?"

"Well, I have Records checking on something," Solo said.

"Something or someone?"

Solo held up the first three fingers of his right hand. "Oh, my intentions are strictly honorable."

"I can imagine," Kuryakin said, starting to roll his eyes.

A telephone on the conference table rang before Solo could reply. "Solo here," the agent said as he spoke into the receiver.

"Mr. Solo, this is Miss Blythe in records. I have the information you requested."

"No need to be so formal, Miss Blythe. You can call me Napoleon."

"All right, but is that really your name?"

Solo had seen May Blythe, who was a relatively new hire in the Records section. He recalled her curvy, round figure, though the image dissipated when she asked the question about his name. "Yes, my parents wanted to call me Ulysses but it was taken."

May Blythe let out a small laugh on the other end of the line. "Sorry, Napoleon. In any event, a preliminary check shows that Cecille Bergstrom is now an up-and-coming fashion designer, working out of a business here in the city." May gave Solo a business and home telephone number as well as a home address, all of which he wrote on a notepad that was on the conference table. "Oh, one more thing."

"What's that?" Solo said.

"You can call me May."

"Consider it done," he replied. "Over and out -- for now."

"Au revoir."

Solo hung up the receiver. "What was that all about?" Kuryakin said, sounding a bit stern.

"Just checking up on Cecille Bergstrom, the woman who helped us out the last time we encountered Dr. Dabree."

Kuryakin frowned for a moment. "Ah, yes," he said. "As I recall, you had to keep going to your money clip for that cooperation."

"Well, her financial condition wasn't the most secure," Solo replied. "And, in the end, she came through. It was she who turned on the 'brain killer' machine while Dr. Elmont and I were fighting."

"Yes, totally wiping out all brain functions. It wasn't very pretty, as I recall," Kuryakin said. "Has all of this caused you to develop nostalgia for old girlfriends?"

Solo was tempted to make a comeback but admitted to himself he and Cecille had a few interesting dates after the end of the affair. "Not exactly," he said. "Somehow, all of this information pointing to Kleindorf -- and possibly Dabree -- seems a bit too convenient. Assuming she is alive, Dabree has been nowhere to be found for years. Suddenly, we're assigned a case where she might be alive? Seems awfully neat."

"True enough," Kuryakin said. "Do you suspect Dabree is baiting us?"

"I'm not sure yet," Solo replied. "But if she is, I can't imagine that Dabree would pass up the chance to extract her revenge on Cecille Bergstrom. So, I thought I'd pay her a visit."

"I suppose that's a reasonable course of action," Kuryakin said, getting up from the table. "I'll attend to the exciting work of studying architectural designs while you deal with the drudgery of talking to women with curvy figures."

"How do you know she hasn't lost her figure?" Solo said. "It has been some years."

"With your luck, I doubt it," Kuryakin said as he left.

Cecille Bergstrom took off her glasses after completing the drawing. She had been tweaking this particular dress design for most of the day. Cecille was trying to come up with an evening dress that was simultaneously sexy and sensible, something a woman who ate something other than celery could wear. Then, the telephone rang.

"Hello, this is Cecille Bergstrom," she said.

"Hello, Cecille. It's Napoleon Solo."

Cecille had been leaning over the drawing board when she picked up the phone but she now sat straight up. "Napoleon!" she said. "How long has it been?"

"Too long."

She smiled, remembering the dates and what had occurred afterward. "I'll say." She paused. "Wait a minute. It has been an awfully long time. You wouldn't be calling on U.N.C.L.E. business, by any chance? Something to do with that horrible woman?"

Solo paused. "I'm afraid so. It may be nothing but it's something I need to check out. I'd like to see you as soon as I can."

Cecille fidgeted for a moment and looked at her watch. It was nearly four in the afternoon. "Okay, fine. Want to talk now or do you want to come over? At least I assume you're still here in New York."

"Yes, I'm still in New York. Why don't I pop over?"

Cecille arched her eyebrows. "All right. Have you got a piece of paper? Here's the address..."

The receptionist glanced at the clock. Nearly four-thirty. Late summer was something of a slow season and today had been particularly boring. She'd be glad when it would be five and she could go home. Just then, the door opened, revealing a visitor she'd never seen before. He was a well-dressed man, wearing a light gray suit. Despite the humid, muggy weather, the creases on the trouser legs looked sharp and the suit's owner seemed cool and collected. He seemed to move with the confidence of someone who always seemed in control.

"May I help you?" the receptionist asked.

"Yes, I'm looking for Cecille Bergstrom. She's expecting me. Napoleon Solo."

The receptionist's eyes widened for a split second. She curbed the temptation to ask about the unusual name. "Uh, certainly, sir, let me ring," she said as she picked up the telephone. "Miss Bergstrom? Yes, this is Jennifer up at the front desk. Yes, a Mr. Solo is here to see you." She put the receiver back down. "She'll be right with you."

"Thanks very much," Solo said.

Jennifer looked back down on her desk, but paid attention to nothing in particular. She kept glancing up at Solo, who had his back turned to her, looking at the awards on the wall of the reception area. She guessed he was a shade below six feet tall. The part of his hair was straight and perfect. For some reason, Jennifer had the feeling this Solo knew what he wanted and usually got it.

Just then, Cecille Bergstrom came out into the reception area. She walked right up to Solo and kissed him on the cheek.

"What was that for?" Solo asked.

"Memories -- at least the pleasant ones," she replied.

Cecille motioned Solo to follow her and they walked into the design studio. It wasn't a large space but comfortable. Sketches -- both rough designs and more polished ones -- were up on the wall along with photographs of models.

"Are all these your designs?" Solo said.

"Sure."

"I'm not an expert, but it looks like good work. At least it's a long way from refurbishing mannequins."

Cecille smiled for a second but her expression almost turned dour for a moment. "I guess so."

"What's wrong?"

"You reminded me of that awful woman and what she did to Nils. He died last year, you know."

"I'm sorry, I didn't know," Solo said. "I know you really cared about your brother."

"He never recovered from whatever that Dr. Dabree did to him," Cecille continued. "It was all I could do to pursue a career and arrange for him to be taken care of."

Solo was lost for a second in his own thoughts. Nils Bergstrom was an early guinea pig of Dr. Dabree's "brain killer" machine. It had left him with the intellect of a small child, not even able to speak. Nils Bergstrom's condition was one of the clues that led U.N.C.L.E. to Dabree all those years ago.

"I'm sorry to bring up the past but it is important," Solo said. "There's a possibility Dabree is active again."

"Active?" Cecille said. "I thought she fell down an elevator shaft."

"Oh, she did, no question," he said. "I was there. But we never found a body. I can't give you the details but there is something happening that's caused us to wonder whether Dabree is still alive."

"What can I do?" Cecille said.

"I'm just wondering if there's been anything out of the ordinary lately," Solo said. "Have you seen any unfamiliar characters hanging around? Anything different from your usual routine?"

"No, nothing. Why?"

"Just being cautious," Solo replied. "Dabree wouldn't be terribly fond of either us -- me for letting her fall down the shaft, and you for turning on that device that killed her co-worker, Dr. Elmont."

Cecille shuddered for a moment. "I'm sorry, Napoleon. Everything's normal. I had no clue until you called this afternoon."

They heard a clunk from the other room, the reception area. Cecille started to speak but Solo motioned her to be quiet with his left hand while his right withdrew the U.N.C.L.E. Special from its shoulder holster beneath his suitcoat. Cecille stood in her tracks as Solo moved quietly out of the design studio and toward the door that led to the reception room. He opened the door quickly but saw nothing for a moment. Then he looked toward the receptionist's desk. Jennifer lay at an odd angle on top of the desk. Solo had seen this too many times to delude himself she was still alive. A broken neck is an ugly thing to look at.

Solo scanned in front of him, then moved toward the body. Then, the giant sprung from behind the desk, engulfing Solo, causing him to drop the pistol. How the hell did something so big move so fast? Solo wondered.

He wasn't a true giant of course, just a large man. But Solo, trapped in a bear hug he couldn't break, wasn't about to debate semantics. Then, all at once, Solo felt himself flying for a second before slamming into the wall with a thud. The giant had thrown him.

Solo's vision began to cloud as he collapsed on the floor. Through the clouds he heard a scream. Solo remembered that Cecille's lung power could produce ear-shattering shrieks. But the clouds darkened a moment later, obscuring even Cecille's screams.

Act II

"A House Call"

The first thing Illya Kuryakin noticed as he walked into Alexander Waverly's office was the bandage around Napoleon Solo's head. The Russian saw that Waverly was speaking but wasn't sure whether Solo, his head in hands, was really listening.

"You're quite fortunate the police were so reasonable once they were contacted by U.N.C.L.E., Mr. Solo," Waverly said. "You'd probably be spending the night in jail as their lead suspect."

Kuryakin squinted at Solo. What had done this to Napoleon? he thought to himself. And what was Mr. Waverly talking about?

"Ah, Mr. Kuryakin. Glad you could join us, even if the hour is somewhat late," Waverly said.

"I received a telephone call at home that I was needed here," he said. "May I ask what transpired?"

"Ask Mr. Solo."

Solo tilted his head toward the ceiling. "A large gentleman squeezed me like a toy and threw me against the wall. He broke the neck of the receptionist at the design studio where Cecille Bergstrom is employed. He apparently grabbed Cecille and carried her off, though I can't vouch for that because I was unconscious. Suffice to say, Miss Bergstrom is missing."

Kuryakin sat down at the round conference table. "As I recall, Dr. Dabree was fond of large henchmen. At least, she had a large fellow on her staff. He died during the course of the previous affair but it wouldn't be too hard to find another large-sized lackey. Another clue, obviously."

"Clue?" Waverly interrupted. "More like bait for a trap. All the events we discussed earlier today were uncomfortably convenient. This latest incident makes it all too transparent. It's practically an invitation. The fellow could have easily killed Mr. Solo, yet he did not. Instead, he grabs what the fairy tales would refer to as the damsel in distress."

"So do we accept this invitation?" Kuryakin asked.

Solo looked at Illya and began to speak but Waverly cut him off. "Knowing Mr. Solo, I suspect he'd wish to effect a rescue of Miss Bergstrom, even if it were against orders. Rather than set up a conflicting situation, I'm going to let both of you proceed."

"You are?" Solo said, surprise in his voice.

"Of course," Waverly said. "If Dr. Dabree -- and at this point I am assuming she is the power behind Dr. Kleindorf -- has gone to this much trouble, I don't think we should disappoint her. Besides, she clearly is a threat that must be dealt with. However, I suggest you, Mr. Kuryakin, might want to alter your plans just a bit."

"Why me?" Kuryakin said.

"I re-read the old reports on you fellows' first encounter with Dr. Dabree. Mr. Solo here, I suspect, is probably the main target of Dr. Dabree's ire. While you were present, Mr. Kuryakin, you did not have as many face-to-face dealings with Dr. Dabree. I'd like to keep it that way."

"What are you suggesting?"

"You've been a bit handy with makeup in the past, Mr. Kuryakin. I'd suggest you consider using those talents in your operational plan."

"And what about me, sir?" Solo asked.

"You, Mr. Solo, devise the flimsiest cover you can. I want Dr. Dabree to know that you are on the trail, as it were. Anger can cloud judgment and that can be our greatest advantage."

Solo frowned. Only if I live to tell about it, he thought.

"It's nearly ten, gentlemen," Waverly said as he arose. "I'm sure you both have a great deal to discuss. But I would like to see a tentative operational plan on my desk in the morning. Good night."

Forty-three minutes later, the two agents were wrapping up their work.

"Luckily, I found out a great deal not too long after you left," Kuryakin said. "The Tegland Clinic is housed in an old mansion that still is undergoing extensive rewiring to accommodate computers, faxes and the like. I expect to get ahold of some diagrams tomorrow. I'll pay them a visit the next day."

Solo rubbed his eyes. "With this bandage on my head, I don't think I need to advise caution." He sighed.

"Are you quite all right? You act as if that bump on your head has affected you worse than you let on."

"No, Illya," Solo said. "I keep thinking of that poor receptionist, who never had a chance, not to mention Cecille. No telling if she's alive or not. Makes me wish we'd never involved her in the first place."

"From what you've told me, you had only asked her a few questions. That's hardly involving her."

"No, I mean the original affair. If I hadn't utilized Cecille as bait, she'd never have been captured by Dabree those years ago. Then, there'd be no reason for Dabree to want to seize her now."

"My friend, one cannot predict what people like Dabree will do. What is more, terms like 'would have' or 'could have' only serve to stick edgewise in the throat. I think we are both better off if we successfully complete this assignment."

"We'll know soon enough," Solo said. "Nice for them to have a reception honoring Dr. Kleindorf, according to this item on the society page of the paper."

"Yes, something else that seems unusually convenient," Kuryakin replied.

"Well, Mr. Waverly did say to use the flimsiest cover I could devise. That reception sounds like the place to use it. I should be able to take this bandage off by then."

Dr. Gregory Kleindorf walked with a speed that belied his bulk. With more than two hundred sixty pounds spread over his six-foot-three frame, Kleindorf was an imposing figure both for patients and the staff of the Tegland Clinic. "I'm headed for a private conference, I can't be disturbed for a half-hour or so," he said as he walked by his secretary.

The office was in one wing of the mansion he helped convert into a clinic. He walked down a long hallway to the opposite wing, away from the few, financially privileged patients currently staying at Tegland. He arrived at an unmarked door, looked around and took out a key from his pants pocket. He quickly turned the key and entered.

Kleindorf watched for a moment as Dr. Agnes Dabree sat at the laboratory table. She held up what appeared to be an ordinary silicon chip.

"Dr. Dabree, we must talk," Kleindorf said, with a hint of concern in his voice.

Dabree continued to study the chip without uttering a word. She put it back on the table and wrote a note to herself.

"Doctor, please," Kleindorf said, attempting to sound firm.

"Oh, Kleindorf, what is it now?" Dabree asked, sitting back in the wheelchair and activating a switch. The motorized wheelchair brought Dabree out from behind the table and directly in front of Kleindorf. At a little over five-feet tall, she looked like she would be swallowed up by his shadow. Sitting in the wheelchair only increased the effect. But she sat up straight in the chair while Kleindorf's shoulders slumped. The body language revealed who was really in control of this conversation.

"Did you have to bring that, eh, new patient here?" Kleindorf said.

"Kleindorf, the reason I utilize this device is because it is quite painful for me to walk. At my age, healing broken bones is difficult. That's even more true when you break bones falling down from the fifth floor of an elevator shaft. That so-called patient will lead the man responsible for that setback straight to me."

"We have established a very impressive reputation here," Kleindorf protested. "It does not make sense to endanger it pursuing this vendetta of yours. These tests have occurred far too frequently and the last one was much too close to us."

"Do not be so namby-pamby, Doctor," Dabree said. "Our primary purpose is to develop a new weapon for Thrush -- not to bolster your standing in the medical and social communities. As for this vendetta, as you call it, I will not only receive personal satisfaction but the U-N-C-L-E shall suffer an extreme setback. I suggest you get on with your business."

Kleindorf frowned, starting to speak but thinking better of it. He left the room without further comment. After the door shut, a hidden door in the back of the room opened. In came a tall, but cold-looking blonde woman in a nurse's uniform, who sat down on a couch. Dabree then stood up from the wheelchair, grunting as she did so. The strain showed on her face as she took the few steps to the couch. After sitting down for a moment, she lifted herself onto the couch, laying her head on the blonde woman's lap.

"Ah, Flo," Dabree said. "After all these years, I can almost taste Mr. Solo's demise."

The blonde woman began to stroke Dabree's head.

The pickup truck came up the long driveway to the Tegland Clinic, parking on the edge. A man of slightly-below-average height with black hair and mustache got out, carrying a toolbox. He went through the main entrance, which had been converted to a reception area.

"May I help you?" the receptionist said, warily.

"I'm here to check the wiring work we've done recently," the man said in a flat voice. He took a piece of paper from his pants pocket. "Here's the work order."

The receptionist looked at the paper. She recognized the name of the contractor and the form looked like all the work orders she'd seen in recent weeks. "Very well," she said. "How long will it take?"

"No more than an hour. I'll need to get a ladder from my truck."

"Go ahead, just try not to be disruptive."

The man returned to the pickup truck and removed a ladder from the rear cab. He paused for a moment in front of the receptionist, got out another piece of paper and started walking toward the east wing.

"Do you have to go there? That might disturb the patients," the receptionist said.

"That's also where most of the rewiring was done. Isn't that where you keep much of your equipment?"

"Yes, but our patients..."

"I promise to be very quiet. The sooner I start, the sooner I can finish. I will not need to go inside any patient's room."

The receptionist said no more and the man walked to the east wing until he was outside what appeared to be an examination room. He glanced at the paper and then looked up at the ceiling. Ceiling tile had been installed a couple of feet below the true ceiling. The man set up his ladder, climbed up and removed one of the tile pieces, sliding it over. He then went up another step so he could examine the electrical wiring. He ducked down, then brought up his tool box and removed a small rectangular item, attached it to the top of the ceiling tile -- the side that wouldn't be seen -- and replaced the tile.

As the man got down from the ladder and folded it up, he saw a huge medical orderly, close to seven feet tall, helping a woman into the examination room.

Illya Kuryakin recognized her, of course. It was Cecille Bergstrom. Her eyes seemed dull, her face had a blank expression, her walk was listless. The orderly loomed over both Cecille and Kuryakin. The Russian tried not to stare and began walking to his next stop.

"You're sure it was Cecille?" Napoleon Solo asked.

"The wig and fake mustache were uncomfortable but they did not impair my powers of observation," Kuryakin said as he removed the work shirt. "No question it was she. I'd say they had drugged her, to make her compliant."

It was two hours later and Kuryakin had returned to U.N.C.L.E. headquarters.

"Any sign of Dabree?" Solo asked as Kuryakin was putting on his dress shirt.

"No. I did catch a brief glimpse of Dr. Kleindorf in the hall, though," Kuryakin said, now tying his necktie. "For such a large man, he didn't move around very confidently. He fidgeted a lot."

"That's interesting. How many of those little surprises did you install?"

"Five in all, spread around the wing devoted to medical facilities. The other wing appeared to be off limits. Certainly all of the rewiring had been done in the medical wing, according to the contractor. He was a bit hesitant to cooperate but his work at the clinic was done and he had been paid."

"I guess all that remains now is for me to attend that fund-raising gala tonight," Solo said. "It turns out Mr. Waverly knows one of the guests. Through that connection the documents section came up with a convincing counterfeit invitation for me."

"All I can do is advise caution," Kuryakin said. "That large fellow escorting Miss Bergstrom was quite intimidating. I'm not surprised he could throw you up against a wall."

"Well, I can't worry too much about that right now," Solo said. "Might as well get ready for the reception."

It was only a few minutes past eight, but the night had established itself, a sign that summer was ebbing away. Solo breathed in the evening air as he left his car and walked up to the main entrance to the mansion. A tall, thin man in a tuxedo asked guests for their invitations. As he approached, Solo withdrew his forged invitation from the breast pocket of his black tuxedo jacket and showed it to the tall man without comment. The man only glanced at it and turned his attention to other guests.

Solo continued through the large double doors into the interior. A temporary sign was posted indicating reception guests were to walk straight back. The U.N.C.L.E. agent walked through the large open area and down a short hallway. At the end of the hallway, a hostess in an evening dress pointed.

"Out this way to the reception, please. It's on the large patio," she said.

Solo smiled but said nothing. He again felt the night air. Perhaps twenty-five people in formal wear were standing about, gathered around a large swimming pool. The pool lights were on and there was additional lighting around the patio. A waiter came up with a tray of glasses filled with champagne and Solo took one. As he sipped from the glass, he glanced around the scene. It was like many parties he attended, with people talking a lot but not really saying much.

Solo recognized Kleindorf as he approached. "Ah, a new face. I don't believe we've met before. Mister...?"

"Solo. Napoleon Solo. I recognize you, of course, Dr. Kleindorf. You and this clinic have done a great many things, I hear."

"Uh, thank you," Kleindorf said with a note of doubt in his voice.

"Tell me, doctor, is it true your clinic treats average people at a minimal fee?"

"Actually, no fee," Kleindorf said. "We seek out people who may be prone to stress. Our more well-to-do patients may pay the bills but not all of them experience real-world stress."

"How do you select such patients -- the ones with the real-world stress, I mean."

"Referrals. I've practiced medicine for a number of years and have established a reputation. We can handle only a few of these patients, of course. We have more referrals than we need."

"I'm sure," Solo said. He decided to press a bit. "What's your success rate? I mean, of those 'real-world' people, are they cured or is there an occasional setback?"

"Medicine is not always an exact science, Mr. Solo," Kleindorf said sternly. "We've had our reversals. But we've always done the best for our patients. If you'll excuse me, Mr. Solo, I've a number of guests to whom I must attend."

Solo nodded and walked off. Kleindorf took a few steps, then looked back in Solo's direction as he began to mingle with the guests. Kleindorf walked around the pool to a table with a telephone. He picked up the receiver and hit two digits.

"He's here, just as you expected. No, he's milling about the party, right now." A pause. "Well if he should go into the medical wing, just make sure he doesn't come back out."

Act III

"Long Waiting and Short Bursts of Violence"

Around a quarter to ten, the security man in the main reception area of the clinic saw a guest from the party walking unsteadily. While walking a mostly straight line, he stumbled every few steps. Oh geez, who is this loser, anyway? the security guard thought. Can't he see there's no champagne over here?

"Hey great parrrty," the guest said, slurring his words.

"Listen, fella---"

"I'm sorry I'm trying ta, ta get back to the parrrty."

"---I think you've had a few too many. Party's the other way. If you don't mind, this is the medical wing."

"Oh, really?" the guest said after a long pause. "I coulda sworn...I mean it just seemed like a minute ago I was talking to people, now I see all this white stuff...:

"Maybe I should call you a cab, sir."

"But I'm not a cab," the guest said, snickering. "Get it?"

"Very funny, sir," the guard said with contempt.

The guest began looking at his watch. "Will you look at that? This damn thing has stopped working. What time do you have? This thing is stuck at eight-fifteen..."

A quick jet of gas shot out from the watch, right into the guard's face. He had no time to react and within a few seconds, his face took on a blank stare. Napoleon Solo moved to steady the guard, and propped him up against the wall. The U.N.C.L.E. agent then checked the guard's belt and found the key to the entryway into the medical wing. Solo knew the special stun gas would last for a while. Illya Kuryakin had used it on an assignment several months ago in Hawaii while Solo was engaged on another matter. The gas was harmless but left people almost mentally frozen. When the guard awoke from the gas, he would not realize any time had passed. Solo hoped it would be at least an hour before that would occur.

The agent went through the entryway and closed the door behind him. Recalling the diagram he had memorized, Solo knew he had to go down a nearby hallway and go up some stairs to reach the patient area.

Agnes Dabree watched the readout on the monitor she had stationed in front of her. She reached over to a telephone set up next to the monitor and hit two numbers.

"Yes, Charles. Yes, Mr. Solo is prowling about in the medical wing. Yes, you may have another go at him. Just don't kill him."

Solo found the stairs quickly but paused for a moment. Too easy. In the next second, he wasn't sure what made him duck. But that was when the huge form went flying over Solo and sprawling onto the floor.

Solo got to his feet quickly. Although the huge man was struggling to get to his feet, he looked formidable. He has to be at least seven feet tall, Solo thought. How does someone so big move that fast?

The man, dressed like an orderly, stood up and turned to Solo. The thing that Solo noticed first was the size of the man's hands. For a second, Solo imagined one of the hands grabbing his skull, squeezing and crushing it, and the delicate material inside the skull being splattered all over the white wall. The orderly rushed again. Although Solo sidestepped him, the huge man swept his right arm backward, hitting the agent. Even though it was a glancing blow, Solo was stunned. The orderly then turned around and moved in on Solo and grabbed him in a bear hug.

Pain shot up through Solo's back from his lower spine as the orderly tightened his grip. It was as if every nerve in his upper torso screamed all at once. This had to be the same man who had flung Solo around just a few days ago. The agent knew he had to act now.

Solo got his left arm free as the orderly relaxed for a moment. Solo formed a fist and slammed it into the orderly's right ear. The giant yelled and Solo felt the grip loosen just a bit more. Now the other arm was free. He now formed fists with both hands and again struck the huge man in the ears. Still, the orderly held and began to tighten his grip. Solo wasn't sure if he could withstand another crushing, crunching squeeze of his spine. I've got to take him down, now.

Solo aimed for the neck and put all the force he could into the karate blow. Solo's world began to spin as the big man went limp. The agent landed on his back as he fell free of the orderly. He could only lie there as the minutes passed as if they were hours. Solo was a bit dizzy and his body hurt, especially the lower back.

He squinted, gritted his teeth and forced himself to rise slowly from the floor. He sat up at first and paused for a minute before planting his feet on the floor and standing up. He took out a small kit containing a syringe. Then, he grabbed the unconscious man's arm, found a vein and plunged the needle home. The fluid Solo injected would ensure that the man would remain unconscious for an hour or so.

As he put the kit away, Solo wasn't going to take any more chances. He withdrew the U.N.C.L.E. Special from the shoulder holster underneath his tuxedo jacket and removed the clip. He then reached into another jacket pocket and extracted another clip and placed it in the pistol. The first clip contained sleep darts. The latter had cartridges.

Solo worked his way up the stairs, his gun drawn. He made his way carefully, pausing at the first door he found. He checked the handle, finding it unlocked. The agent opened the door slowly. It was a patient's room, but the lights were off and the empty bed was neatly made. Five more doors on this side, six on the other side of the hallway. He spent the next ten minutes repeating the drill on this side of the hallway. All the rooms were empty. Apparently, the clinic had no "regular" patients admitted. How many more rooms would he have to check before finding Cecille? How much time did he have before all hell broke loose?

The van parked in the alley was inconspicuous. It was a bit dirty and could stand a visit to a car wash. The driver drummed his fingers on the steering wheel. Dov Kapiloff then scratched his head, mostly as a way to release nervous energy.

"The waiting is agonizing," he said, still facing forward.

Illya Kuryakin, sitting in the back, looked up from the control console. "Unfortunately, much of our work consists of long stretches of waiting punctuated by short bursts of violence," he said.

"I am sorry, Mr. Kuryakin."

"Please, Illya."

"I just wish we could take them."

"First, we have to be sure it is Dabree," Kuryakin said. "If it is not, and there is nothing nefarious taking place, we withdraw gracefully and quietly. It certainly appears as though something is amiss there. But it makes no sense to charge in foolishly." Kuryakin knew the young Israeli's reputation for being bright and enthusiastic but with a touch of impatience. "It's nearly eleven, though. Mr. Solo has been in there a long time."

"I told you before -- we wait until at least one a.m. If Dr. Kleindorf is all he appears and there is indeed nothing at the clinic, Mr. Solo should be back here no later than one, probably sooner. If he doesn't, then we begin the alternate maneuver."

Kapiloff sighed and fell silent.

Before Solo could cross the hallway, the roar of a gunshot assaulted his ears. The agent darted into the last room he had checked. Another shot sounded. It had come from the direction of the stairs. Solo leaned out long enough to get off two shots toward the stairs. He retreated as several shots were fired in his direction. Can't anybody hear this racket? Solo wondered. The party was still well underway when I came over here.

After the exchange stopped, Solo leaned out again, this time catching a glimpse of another orderly -- this one of more average height and build, replacing the clip in his gun. "Drop your weapon!" Solo yelled.

Instead the man jammed the clip home and, in one quick motion, raised his gun and got off another shot. Solo fired two more shots simultaneously, both striking the orderly in the chest. The man fell back as the force of the slugs hammered into his torso.

This wing of the building had to be soundproofed, or else the attacks wouldn't be this brazen. No point in being subtle, Solo thought. He moved quickly across the hall and started yanking the doors open. At the third door, he froze, finally seeing someone -- or at least some shape -- lying in a hospital bed. He looked back down the hall but heard nothing and saw only the body of dead orderly. Solo returned his gaze back into the room. There was definitely a woman lying in the bed. He quickly turned on the light and saw it was Cecille underneath the blankets, dressed in a hospital gown.

She squinted a bit to the light but wasn't moving around much. All those shots and she's still asleep? Must be drugged with something pretty potent.

Dabree continued to study the console when the knock came on the door. She ignored it but the pounding continued.

"Dr. Dabree! It's Kleindorf! What's going on?"

Dabree rolled her eyes and activated the controls of the motorized wheelchair and drove over to the door. She unlocked it and immediately put the chair into reverse. The door opened and an agitated Kleindorf entered.

"Dr. Dabree, it has been over an hour and I've heard nothing. Is Solo in the medical wing?"

"Of course he is," Dabree said, returning her attention to the console. "Must you snivel so?"

"First, Solo disappears from sight. Then, you assure me that he will be handled but I don't hear anything."

"Solo is working his way through the medical wing, much as I expected him to," Dabree said curtly. "These miniaturized surveillance cameras are helping me to keep track. I had thought Charles would overwhelm him but Solo incapacitated him. And poor Lawrence, I fear, has been killed. He got a little too anxious to use his firearm."

"What? There have been casualties?"

"You don't make an omelet without breaking a few eggs," Dabree said. "I think that should be obvious after the experiments you've assisted me with."

"Why are you toying with him? Why not kill him?"

"Dr. Kleindorf, that will be quite enough. You're disturbing my concentration. He has just found Miss Bergstrom."

"We've got to do something now!"

"That will be taken care of shortly," Dabree said. "Go bid your guests goodnight. I will have need of your services in the next couple of hours."

Kleindorf took the handkerchief from the breast pocket of his tuxedo jacket and began to pat his sweaty forehead. His lips trembled for a second. He knew there was no further point in arguing so he left the room.

As the door shut, Dabree put her finger over a button on the console and waited.

Solo gently nudged Cecille but she didn't move. He then began to shake her slightly and finally the eyes opened.

"Napoleon, where....."

"No time to explain now. We've got to make a run for it before the reinforcements arrive."

"What are you talking about?" Cecille said, her voice faint.

Solo helped her out of bed. He took a quick look around, spotted a small closet and looked inside. A blue cloth robe was hanging there and Solo helped Cecille to put the garment on.

"All right, just stand here for a moment. I'm going to check the hallway. If it's clear, we'll go."

Solo looked down the hallway toward the steps but still only saw the orderly's body. Before he could turn back to Cecille, he suddenly felt a blow to the back of the neck. The blow -- more the surprise of it than the force -- caused him to stumble for a moment. He turned to face Cecille, whose eyes seemed to be on fire. She clipped the left side of his head with another karate blow. He began to aim the U.N.C.L.E. Special. You fool. Shoot! It's what they taught you at Survival School. If someone attacks, shoot first, answer questions later.

But Solo knew that was only bravado. His finger froze as he was unable to bring himself to shoot the woman he knew must now be under Dabree's control. Cecille then connected with another blow to the temple and everything turned dark.

Act IV

"Price Due: One Pound of Flesh"

Solo knew he wasn't alone. He wasn't quite sure how. His eyes were closed and it was quiet. But there was some kind of noise. A humming, maybe? Solo paused. The news was likely to be bad and he was in no hurry to discover it. Still, he decided to tense some muscles to discover if he had any range of movement. A second later, he realized he was lying flat, strapped down to something. A hospital gurney.

"Ah, our new patient is beginning to stir," Dr. Dabree said. The shrill voice was instantly recognizable, even after several years.

Well, so much for playing possum. Solo opened his eyes and saw indeed, he was strapped down on a hospital gurney. His tuxedo jacket had been removed as had his tie, but he was still fully dressed. He glanced over to the right side and saw a bit of a surprise. An unconscious Cecille, also strapped down on another gurney.

Solo slowly turned his head to the left. There she was, her black hair still with the two long streaks of gray like something out of The Bride of Frankenstein. He could see her eyes fairly well, despite the thick lenses of the glasses. It was a look of absolute glee, like a cat that now had its mouse and was just playing with it, batting the poor creature from paw to paw. The one difference was she seemed to be sitting in a wheelchair.

"Dr. Dabree, I presume," Solo said.

"Ah, Mr. Solo, you have no idea how pleased I am to renew our acquaintance," she said.

"Oh, I can guess."

"I once vowed you would pay your pound of flesh. That payment is about to come due."

"As I recall," Solo said, "you were trying to kill me and I just got out of the way. Besides, you're not supposed to play with knives. Being a doctor, you should know that."

"Witty remarks will do you no good this time, Mr. Solo."

"They rarely do, but I keep trying. So, you obviously survived the fall down the elevator shaft. I gather the wheelchair is an indication you didn't emerge unscathed."

"I can still walk but only with great pain."

"And I suppose you really do know something about a few people in some high-stress jobs seemingly going insane and killing their co-workers before committing suicide."

"Of course. Was there any doubt?" Dabree said.

Solo grinned, wishing he were half as confident as he was trying to sound. "That's going a bit far to get U.N.C.L.E.'s attention, isn't it? Not to mention painful for the patients you programmed."

"Programmed?" Dabree said. "I suppose you could call it that, but it's not a conventional method of conditioning, or brainwashing. No, my big breakthrough since our last encounter involves a form of electronic mind control. You're quite right, the tests were intended to draw your organization's interest. But they are quite vital to the development of my little project."

"Let me guess: that's why Miss Bergstrom attacked me."

"Yes, Mr. Solo. Forgive me for boasting, but I have been anticipating this moment for so long, I have no wish to hurry through it. So, with your indulgence..."

"Oh, far be it from me to be anything but a proper guest."

Dabree held up a small object between her thumb and forefinger. Solo could hardly see it, it was so tiny.

"Miss Bergstrom is only the latest person to have one of these implanted just inside her right ear," Dabree began. "You see, my previous project involved disabling someone by slightly impairing their brain functions. That method involved an external device, no conventional surgery needed. But there always was an element of uncertainty. This," she gestured with the object, "is much more sure. It ensures direct and complete control of the conscious brain. Unfortunately, it is not very durable. At this point, it does not survive being activated more than once or twice. After that, it ceases to function. But it can turn a peaceful man into a vicious killer, with the right software -- which I have -- and a flip of a switch."

"You can turn anyone into a killer with conventional conditioning techniques."

"True enough, Mr. Solo. However, it can take quite a long time, depending on the subject. With my method, once this device is implanted, it will work."

"How come no one has noticed your little brain gizmo during the autopsies of your victims?"

"Now, I am disappointed, Mr. Solo," Dabree said. "In all three cases, the person who appeared to go berzerk shot themselves in the head. Medical examiners are human like anyone else. They were presented with an obvious conclusion and simply didn't bother to look for alternatives. There was no need. So they ship the body off to the funeral home and fill out their report and go home."

Solo frowned. "I have the nasty impression this is leading up to something."

Dabree smirked. "Yes, Mr. Solo, it is," she said. "In an hour or so, we are going to prepare you for surgery. You'll be the next one to have one of my brain-control devices implanted."

Kuryakin returned to the van where Kapiloff was waiting.

"Well it appears as if the last of the guests has left the party," he said as he stood outside next to the driver side window. "Any contact with Mr. Solo?"

"No, Illya," Kapiloff said. "No message from his communicator pen and he's certainly not come by since you left to check on the other guests. I guess I am worried."

Kuryakin looked at his watch. "Twelve-seventeen. Almost forty-five minutes before it's time to attempt the alternate plan." He rubbed his chin. "I'm going to go see what I can find."

"But I thought we were supposed to wait until one a.m.," the Israeli said.

"You are to wait until one a.m."

"But you said not to rush blindly into the situation."

"When you suggested moving in, it was the result of youthful impatience," Kuryakin responded. "When I suggest it, it is the result of years of battle-tested experience."

Kapiloff's eyes widened for a moment but he said nothing.

"Dov, on the control console in the back, there are five red switches. Do you see them?"

Kapiloff looked back to the rear compartment. "Yes, five in a row."

"At precisely one a.m., flip the first switch. Wait thirty seconds, then flip the second. Flip all the rest in fifteen second intervals. Understand?"

"Yes, but..."

"I have a half-mile walk, I have no time to discuss this further," Kuryakin said, as he put on a small backpack and started off.

A tall blonde woman in a nurse's uniform walked into the room and stood next to Dabree. Solo recognized her as the nurse who assisted the late Dr. Elmont. In fact, Solo had had to struggle with both Elmont and the nurse to prevent them using the "brain killer" device on Alexander Waverly. After the device had been used on Elmont instead -- Solo was still fighting with him while Cecille turned on the machine -- the agent had been more concerned about securing Waverly. Solo had cursed himself then for letting the nurse go. Now watching the two of them, Solo figured it was the nurse who must have assisted Dabree's escape.

The nurse stood rigid and straight, with an icy glare. However, she also put her hand on Dabree's shoulder and the doctor, in turn, held onto it.

"Yes, Flo," Dabree said, still facing Solo. "I promised you I would get Mr. Solo. And at long last, I have."

Solo had to play for time. "Just what do you expect to accomplish by implanting one of those devices in me?"

"Oh come, Mr. Solo," Dabree said. "I gave you more credit than that. I should think it would be obvious."

"Humor me."

"Tomorrow morning -- actually this morning -- you will walk into U-N-C-L-E headquarters, calmly go into Mr. Waverly's office and kill him. Shortly after that, you will take your own life. Yes, your superior owes me as well. I mean to see you both pay. On top of everything else during our last encounter, Mr. Waverly imparted false information to me while we had him drugged. Those false leads caused Thrush quite a bit of trouble. In one swoop, I shall have my revenge on the two men who've caused me the most pain and your organization will suffer a crippling blow -- the deaths of its top administrative leader and its highest-ranking enforcement agent."

"This morning?"

"The operation to implant my device is delicate but does not take much over an hour. After your visit tonight, I'm sure U.N.C.L.E. will be most anxious to have you back. Don't worry, I'll have you at work at your regular time. But there will be nothing you can do to prevent yourself from killing Waverly. After the operation, you'll receive a drug that will erase any memories of this evening. You'll arrive at U.N.C.L.E. without any inkling of the ticking timebomb in your head. Then, I'll flip a switch and a signal will go to your brain, instructing you what to do. And you'll do it gladly."

The crazy bitch, Solo thought. Yet, clearly the device works at some level. Oh my God, this could really work.

When starting something relatively foolhardy, Illya Kuryakin decided, one might as well go about it in the most direct manner possible. Besides, one -- I suspect I don't have much time. Two -- after checking out the facilities, they can't have that many guards. And three -- after more than three hours in there, one would hope Napoleon had caused them at least some difficulties.

So, Kuryakin detached the Velcro flap of his jacket, pulled it back, revealing a dress shirt, bow tie and converting the garment into a tuxedo jacket. He removed the backpack and crumpled it up as best he could and carried it with him. Then, he approached the front door of the Tegland Clinic.

He knocked on the door three, four, five times before someone came. An agitated security man came up and opened the door.

"What's the matter, can't you see we're closed?"

"I was at the reception earlier this evening," Kuryakin said. "My wife left her wrap, we were in such a hurry to get home. It's quite special to her."

"Listen, we shut down for the night over a half hour ago. Come back in the morning."

"What time is it by the way? My watch --"

Before Kuryakin could get the words out, the security guard started reaching for his billy club. Ah, it appears Napoleon used that gambit already. Kuryakin undercut the guard's chin with the heel of his fist. The blow dazed the guard but he still was able to bring down the club on Kuryakin. The Russian's left shoulder screamed in agony as the guard had still been able to deliver his attack with much force. Kuryakin buried the pain and pressed his attack. With his right hand, he delivered a karate blow to the guard, who stumbled back and fell. Kuryakin stepped on the guard's right wrist, forcing him to let go of the billy club. Before the guard could struggle further, Kuryakin kneeled over and administered the stun gas from his watch.

The Russian rubbed his left shoulder for a minute. He had separated it a few months earlier. Kuryakin guessed it wasn't as badly injured now, but it certainly hurt like hell. Kuryakin tried to put the pain out of his mind and concentrate on the job at hand. He mentally ran the diagrams through his head. Where could they be? He looked at his watch. Twelve thirty-eight. There was a set of stairs roughly in the center of the wing. He would begin there, then expand his search outward.

Kuryakin found the entryway to the medical wing. Locked, but that didn't matter. He took out what looked like a key from his pocket. In reality, it was a special U.N.C.L.E. tool for unlocking doors without the usual telltale signs of lockpicking. Kuryakin opened the door and walked quickly down the hall, listening for any signs of friend or foe.

Just as he reached the stairs, he saw him. The seven-foot orderly, rubbing his neck, was coming down the stairway slowly. He glanced in Kuryakin's direction and suddenly was flying down the stairway. Kuryakin whipped out the U.N.C.L.E. Special and got off a shot. It appeared to the strike the big man's chest. But he kept coming, making a wide sweeping motion with his left arm that connected with Kuryakin, sending him flying into the wall of the hallway and causing him to drop the pistol.

Kuryakin ducked as the giant tried to punch him. The Russian, in turn, stomped as hard as he could at the big man. That caused him to stumble around. I know I hit him, I know it. Then Kuryakin noticed the man's chest. His white uniform indeed had a red spot. Is he human?

Then the big man collected himself for another charge. Kuryakin had started to sidestep the blow but couldn't dodge it entirely. Again, he went flying and landed on the floor, now very close to the steps. Kuryakin looked up, saw the big man slowly walking up, anticipating the kill. Then, as he glanced down toward the giant's feet, Kuryakin saw his U.N.C.L.E. Special. He waited for the giant to take one step, then two steps. Then, he dived along the floor -- just sliding by the orderly -- and grabbed for his gun. The orderly turned and Kuryakin pulled the trigger. Once, twice, three times.

Then, it was quiet. The giant stood there for what seemed like an enternity. Kuryakin's chest was heaving as he took deep breaths. Why did the giant just stand there, staring? Then, Kuryakin noticed something he hadn't seen before. A small red circle just above the bridge of the nose. Five seconds, then ten. Then, he finally fell, the body coming down less than a foot from Kuryakin, as if the giant were trying to will himself to finish the job before he himself died. If that was the case, he came up short.

Kuryakin picked himself up off the floor, reached into a pocket and took out a spare clip. He removed the existing clip and put in the new one as he made his way up the stairs -- the same direction the large man had just come from.

Solo saw Dr. Kleindorf enter the room. He was dressed in a surgical outfit, save for the surgical mask, which hung around his neck.

"I'm not to operate in here, am I? This is hardly a sterile environment," Kleindorf said. "This man still is in street clothes."

"Kleindorf, we do not have time for all the niceties. I don't want to move Mr. Solo to the regular operating room and risk any further delay. After you revived Charles, I sent him to look around the facilities to make sure none of Mr. Solo's friends were around. As soon as he returns, we'll get started."

Solo looked over at Cecille, then returned to look at Dabree. "I suppose you killed her."

"Oh, not yet, Mr. Solo," Dabree said, still continuing to hold the hand of the tall blonde nurse. "I want to put Miss Bergstrom through some special physical torture. But that can wait until after your appointment with destiny."

Suddenly, a small rumble could be heard. Thunder? No it was closer than that. All electrical equipment in the makeshift operating room was going dead.

An anxious Dabree drove her motorized wheelchair over to a control console and started pushing buttons. None reacted; the only sound was the clicks of her fingers pressing the plastic buttons. Without electricity, they were no more functional than a child's toy. The lights, however, were still on.

Dabree turned the wheelchair around and again faced Solo. "This is your doing, I imagine," she snarled. Solo's eyes darted but he stayed silent."Flo, kill him!" Dabree said.

The blonde nurse walked over to a counter, opened a drawer and took out a scalpel. Solo tugged at his bonds, but they were tight and didn't yield. Two things then happened simultaneously. Another rumble could be heard as the door burst open. Flo ignored all of that, however, and raised the scalpel, holding it as if it were a dagger. As she lunged at Solo, the agent could see three shots in succession rip through her chest. The nurse collapsed on the spot, her white outfit already turning red as she hit the floor. Solo turned around and saw Illya Kuryakin holding his U.N.C.L.E. Special, smoke still rising from the gunbarrel.

"Flooooooooo," Dabree shrieked. She flipped a switch on the wheelchair. Suddenly, there was a flash and the roar of a gunshot from the armrest. Kuryakin ducked just as the shot whizzed by. Before he could react further, Dabree flipped another switch and a section of the wall opened, revealing a hidden door. The motorized wheelchair turned around quickly and zoomed into the doorway.

Kuryakin came up to Solo, and started to unstrap him from the operating table. Other rumbles were occurring, faster than before.

"I would say Dov Kapiloff is almost finished activating those little surprises I installed," Kuryakin said. "By this time, I'd say most of the electrical system is a shambles, with the exception of the lighting units."

Solo sat up without comment, looked around and saw his U.N.C.L.E. Special and holster laying on a nearby table. He got up, walked over to the table and checked out the weapon, seeing it was still loaded. Then he looked around the room and saw that Kleindorf was still there, hunkered in the corner. Cecille still lay on her hospital gurney unconscious.

"Look after the good doctor and Cecille, I'm going after Dabree," Solo told Kuryakin.

"You're welcome," Kuryakin replied.

Solo arched his eyebrows in response, turned and went into the still-opened door to the hidden passageway. Presumably, Dabree had been able to open the secret door before the electrical system had been disabled. He moved forward cautiously. The passageway was dimly lit but there was enough light to make his way through. After about twenty feet he saw more light, coming from another door. Solo paused at the door, peered through it and saw it was an entrance into the hallway. He heard swearing coming from nearby. He stepped out into the hallway and saw Dabree, still sitting in her wheelchair, jabbing her finger at a button. She was in front of an elevator, its door closed and unresponsive to the little woman's frantic motion.

"It's no good, Dabree," Solo said calmly. "All the electrical systems, except for the lights, have been disabled. That elevator won't be coming for some time."

The motorized wheelchair turned around. Dabree's eyes were red, glaring things now. She looked like an animal with its foot in a trap. But this animal was still very dangerous and Solo knew it.

"You!" Dabree said. "Everything I've worked for -- ruined! Again!"

"Why don't you give it up, Doctor?" Solo said.

Dabree was almost hyperventilating now. "Flo... Elmont... And yet you still live."

She's not about to surrender, Solo thought, quickly scanning the wheelchair and its mechanisms. He looked at the armrest and guessed it must still contain some weapons Dabree hadn't activated. He tried to eyeball to figure out where the electronic controls and weapons were housed.

"Good-bye, Mr. Solo."

Solo moved to one side as another shot came from the wheelchair. At the same time, Solo shot at the armrest. A second later, sparks began flying out from the controls. Dabree shook violently as more sparks went out in all directions. Solo stepped to the chair and yanked Dabree from it but not before the contraption began to smoke. He laid her on the floor. Her mouth was open but she made no noise and her stared ahead blankly.

Illya Kuryakin and Dov Kapiloff strode into Alexander Waverly's office. Waverly was sitting at the round conference table studying a piece of paper. The two agents sat down.

"Mr. Solo went to the hospital to look in on Cecille Bergstrom and Dr. Dabree, to help finalize our report, sir," Kuryakin said. "He will be in the office later but felt we should go ahead and provide you with a preliminary account."

Waverly looked up from the paper. "Well at first blush, it all turned out splendidly," Waverly said. "Mr. Kapiloff, thank you for your work, especially on such short notice."

"It was a privilege, sir," Kapiloff said. "It is not every day one gets to observe strategy devised by years of battle-tested experience." The Israeli glanced at the Russian, who in turn strained to hold back a grin.

Waverly paused a moment, looking at both men. "Quite," he said. "It's a bit chilling to think one could be assassinated by one of one's own operatives. Mr. Kuryakin, has our scientific team had a chance to look at Dr. Dabree's work?."

"They examined the device that Dr. Kleindorf removed from Miss Bergstrom's ear early this morning," Kuryakin said. "But it was spent, almost burned out. According to Mr. Solo, Dr. Dabree had indicated the brain-control devices could only effectively operate once or twice. It may be a bit of a lost cause, sir. What notes we were able to find at the Tegland Clinic were inconclusive and Dr. Kleindorf essentially was a hired hand -- his surgical skill was necessary to implant the devices but it was Dr. Dabree who designed them."

"Just as well," Waverly said. "You said Mr. Solo was checking on the condition of the Bergstrom woman and Dr. Dabree. Had he heard any preliminary indications?"

"The prognosis for Miss Bergstrom is quite good," Kuryakin said. "Dr. Dabree may be another matter. She might have been better off if she had fallen down an elevator shaft again."

"Massive stroke brought on by the electric shock, Mr. Solo. It's a wonder the woman is alive at all. Massive brain damage."

Solo and the doctor looked at Agnes Dabree, lying quietly in the hospital bed, still and quiet, her mouth slightly agape.

"Just how severe is the brain damage, Doctor?" Solo asked.

"Hard to say. I'm not even sure she's aware of her surroundings," the doctor said as he removed his glasses and used a lens cloth to clean them. "We'll likely have to find some institution for her, I'm afraid. She may never come out of this state. If you'll excuse me, I have other patients to attend to."

Solo thanked the doctor and turned his attention back to Dabree. He took another look at the eyes, which seemed red. Then they blinked and squinted. Solo felt a chill. She's aware of her surroundings, Solo thought as saw the glare of hate from the eyes. The agent sighed. As long as she had her mind, Dr. Agnes Dabree would always have access to her greatest weapon. At the same time, she was in a prison -- her own body -- that in its present condition might be more escape proof than any stone-and-mortar structure. Solo felt no great triumph and had nothing left to say. So he turned around and left the room.

Look at them, the fools. That idiot doctor thinks I am a vegetable. And you, Mr. Solo, with your dapper suit and fine manners, what do you think? He's looking at me now. Don't look at me like that, Mr. Solo! I don't need your pity. Ah, he's leaving now. Don't think you're safe, Mr. Solo! You'll never be safe! All I need to do is think and I have plenty of time for that.....

A few doors down, Cecille Bergstrom sat up in her hospital bed, her left ear bandaged. She was flipping through channels on the room's television set, but nothing caught her interest and she turned it off. Then, there was a knock on the door.

"Who is it?" she said.

"Napoleon Solo."

She told him to come in and Solo entered, carrying flowers. "I'm told you'll be out tomorrow, with maybe a couple of days' rest at home. Your boss has been given an edited version of the truth, so you'll be able to go back to work without worrying about your job."

Cecille took the flowers, a combination of roses and carnations with baby's breath, and smelled them. "It's just good to be alive at this point. I really don't remember much."

Solo rubbed his neck for a second, the spot where Cecille had struck him. "There's plenty of time to talk about that later," he said. "You're safe, Dr. Dabree is incapacitated and Dr. Kleindorf was happy to remove something he had implanted in you, probably hoping for some mercy from the prosecutors."

"Napoleon, come here a second," she said.

Solo smiled, leaned over and kissed her. She placed her hand on the side of his face as they kissed. After a moment, she said: "After I get out of here, I expect you to take me out to dinner and show me a good time."

He said nothing for a moment and kissed her again. He paused for a moment and smiled once more. "I promise, he said. "Dinner and a good time."

As it turned out, the dinner came second.

THE END

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