Act I
"Paid in Full"

 The men were competent at their jobs. The robbery took less than a half hour.

Glenconix was one of the newer Silicon Valley companies. Like many of the electronics firms in the region, it began as the result of talented people pooling their brain power. The founders, six in all, had worked for the larger concerns in the area like Apple (bleeding good people because of recent financial troubles) or Sun. Glenconix' building was modest, a two-story, 40,000-square-foot rectangle, a combination of offices and design space. Glenconix lacked the amenities of bigger electronics companies. But its officers believed they were on the verge of a breakout software package, one that could result in the a huge step toward "artificial intelligence" in computers -- computers that could overcome errors in human programmers and work out their problems on their own, at least in a limited fashion.

Because of this potential, Glenconix did have security, even though the firm was only two years old and it was a drain on investment. The security Glenconix hired, however, was not going to be able to stop the crime that was about to occur.

The raiding party wore stocking masks and gas masks. It was late fall, so night fell by late afternoon. The three had worn black clothing -- jackets, turtleneck sweaters, slacks. That permitted the trio to sneak up to the building undetected after the engineers had left for the evening. Glenconix was conveniently close to a "green space," a small grouping of trees at the rear of the building. The front entrance was relatively well lit but Glenconix employees, appreciating the greenery, were content to build a fence, nothing more, between the building and trees. Bulldozing a large space -- one where an intruder could be spotted approaching the rear of the building -- was out of the question to the environmentally-aware Glenconix executives and workers.

Tonight was Friday, and they knew from watching closely over a two-week period that everyone would be gone by nine. It was now a few minutes past ten, just to be on the safe side.

Howard Bender had a long police record and a knack for sophisticated breakins. The lock at the rear door was no match for his skills and the infrared glasses permitted him to avoid the invisible beams that would trigger an immediate alarm. Evan Cochrun, a six-foot, two hundred, thirty-five-pound mass of muscle, was available if any rough stuff was needed. As it turned out it wasn't. That's because at the main entrance a knockout gas bomb detonated, hidden underneath the desk of the security guard. He was out instantly. His co-worker, who had just completed a patrol circuit  that had taken him by the executive offices, was passing by at the same time. He, too, lapsed into unconsciousness before he could activate the manual alarm control, contained in a panel by the desk.

The third member of the group, Henry Denton, was no electronics genius, but knew the basics. He rapidly disabled the alarm panel and deactivated the security cameras. Cochrun and Bender dragged the two security guards out of view. Denton's unzipped a pocket on his jacket sleeve. Inside, folded up neatly, was a diagram. Denton unfolded it, showing it to the other men. They had gone over this many times with their employer but were double checking, just in case.

There was a stairway near the main entrance. The three men walked up the steps, going to the center of the floor. The office designated in the diagram was locked, but it was no match for Bender. Inside, there were several workstations. Bender turned on the lights. The room was mostly white. When the sun came in through the windows, Bender expected the room probably seemed quite bright.

The safe was supposed to be hidden, camouflaged behind the diagram of an integrated circuit. The trio's information continued to be accurate and again it was Bender who gained entry. Denton then came up and leafed through the papers. He only took the few documents he needed, stuffing the rest back in the safe. He didn't re-lock the safe. That wasn't part of the orders. Denton took a few steps to the row of work stations. Again, his movements were precise. He counted to the third computer from the right. He turned on the computer, and typed in the correct password. From another pocket, he took a computer disk and inserted it into the machine. In minutes, he had copied what he needed.

The three men came down the steps, passing by the front entrance and the closet containing the two security guards. Denton then reached into his pants pocket and pulled out a card. It was the last point of the instructions they'd received and it had been stressed by their employer. It was a business card. But instead of words, it had a small drawing -- the mythical Phoenix, rising from the ashes.

Then Cochrun, the muscle of the group, looked at his watch after the group exited through the rear entrance. Twenty-eight minutes. The guards wouldn't come to for another four hours, quite long enough to meet their employer.

The men hiked through the woods about a half-mile. There, a road snaked through the woods. Their black Toyota Camry had been undisturbed. Cochrun got in to drive, Bender went in the front passenger side and Denton got in the back. The car silently drove off, Cochrun sure and steady behind the wheel.

 Fifty-one minutes later, the Camry had pulled onto a path and proceeded a quarter-mile from the highway. The path was relatively wide but the vegetation nearby would prevent anyone from observing the scene that was about to transpire.

The Camry pulled over to the right, near a silver Mercedes. The German car had a sole occupant, a man about six-foot-two. He was dark-complected, but his origins weren't immediately clear, presumably from somewhere near the Mediterranean, or perhaps the Middle East.

His hairline was receding. He wasn't what one would call an ugly man, but his face was always locked in a grim expression. Despite the rural location, he was wearing a three-piece gray suit.

The Mercedes driver got out at the same time as the trio of thieves.

"Zorik," Cochrun said. "We have the merchandise." Denton, the electronics man, stood next to the muscle man, holding up the folded documents and the computer disk. Bender, the break-in expert, was one step behind.

"Excellent," Zorik said. "It's now time for you to get paid." The well-dressed man, pointed to his car. "It's in the trunk."

Cochrun instructed his fellow thief to wait. Zorik reached into his pocket and took out the key. On the key ring was a small square object. "This will unlock the trunk for you," Zorik said, no emotion in his voice.

Cochrun could hear the trunk unlock. He walked slowly. He raised the trunk lid.

It was the last thing he would ever do.

A gun was mounted, rigged to automatically fire when the trunk was opened fully. Two shots spit out immediately. The bullets exploded into the man's chest. They were the kind of ammunition that expanded once they entered a target. Cochrun was dead before he hit the ground.

The other thieves watched in horror for only a second. Zorik, though, had never remoed his gaze from them. He whipped out a silenced automatic, and fired two shots into each.

No more than forty-five seconds had passed. Zorik relieved Denton's corpse of the documents and computer disk. The assassin took a briefcase out of the passenger seat of the Mercedes and placed the items inside. Then he drove off, leaving the three bodies where they fell.

 The next day, it was dreary in New York. Although in the fifties, there were high winds and the temperatures were expected to drop during the day. As he walked to his superior's office, Napoleon Solo wondered if the assignment he was about to receive might take him to warmer climes.

He entered the combination office and conference room of Alexander Waverly, designated the Number One of Section One of the United Network Command for Law and Enforcement. Waverly, wearing a familiar tweed suit, sat at one side of the conference table. A quarter turn to Waverly's left was Illya Kuryakin, one of U.N.C.L.E.'s enforcement agents and Solo's friend. Solo wasn't late but Kuryakin had a habit of being early. Today, the Russian was wearing a plain black suit, white shirt and tie. Solo was dressed in a navy blue suit.  His tie had a pattern that included three or four colors that nevertheless complemented the suit.

"Good morning, sir," Solo said to Waverly. He looked and nodded in Kuryakin's direction. The American agent sat a quarter turn to Waverly's right, or directly opposite Kuryakin.

Waverly didn't acknowledge the greeting but instead plunged directly into the briefing. "You've both had time to review the reports. Bloody mess," Waverly said.

On the round table sat pictures of the three thieves killed the previous night at Glenconix.

"Three mid-level criminals, never known for especially large jobs turn up dead the same night a new electronics company is robbed," Waverly said. "Moreover, it's the third such job over the past eight months, involving companies on three different continents."

"Have the authorities tied these three men to one or more of the jobs?" Solo asked.

"We only have preliminary data, but there are signs that one of the men traveled to France and Japan, site of the other robberies. We're running down the other two."

"From these reports, I take it these men themselves couldn't have planned these crimes on their own," Kuryakin said.

"Not from the looks of it," Waverly said. "Denton had some degree of talent in defeating electronic safeguards. The other two were more than petty criminals, but hadn't succeeded at anything like this. No, they were obviously working for someone else -- someone who could finance extensive travel and provided them with the intelligence they would need. And judging by their present condition, their employer decided to abruptly terminate their services."

"Still, is it really an affair for U.N.C.L.E?" Kuryakin asked. "Our agency has never really delved into industrial espionage unless there was a larger security concern."

"Precisely, Mr. Kuryakin. Some additional, and more disturbing information, has come to light." With that comment, Waverly flipped a switch on a small console that sat at his position on the conference table. A thirty-five-inch viewing monitor came down from the ceiling.

When the monitor came into place, it activated itself. The U.N.C.L.E. agents were watching a videotape made by authorities investigating the crime scene. The tape began to zoom in on a small object left near the main Glenconix entrance. Solo squinted, still not able to pick it up. Waverly took a remote control unit out of his tweed jacket pocket, holding it until the right moment. Then, the U.N.C.L.E. chief froze the tape. It was the Phoenix card.

"Recognize it, gentlemen?"

"The Phoenix, mythical bird that arose from its own ashes," Solo replied. "What's the significance?"

"Similar cards were left at each of the other ransacked electronic companies," Waverly said in his matter-of-fact tone. "That's not general knowledge. We know of no criminal group or organization with such a name or using this symbol."

"Any links to Thrush, perhaps?" This time it was Kuryakin with the question.

"No known links. We can't rule out the possibility, of course. But given Thrush's technological capability, it doesn't seem likely these Phoenix crimes were devised by Thrush. They certainly could have afforded to hire more-established free lancers if they really needed to go outside their own organization. No, for the moment we're working on the assumption this is some new threat."

"And what threat might that be, sir?" Solo said.

Waverly turned off the tape, then turned on another video feed. This time, a still picture was on the screen, showing a middle-aged African American man. Solo guessed he was about fifty, though he could pass for anywhere from forty-five to fifty-five.

"Dr. Linus Nichols, known for integrating electronics into defensive weapons," Waverly said, standing up. He was like the college professor now, giving his prized students a special lecture.

"Seven years ago, Linus Nichols drew up a rough design for a new kind of weapon. It was a type of exo-skeleton, a kind of electronic armor."

Waverly pressed the button. The picture changed to a design drawing, like something out of a comic book. In the drawing, a man was surrounded by a metal frame that lined his arms and legs. The armor had a chestplate as well as a helmet. Waverly changed the picture several times, showing different drawings, each highlighting a different feature. The exo-skeleton was depicted in one drawing as helping the man lift a great weight. But other drawings portrayed its wearer showing off various types of firepower, including a machine gun and even a laser beam.

"Nichols said his designs were based on anticipated increases in computing power. He stated that none of these systems could be created at that time, but would be viable soon. However his employer, an established United States defense contractor, turned down his project. Funds had gotten tight and the company didn't have the resources to pursue Nichols' dream. Some time ago, Nichols turned up in the employ of this man," Waverly said as he changed the picture once again.

This time, a picture of a white American came on. Solo recognized the man. Thomas King, head of Toking Enterprises, a group of companies.  Solo stated the man's identity to Waverly and Kuryakin.

"Quite right, Mr. Solo. In less than a decade, Mr. King has become one of the world's leading industrialists. And he had been to each of the three electronics companies shortly before the incidents occurred. The one common element, besides the calling card."

"Is there anything specifically to tie him in to these cases?" Solo asked.

"King met with top executives of each company. He discussed various kinds of deals. With Glenconix, it was the notion of making an investment. With the other two, possible joint ventures. Nothing firmly established in any case. But within days of King going to each company, they were all broken into."

"How does this connect to the Nichols project, the one his former employer chose not to pursue?" Kuryakin said, sitting up in his chair.

"We've had technical experts examine what we could find out about the missing data stolen. All three companies were pursuing advances in computing power, with Glenconix looking at a potential breakthrough that could result in a form of so-called artificial intelligence. Based on a rough analysis, all three of the companies had developed technology that could, conceivably, make the exo-skeleton a reality."

Solo and Kuryakin looked at each other, not quite believing what Waverly was saying. Waverly, sensing this, explained further. "To be quite honest, gentlemen, there is some guesswork involved. The King connection was developed first, then the attempt to look at how the stolen technology might be used. We cross-referenced the technology data with what was known about King's company. That is where Dr. Nichols' current whereabouts came up. An U.N.C.L.E. researcher, who remembered Nichols' exo-skeleton proposal, looked at the technology data again. Those might be the advances that Nichols, and his employer, need to make the exo-skeleton a reality.

"Regardless of the guesswork," Waverly continued, "it was the decision of Section One that this angle needed to be examined. If we're wrong, we can breathe a sigh of relief. But if an independent concern is pursuing the exo-skeleton weapon, it must be stopped."

"I appreciate all the hard work the research people have come up with," Solo said. "And the apparent coincidences are indeed troubling. But there must be something else."

"Indeed," Waverly said, anticipating the question. "When Mr. King's name first arose we came up with some interesting gaps. You'll both be supplied with a complete dossier. But it seems Mr. King was at best an average student in college and stuck in a series of dead-end executive jobs. Most builders of companies are extremely energetic. Mr. King just seemed to be plodding along when, suddenly, he goes out on his own and amasses a huge fortune in a variety of fields. Finally, there are some semi-disreputable types on his payroll."

Waverly changed the slide one last time. Neither Solo and Kuryakin could quite place this man's family tree. Waverly continued. "This man, for instance, is named Zorik, and is King's security chief. Always neatly dressed. And also was apparently some kind of espionage freelancer until he joined Mr. King."

Solo sighed. "So, if I understand it, we have a mad scientist, his pet project, his mysterious backer and three somewhat mysterious robberies on three continents."

"If you like, Mr. Solo."

Waverly used the remote to send the monitor back up to the ceiling. "I want you, Mr. Kuryakin, to look in on Dr. Nichols. It turns out Toking Enterprises has a subsidiary in the Silicon Valley area of Northern California. If he's involved in this affair, I want to know about it."

Kuryakin nodded. Solo cleared his throat. "And me, sir?"

"Mr. Solo, I think it would be good if you got to know Mr. King on a social basis."

Act II
"Special Delivery"

 Solo picked up his sole bag at the baggage claim area of Los Angeles International Airport, or LAX, as it is known to veteran travelers. As he walked toward the shuttle buses, an attendant asked to see his baggage claim, to make sure it matched the tag on the suitcase. LAX tended to be more of a stickler for this than other major airports.

The U.N.C.L.E. agent walked out into the sunshine, a welcome relief from the recent steady rains in New York. As usual, travelers were jammed into the waiting area for the shuttle buses. Solo glanced at his watch, which he had reset for Pacific Coast time. Two-thirty.

It took another fifteen minutes before the shuttle bus arrived from the rental car agency. Another fifteen minutes would pass before he'd reach the actual rental car complex, about a mile away from the airport proper. Given how tightly packed the bus was -- it was a full-sized bus -- Solo guessed he should not expect to actually get behind the wheel of his rental car until three-thirty. By that time, Interstate 405, the main route into the city, would already be jammed.

Solo put those thoughts out of his mind. He was enjoying the sunshine as he rode the bus, and felt lucky enough to have a seat, as several riders were forced to stand. He also recalled his discussions with Illya the previous afternoon, when Kuryakin was getting ready to take an evening flight to the San Francisco Bay Area, about four hundred miles north of Solo's Southern California destination.

 "Another piece of the puzzle," Solo said, as he glanced at a recently arrived report. "It seems the Glenconix security personnel, both of them, were overcome by some kind of gas bomb -- at their own security station, no less. No one seems to have any idea how it got there."

Kuryakin was sitting at a round desk, similar to Waverly's but a bit smaller. Solo had just come back from receiving the report from communications and Kuryakin was waiting for the American. This was an office area for enforcement agents, who were part of  Section Two of the United Network Command for Law and Enforcement.

"Napoleon, do you really think all of these elements are really part of this affair?" Kuryakin asked.

Normally, Solo might be tempted to make a joke at this point. But nothing came to mind. "I honestly don't know, Illya. Clearly, a lot happens around our Mr. King. But there's something else, I'm not sure what." Solo sat down at the round table.

"Something seems to be disturbing you."

"Well, for one thing, this calling card, this Phoenix. An overly dramatic touch, to say the least. Someone is calling attention to themselves -- as if three break-ins on three continents isn't enough. Yet, Mr. King, from what I can tell in the reports, is a bland fellow. And why would he risk everything he's built up just to pursue the exo-skeleton?

"It would be a coup, and a workable exo-skeleton could fetch a high price."

"I don't know, there's something else there. Perhaps some one else there."

"Mr. Waverly seems to downplay Thrush as being a factor."

"True enough, and it's a logical assumption. A Thrush operation almost certainly would have meant more sophisticated devices. Still, all this seems familiar somehow." Solo let the thought hang.

Kuryakin decided to turn the conversation more directly to business. "Well, I have been studying the layout of the Toking Enterprises Electronics subsidiary in the Silicon Valley. Place seems like a fortress. Much larger, with more sophisticated alarm systems than poor little Glenconix."

"Do you have any ideas how you're going to get close to our good Dr. Nichols?"

"Some. I've made arrangements with the San Francisco field office to requisition some equipment I might need. I probably won't make a move for a day or two anyway. I found an area near the complex I may be able to observe in person from a discreet distance. And what of you, my friend?"

"It seems that in two days' time Mr. King is giving a party in Los Angeles to benefit a charity. His headquarters are there and Mr. King apparently is quite the party animal."

Kuryakin halfway squinted for a second. Ah yes, Napoleon was using his American slang once more.

Solo began to explain but Kuryakin spoke up, clearly having grasped the reference. "So once more you have the dirty, grimy work of drinking champagne and eating hors d'oeuvres." Kuryakin, too, liked to poke fun at his friend.

Solo his comments in that same light. "Yes, it is a dirty job. But it's one I gladly take up in the cause of world peace."

Kuryakin let out a half grunt. "I just hope you can get close enough to the man to turn up something useful."

 Cindy Evans got off the telephone. It hadn't been a cheery call.

It was her editor. He was past the point of impatience. The deadline for completing the book on Toking was coming up in a couple of months, yet only a couple of preliminary chapters had been completed. Worse yet, what had been turned in gave no sign it would turn out to be the expose she had promised to deliver.

Cindy stared at the receiver. She had reported extensively on Toking for a national business-news magazine. She had witnessed the rise of Thomas King, from mid-level finance executive to tycoon. But Toking's public relations depiction of the typical American success story somehow rang false. She had hoped the book would be a chance to get at the real truth. Over the past year, she had turned up some inconsistencies and funny rumors. It might make an extremely good magazine piece. Book publishers, however, like the notion of "sweep" -- even if half of them couldn't define the term -- or some kind of definitive story. Cindy Evans hadn't yet been able to do that, despite the file cabinet full of interview notes and documents in her Southern California apartment. Even worse, she had long run out of the first installment of her advance money and she was feeling the pinch. Cindy couldn't draw the next installment until she had completed at least half the book, and that wasn't going to happen soon.

Cindy sighed and arose from the desk of her home office. At five-eight, she was a tad taller than average. She watched her diet and exercised moderately and had an attractive figure. Her shoulder-length blonde hair hadn't been tended to for a while. Having it styled was low on her priority list right now, but it was about to become necessary. Cindy had heard a day or two ago that Thomas King was throwing a party at a museum in the city. Cindy had a suitable evening dress but figured she needed a styling for her hair if she was going to successfully crash the party. It might be her only chance to try and get an interview with King. The Toking chief executive officer generally shied away from reporters and Toking itself had poor relations with the press. She was running out of options.

 Illya Kuryakin took out an apple from the backpack and took a bite. He might be here for a while.

Kuryakin was dressed in blue jeans, a dark turtleneck sweater and hiking boots. He was sitting by a tree and other brush. It was a thickly wooded area, about three-quarters of a mile from the Toking complex where Dr. Nichols worked.

Before leaving New York, Kuryakin had studied maps of the Bay Area. Although the Toking complex was supposed to be part of Silicon Valley, in reality it was several miles away from the established high-technology companies. So far out, in fact, it was located in a much less developed area. Toking was highly security-conscious. Its grounds extended far and it was surrounded by a security fence. Guards seemed to prowl all over the Toking property, and the men at the gate seemed to check incoming employees carefully.

Kuryakin had already spent one day doing this duty, and by the second day had determined the regular routine of delivery trucks. Suppliers made almost daily deliveries and with his high-powered binoculars he had spotted the names of several. The suppliers did not need large vehicles; most came in minivans or small trucks.

The Russian took his communicator pen from his pants pocket. He made a few adjustments and activated the device. "Open Channel D," he said into its microphone. He reached a communications officer, who then switched Kuryakin to Waverly.

"Yes, Mr. Kuryakin?" Waverly said. His words were delayed by a fraction of a second as the transmission bounced off a satellite back to earth. They were speaking on a special frequency to ensure privacy.

"Has the San Francisco field office secured the vehicle requested?" Kuryakin asked.

"Yes. They are awaiting word what alterations need to be made."

Kuryakin gave Waverly the name of a supplier. "We'll have to get suitable identification," Kuryakin added.

"I think we have some contacts that may cause them to cooperate," Waverly replied. "Very well, prepare to attempt it tomorrow."

 The next morning, a van approached the main gate of the Toking Bay Area complex. The guard recognized the name, Felton Chemical. The firm supplied Toking with solvent used in cleaning circuit boards. But the guard, a trim, mean-looking man, didn't recognize the driver.

The Felton employee was a blonde man. Sitting down, it was hard to gauge his height, but the guard guessed about five-foot-eight or nine. The driver wore a white work uniform, with the Felton logo over the left chest. The blonde man, who seemed a bit heavy, was by himself.

"Identification," the guard said flatly, with no accent or emotion.

Without comment, Kuryakin extracted the identification from his pocket and showed it to the guard. The name on the badge said Stanley Kronwitz. It matched the style of identification from other Felton drivers.

"New man?" the guard said.

"Yes," Kuryakin said with a slightly different accent than his own. The guard motioned him on.

Signs directed deliveries to a rear entrance. Toking didn't have a large delivery dock, just a large rear double door. Kuryakin pulled up, exited the van and went to the vehicle's rear. He opened the back door and lifted out a cart. He placed a couple large boxes, both filled with containers of the solvent, onto the cart and proceeded through the double door.

Another guard was there, having just stepped out of a small security office. He and Kuryakin went through the identification routine again. This time, Kuryakin explained he was a new man and needed directions where he should deliver the solvent. As it turned out, it was a short distance away. The guard started to go back into the security office. There was a bank of several monitors.

"By the way, what is that on your wall?"

"What?"

"There..." Kuryakin was now just inside the security office, pointing to a corner.

"Huh?"

The second was all Kuryakin needed to strike a karate blow, which instantly sent the guard into unconsciousness. The U.N.C.L.E. agent knew there were many cameras around the building. But he gambled there wasn't a camera here, where someone watched monitors. He looked around quickly and couldn't see any cameras. Still, he knew he only had a short time to see if he could get close to Dr. Nichols.

Kuryakin unzipped the work uniform. Underneath, he had a guard's uniform on; it was the reason why the guard at the main gate had thought Kuryakin a bit on the weighty side. Kuryakin did not have a hat, however, so he relieved his sleeping friend of his. To ensure the guard's silence, Kuryakin took out a small case from his guard's uniform. Inside was a syringe loaded with a sedative. He rolled up the guard's sleeve and injected him with the serum. The man would sleep for at least an hour.

The Russian now turned his attention to the monitors. There was a bank of twelve, showing both inside and outside views. Kuryakin had timed his visit to eleven thirty in the morning, a slack time for deliveries and when employees began thinking about lunch. He saw no other trucks coming toward the delivery area, about what he had expected. Kuryakin then looked at the internal cameras. There! Nichols was walking through a door marked A-12.

The security office had a small desk where the sleeping guard was normally posted. On top, there was a diagram. There were four major wings to the building, marked A, B, C and D. Kuryakin familiarized himself with his location relative to the A wing. It would take a few minutes to get there. He arranged the security office so the sleeping guard sat mostly upright at the desk and appeared to be staring at the monitors. Kuryakin relieved the man of his keys and locked the door on his way out.

The U.N.C.L.E. agent knew time was precious. The longer the Felton truck was parked outside, the greater chance that other security guards would eventually notice. No, Kuryakin knew at best he'd only find out if the exo-skeleton was a reality.

A-12 also had a side-by-side doors. There was no guard posted. Kuryakin entered.

The agent had to stifle a gasp. On the far side of the room, on a platform, surrounded by a variety of electronic devices was the exo-skeleton, even more impressive in reality than on the drawings he'd seen in the briefing. Nichols was bent over, inspecting something in the device's midsection. The exo-skeleton resembled a high-technology version of a knight's armor. It wasn't a complete suit of armor, because it left portions of the legs and arms exposed. But the exo-skeleton would cover most of a man, and was especially built up around the chest and mid section. According to the designs, whoever wore the exo-skeleton would wear a protective metallic-like lining. Special metallic gloves and boots would protect the hands and feet. The exo-skeleton wasn't quite as bulky as the original project drawings that Waverly had displayed in New York. But Kuryakin guessed if a man six-foot tall got into the machine, he would stand close to six-feet-four.

By now, Nichols had completed the adjustment and turned around. "What are you doing here?"

Kuryakin had to think fast. "Increased security, Doctor. You know how important the project is."

Nichols squinted, then became irritated. "Nobody checks up on me. I've got work to do. I don't need hired help."

Kuryakin backed away without comment and headed back to the rear security office. He unlocked the office but was only about halfway through putting the Felton work uniform back on when the alarm started to sound. He quickly zipped it up and left, but not before taking out the U.N.C.L.E. special pistol, a converted Walther P-38 with built-in silencer. Before he could reach the rear exit, there was already gunfire in his direction, as three guards stormed him.

The U.N.C.L.E. agent reacted on instinct. He fired his pistol, hitting the middle guard with his first shot, dead center in the torso. The other two fell back, but the one on Kuryakin's left kept firing. The Russian returned fire, missing with his second shot, but connecting with the third shot in the man's shoulder. The force of the impact knocked the guard backwards.

By the time the second guard hit the ground, Kuryakin was outside. Without breaking stride, he reached into the work uniform pocket and grabbed the key. It had an electronic device that unlocked the truck. Other guards were running in his direction but they hadn't yet reached the truck. Within seconds, Kuryakin had the engine running. He quickly put the van into reverse, turned, then gunned it forward. The oncoming guards scattered rather than be run over.

The van was reaching fifty miles an hour as he snaked around the complex. The guards hadn't yet had a chance to form a blockade. The van reached the main gate. The guard there was firing his gun directly at the windshield but the bullet-resistant glass was doing its job. Kuryakin, his foot now down to the floor, was doing more than sixty miles an hour as he passed through the main gate.

Kuryakin had arranged a meeting at a warehouse two miles away with a team from U.N.C.L.E.-San Francisco. If he could just get there, he knew the three-person group would expertly strip the van of its Felton markings. However, Kuryakin hadn't counted on gunplay. The intent was to sneak in and out. Normally, private security guards are careful with firearms. This group, however, was firing from the start.

Then Kuryakin realized something. Surely, there would be sirens in the area by now. Wouldn't the police have been notified?

The meeting went off as planned. Within twenty minutes, the van had lost all signs of being a Felton delivery truck. Kuryakin changed clothes and his U.N.C.L.E. colleagues vacated the premises less than thirty minutes from the time he arrived at the warehouse.

Kuryakin now was riding in a car driven by Patricia -- Kuryakin hadn't caught her last name -- one of the U.N.C.L.E. personnel that took care of the van. "Something wrong, Mr. Kuryakin?"

He took out the pen communicator. He adjusted it to listen to police radio traffic. There was nothing about Toking on any police band.

"I think something is terribly wrong," Kuryakin said, after listening to routine police calls for a few minutes. He made another adjustment. "Open Channel D, please."

Act III
"A Drive in the Country"

 It was two hours later and Kuryakin was at the U.N.C.L.E. field office in downtown San Francisco. The communications officer on duty had set up a special three-way transmission: Kuryakin in San Francisco, Waverly in New York and Solo in Los Angeles.

"So no authorities were ever called?" Solo said, summarizing the discussion so far. He was at his Los Angeles hotel room, where he was resting before going to Thomas King's party that night.

"Yes, U.N.C.L.E. San Francisco has maintained a watch from a very discreet distance. There were no ambulances or police cars summoned to the complex. I can't be sure the first man was killed, but he took a nasty chest wound. In all likelihood, the second man needed care as well, yet none came."

"Well, based on how quickly they wanted to engage in gunplay and the confirmed existence of the exo-skeleton, I think it's safe to say Mr. King maintains a unique corporate culture," Solo replied. "Presumably, Toking is so anxious to keep the exo-skeleton under wraps that the company didn't want to bring in outside authorities -- even when two of their people have been wounded."

"Quite, Mr. Solo." agreed Waverly, speaking from New York. "Which means you should approach the gentleman with extreme caution. At this juncture, we need additional information, not derring-do."

"Very well, sir," Solo said. "I'm still quite anxious to see the person we're dealing with, up front."

"Carry on. I have other work to attend to. Waverly out."

Solo and Kuryakin were still in communication. Kuryakin spoke first. "I think it would be fair to say Mr. King will have a formidable security presence."

"I expect you're correct. Still our U.N.C.L.E. pulled some strings to obtain this invitation. So I'd better use it."

"I'll remain on call here," Kuryakin said. "Be careful, my friend." This time, Kuryakin's voice had no hint of the banter he often engaged in with Solo.

For a change, Solo was equally as serious. "Solo out."

 Cindy Evans had, on occasion, crashed formal dinners. She followed a simple rule: simply act as if you belong there. If the affair were large enough, the men and women greeting guests were busy. As long as one was dressed appropriately and behaved like anyone else, it wasn't that hard.

Tonight, however, she had a different feeling. Toking had rented a major museum off Wilshire Boulevard, one of the area's main business centers. The place was packed with various political and business officials whom Cindy recognized instantly. Somehow, though, the mood was quite different. Large, beefy men -- the no-necks, Cindy called them, because their heads seemed to attach directly to their massive shoulders -- were all around the courtyard. Their stares were intense. She hadn't yet gotten to the greeters and already she felt as if she were being X-rayed.

Nevertheless, Cindy remembered the rule and walked normally around various small groups. The main event hadn't started, so guests gathered in clusters in the museum courtyard. Waiters were bringing around champagne and a pianist was providing soft music.

She tried to eye the greeters to see if one might be at least a semi-friendly face. Before she could look at one of them, a no-neck called to her. "I'll take you, miss," he said flatly, with no emotion.

"I'm sorry," Cindy said.

"I mean I'll take your invitation. You WILL need an invitation to get in tonight."

Damn it, Cindy thought. She tried to play for time and started to fumble for her purse.

The no-neck didn't wait. "If you can't produce an invitation...."

"She's with me," a voice said from behind.

Both Cindy and the no-neck turned around. A man, about five-foot-ten, with dark hair now showing only the first signs of graying, stood there. He was dressed in a classic-style tuxedo, complete with a vest.

The man held up his invitation. "I believe it says 'you and a guest.' She's my guest. Please, dear, you should have waited."

Cindy was stunned. Was this guy some kind of pick-up artist?  Still, he had a kind of winning smile. Despite her doubts, she found the smile disarming.

The no-neck took the invitation, eyeing them for a minute. He had a slicked-back, "wet" look. Clearly he was skeptical, squinting for a moment at the man. But other people were starting to crowd in. And the man definitely had a legitimate invitation. "You'll be able to go in about  ten minutes from now," the no-neck said. The skepticism had crept into his voice.

"Thank you," Napoleon Solo said in a clipped way, as he took back the invitation. He spoke as if he were dismissing a waiter.

Cindy's face strained; she wanted to interrogate this character. Solo, though, stuck up his index finger, a sign he wanted to delay explanations, if only for a moment. "I think we ought to get some champagne and let Mr. King's employees get back to their jobs."

She realized he was right, of course, but she was still on guard. Solo spied a waiter with champagne, motioned to him and took two glasses. He handed one to Cindy.

"Let's enjoy the evening air for a moment," Solo said, motioning with his right hand, which held his champagne glass, over to a place in the courtyard that was less crowded.

Cindy followed his lead. They were now on the edge of a green space consisting of shrubs and a small grassy area.

"I'm sorry, but it was clear that the, eh, gentleman wasn't going to let you pass. Unless you're an international terrorist, and you didn't look like one, I thought I might help out. My name's Napoleon Solo."

Cindy still had plenty of questions to ask, but the name disrupted her thoughts. "You're kidding."

"Scout's honor. My parents liked old names. But I get kidded a bit whenever a 'Star Wars' movie gets re-released. Kids ask me if I'm any relation to Han."

Cindy laughed, not be able to help herself. Still, she got back to business quickly. "But why should you care?"

"Well, the guest list is impressive, but there are no rock stars or movie stars. It's not the kind of affair that attracts a lot of party crashers. So I admit I was curious. Don't worry, I have no affiliation with Toking. I work for a mutual fund that has a decent chunk of Toking stock."

Cindy wasn't sure what to think. Solo produced a card that was part of the cover U.N.C.L.E. had devised for him. The cover story wouldn't stand up to a lot of scrutiny but was the type that could help get an invitation to a party like this.

"And you are?" Solo asked.

She looked around, saw there weren't any no-necks nearby. "Cindy Evans. I'm a writer."

Solo recalled the name. "One of the business magazines, isn't it?"

"Yes, except I'm on a leave of absence. I've been researching a book about Toking and Thomas King. He's very hard to get to."

Solo thought for a moment. "Well, I was hoping to catch  a word with Mr. King myself. My firm has a great deal of interest in what he's doing. I'll be lucky to catch even a minute with him myself."

Cindy saw a chance. "But still, if I could be with you, maybe I might get a chance to convince him about an interview."

His better judgment told Solo this wasn't the wisest move to make. Still, the woman might have access to some background that U.N.C.L.E. hadn't yet developed, even if it was only a scrap. And her face complemented the blonde hair quite nicely.

"Okay, deal. But my understanding is Mr. King is elusive, even to representatives of shareholders. I can't promise you anything."

"No problem. It's a better chance than I had before. At least I got past that no-neck."

"No-neck?"

"You know, that bulky guy that was going to throw me out."

Cindy's remark caused Solo to pause for a moment. It seemed like King had a staff of weightlifters working the party. "Yes, it seems Mr. King likes his people to be physically fit."

 The party-goers had been inside the museum for a good forty-five minutes before Thomas King made his appearance. There was nothing special there, a man of average height, about forty-five years old. He was neither tall nor short -- Solo guessed King stood a shade under six feet--  neither fat nor thin. He had plain, short brown hair, wore wire-rim glasses and was clean shaven. In a word: forgettable.

King gradually began circulating around a large, open area in the museum that had an extremely high ceiling. The party area had been roped off from the rest of the museum. There were perhaps twenty-five paintings on the walls of the room, but none were the best the museum had to offer. Solo estimated about one hundred or so guests were then, with at least another twenty-five to thirty-five waiters keeping the guests supplied with drinks or hors d'oeuvres.

Prior to King's arrival, Solo and Cindy had mixed with guests. They met every fifteen minutes or so to see if the other had any idea when King was due to arrive. None of the guests, as far as they could tell, seemed to know the man at all. Solo encountered an industrialist who played golf with King once, but no deals had been discussed.

Now, King had arrived. He wasn't alone. A short, African-American secretary was behind him. Solo observed she had a small pad she was carrying along with a purse. Apparently if "The Man" came up with a brainstorm, he wanted someone around to preserve the moment. More troubling was the scowling man with the short hair who was also right there. Solo recognized Zorik from the briefing materials -- the one-time espionage freelancer who now served as Thomas King's chief of security.

Cindy had come back to Solo after spending a few minutes talking to other guests. "Well, do we approach him, now?"

Solo pondered the idea but discarded it. Instead, he decided to test the writer's knowledge of her subject.

"Do you recognize the grim man who's following King around?"

"Some kind of security man. That's not really an angle I was after."

"Well that fellow with the permanent scowl on his face has a bit of a shady reputation. I get the impression he earned that reputation before he became Mr. King's employee." Solo wasn't yet prepared to share a lot of information with Cindy.

"What kind of past?"

Solo picked his words carefully. "He's not a U.S. citizen. It's not unheard of for U.S.  companies to retain retired FBI or Secret Service agents. I'm not sure exactly where he worked before, but it wasn't for any U.S. agency."

"So what's your point?"

"He's not someone I care to anger if I don't have to. Let's give it a while instead of trying to force a conversation."

"Actually, I don't think we'll have to force anything. He seems to have locked on us."

Indeed, the mystery chief executive and his small entourage were making their way over to Solo and Cindy.

"Ah, Mr. Solo, you're a stockholder, I hear," King said.

That was interesting. Had speaking up on Cindy's behalf alerted King's men? "I'm not a shareholder myself," Solo said. "I'm a representative of Rolfe Funds. It's a relatively active mutual fund. We own a bit of Toking Enterprises stock. Might invest in some more. How'd you know my name?"

"I heard a guest owned some stock. And you must be Ms. Evans. A business reporter."

Cindy seemed surprised but Solo wasn't. The U.N.C.L.E. agent guessed King was probably aware of the book she was preparing. And given how Toking operated -- facts Cindy wasn't yet aware of -- Solo figured King probably had a complete dossier on the writer. The question, for Solo, was whether the Rolfe cover would even hold tonight.

Cindy recovered quickly from the surprise and pressed ahead. "Yes, but I'm on leave from my magazine. I'm doing a book--"

"Yes, on Toking Enterprises and me. But my life is hardly the stuff of bestsellers."

"I don't know. Toking has grown enormously quickly and you've risen --"

"I know I've risen, Ms. Evans." The executive cut her off quickly. "And how did you get involved with this woman, Mr. Solo?"

Solo had played this game before. Like boxers circling a ring, King was maneuvering verbally, trying to get a sense of Solo.

"We recently became acquainted," Solo said, technically telling the truth. "I didn't know about the book project until evening. But that's her business, not mine. I'm here to get a little work done and enjoy myself."

Solo's eyes now locked on Zorik, the security man. If Zorik could, Solo suspected, he'd try and break the U.N.C.L.E. agent's neck right now.

King continued, "What work did you have in mind?"

"I wanted to get an idea of future strategy. I'm curious about the direction of the electronics unit, up in the Bay Area. I'm curious about product plans. Electronics is pretty competitive."

"We're moving into new areas. I can't speak of them. I really wish you hadn't brought the woman in here, Mr. Solo."

Solo detected a hint of nervousness from King. Solo decided to yank King's chain a little. "We enjoy each other's company," Solo said.

Cindy wanted to let out a noise, but stifled it. The journalist in her had picked up that some kind of confrontation was taking place here. She just wasn't sure what it was.

"I suggest you go off and enjoy each other's company. I don't enjoy yours, Mr. Solo, or yours, Ms. Evans. I won't force you to leave, it would upset the guests. But I wouldn't count on another invitation, Mr. Solo. I have other guests to attend to, then I have a project I need to attend to tomorrow. And, no, Ms. Evans, I will not grant an interview. Good day."

The group moved off, though Zorik glanced back at Solo. Solo gave a slight wave.

"So much for that," Cindy said. "What WAS all that about, anyway? He acted as if he knew you or something."

"I think it was the 'or something,'" Solo said, obliquely referring to the incident involving Kuryakin up in the Bay Area.

Before Cindy could respond, Solo said, "I'm sorry if I ruined any interview, but I got the feeling he wasn't about to give one anyway. I'd be interested in comparing notes with you, though."

Cindy looked at Solo. There was something else going on here. The man clearly knew some things about Thomas King that she didn't. "Okay."

"The evening's shot here anyway," Solo said. "Let's talk. The sooner, the better. Did you drive over?"

"No, my car is in the shop. A friend dropped me over but can't pick me up. I figured I'd have to get a cab to leave."

"Well, I have a car and if it's possible I was wondering if we could compare some information tonight? I could give you a lift. Where do you keep your research?"

"Well it's in my place," she said, with more than a hint of suspicion.

"Cindy, my primary interest is information on Mr. King. It's pretty important."

Somehow, Cindy believed him despite her suspicion. "All right, then. You've got a deal."

 After they left the museum, Solo and Cindy got into the U.N.C.L.E. agent's rental car. He had secured a white Ford Thunderbird, something with a little oomph under the hood. Cindy lived in the San Fernando Valley, north of the museum. Solo had been to Los Angeles many times before and had a good idea of how to get around. He mentally plotted a route and drove away from a parking garage near the museum. Solo and Cindy were silent, each dealing with their own thoughts about Thomas King.

Just a few minutes later, Solo spotted the tail. A black BMW, with two more no-necks -- Solo now found himself using the nickname he heard Cindy use -- in the front seat. Solo didn't recognize either no-neck from the party but they had the look of King's security squad.  To be sure, Solo ventured off Wilshire onto a less-traveled side street. The no-necks hung pretty tight.

Solo debated whether to tell Cindy. He decided to go ahead, not wanting her to panic if he suddenly made some sharp maneuvers.

"Cindy, I'm not being melodramatic or anything, but I'm pretty sure we're being followed."

Cindy was lost in thought and hadn't noticed the turn onto the side street. "What?" she said, her concentration suddenly broken.

"That black BMW has stayed with for more than a mile, despite my making plenty of turns. Moreover, I think the car is being driven by a couple of the bulky fellows Mr. King had for security. I didn't see those two at the party but they sure look the type."

"What are you going to do?"

It was a good question. The first thing, Solo decided, was to secure whatever records the journalist had. To do that, Solo was going to level with her.

"Cindy, have you heard of the U-N-C-L-E?" Solo asked, his left hand still on the steering wheel, his right fumbling for his jacket pocket.

"U-N, uh, UNCLE? Some kind of international law enforcement agency?"

Solo flipped open his official U.N.C.L.E. identification. "Your instincts are right. Mr. King is up to something. We're not sure what. We need your help."

Cindy, while not totally confused, was getting flustered. Her pulse was starting to race and she was getting scared. Her mind began thinking of various high-profile crimes that had occurred in Southern California. Before she could speak, Solo raised his voice slightly to get her to focus on the situation. "You've got a lot of questions. I'll answer them honestly. But right now, we've got to concentrate on the situation at hand. I can handle these two behind us. However, I might have to do some fancy driving. This isn't a movie or anything. It's real. But I am going to need your address. I'm betting your place is due for a ransacking of your files."

Cindy was now totally aghast. She struggled to talk. Solo asserted himself again.

"Mr. King has tolerated you until now, but we have information that he's ready to move on a big project. I suspect he didn't appreciate your presence back at the party. He seems to react in a pretty violent fashion. I can get men to safeguard your place and your records, but I need to do it, NOW."

Cindy spat out her address. Solo now reached for the pen communicator.

"Open Channel L," Solo said, indicating this was a local channel, the transmission aimed at the Los Angeles field office. "Solo, code mushroom. Need quick-response team." He repeated Cindy's address. "Secure it, but don't enter it unless necessary. Believe a couple of unfriendlies may be there. Need to get there soonest. Solo out."

Solo now concentrated on the matter at hand. The no-necks in the BMW were staying close. Solo began to alter his course, zig-zagging from side streets to main thoroughfares. He was gradually making his way to the Hollywood Freeway, the main route from the central area of Los Angeles to the movie and television production centers to the north, like Burbank and Universal City. From there, the freeway network provided a variety of ways to get to less-crowded areas.

The U.N.C.L.E. agent assessed his situation. The Thunderbird had raw power but the BMW was a precision driving machine, made for tight cornering and handling. Solo honestly wished he could switch vehicles with the no-necks. His best hope, he felt, was to get on the freeways, where the BMW's handling advantages could be minimized.

Traffic wasn't jammed but it was relatively heavy despite the fact it was well past rush hour. The BMW was staying comfortably close, with Solo unable to shake the no-necks. After twenty-five minutes of this -- the tension made it seem like twenty-five hours -- Solo reached the freeway entrance. Luckily, the entrance ramp was free of traffic as he pulled on. Solo slammed his foot on the accelerator, his tires briefly squealing.

The Thunderbird and the BMW followed the curving freeway up from the city. Traffic was moderately heavy. Solo was going well over seventy miles per hour, but that was no problem for a car made for the German autobahns. The still moderately heavy traffic was preventing Solo from going all out. Instead, he zigged between lanes, but the BMW stayed close enough to see at all times.

This continued for some time. Solo changed lanes constantly but the BMW matched the Thunderbird on every lane switch. They had gotten beyond the entertainment district. Solo decided he was going to have to take a stand sooner or later. He cut across two lanes and veered off an exit ramp, cutting in front of a delivery truck but making it safely to the ramp. The BMW's driver, not quite expecting the move, hesitated and had to turn even more abruptly. Luckily for the no-necks, an alert driver swerved left as the BMW turned sharply right off the freeway. The no-neck driver barely caught the Thunderbird speeding right from the bottom of the hill where the exit ramp met the road. The BMW was now perhaps three-quarters of a mile behind as a result of Solo's maneuver but the U.N.C.L.E. man was now on a curving road custom-made for the German machine. The no-neck grinned.

Solo, though, wasn't waiting for the BMW to catch up. He made a sharp left off this highway onto a narrow two-lane road that snaked further up into the mountains. Again, the no-necks barely saw the Thunderbird make the turn. They were perhaps was perhaps forty-five to fifty seconds behind.

The narrow road straightened out briefly, but was now going up a steep hill. The BMW was going sixty-five and approaching the top of the hill. The no-neck driver was keeping his foot on the accelerator. The car was running smoothly and powerfully as it went over the top of the hill.

The no-neck had no time to react. He plowed into Solo's Thunderbird, parked across the middle of the highway. The driver didn't even have time to slightly alter his course and the BMW smashed directly into the Thunderbird. The Ford flipped over onto its side while the crumpled BMW turned sideways on the highway itself. The crash covered up the loud bang as the BMW's air bags inflated.

Solo watched this from a ditch on the side of  the road. He had slammed the brakes and turned sharply left, leaving the car to block the road. Then he got out, yanked Cindy out of the car and ran for cover. Solo had Cindy hiding down in a ditch full of brush and other cover. Solo had his U.N.C.L.E. special now fully assembled and rigged to fire rapidly. The passenger no-neck was unconscious and strapped in. The driver had managed to shake off the shock. He held a large handgun which appeared to be a .44 Magnum.  Solo distrusted the weapon -- it was too powerful for precision shooting. Solo reasoned someone needing that much firepower should stick to a shotgun. Although it was dark, both Solo and the no-neck had adjusted to the night and could see each other well enough. The no-neck, now off the road, fired two shots. Solo, anticipating, had stepped to the side, then fired the U.N.C.L.E. special. The no-neck flew back as if he'd been kicked. Solo's shot had hit the man's torso. He was dead within a minute of landing on the ground. Solo could hear Cindy crying loudly, but he moved to the car. The surviving no-neck was still unconscious but would live. He disarmed the man and dragged him out of the car, no small feat considering that he weighed more than two hundred pounds. Solo got out the pen communicator and made an emergency call to the Los Angeles field office.

 It was quite a mess, and there would be some haggling between U.N.C.L.E. and the local authorities, not to mention Solo's rental car agency. The head of the Los Angeles office, aware of the kind of fireworks that often developed when Solo and other senior enforcement officers appeared, had canceled all time off for local personnel. It was a good thing too. Sending three agents to oversee the wreck scene as well as keeping three to secure the woman's apartment was a strain for the field office.

The field office people -- one Anglo man, a Hispanic woman and an African American man -- had come in two cars. They gave Solo the smaller of the two, a blue Ford Escort. It was a comedown from the Thunderbird, but Solo was thankful for the ride. He was now making his way to Cindy's place. She hadn't wiped the tears from her face and she sat coldly silent. Solo could tell she was an emotional volcano inside, ready to burst.

The eruption wasn't long in coming. "You killed him!" she yelled.

Solo was quiet for a moment. "He was trying to kill us. Just as a group of his men tried to kill a friend of mine up at one of his companies in Northern California. Murder apparently is one of the ways Mr. King does business, Cindy."

"You're making this up."

"Did you recognize the gun he was firing? It was made famous in the movies a few years back. Magnum .44, most powerful handgun in the world. It can blow your head clean off. Well that's all true, Cindy. He wasn't after information. He wasn't trying to scare us. He just wanted to kill us. I fired so he wouldn't. Period. Do I wish he survived? Yes. But my first job was to save our lives."

"What do you want with my files on King? Surely, you have enough to arrest King or whatever it is you people do."

"I'm sure Mr. King has a suitable alibi. Plus, he's developing a major project, a weapons system of a sort. There is nothing like it in the world. Plus, there's something else."

"What?"

"King is hiding something. Perhaps someone. I don't know, but I wonder if he has some kind of help. Your files may have the answer. But you don't know it because you're not sure what to look for."

"And you do know what to look for?"

"I hope so," Solo said.

 Solo and Cindy arrived at the apartment building. A member of the U.N.C.L.E. security team, an Asian-American woman keeping watch, conferred briefly with Solo. She remained outside while Solo and the reporter went into her apartment.

It was now around midnight. Cindy had recovered her composure, and her journalist's curiosity was starting to take over. She was now starting to assume some of the control in the discussion; she afterall had researched Thomas King and probably knew as much as anyone about the executive outside of Toking. The secret agent was now on her turf. Cindy showed Solo the file cabinet. She had arranged her research materials meticulously, something vital for a book writer. Research for a non-fiction book takes months, sometimes years. Information has to be stored in such a way that the writer can retrieve a document or a transcript from an interview months after it was gathered. The material was roughly assigned to three groupings. Early life, extending through college; early, and undistinguished professional career; and the period when his career took off.

Solo was equally businesslike, asking few questions, taking in comments from Cindy.

"Here's the gist of it," Cindy said. "Average person all the way. Born in the Midwest, goes to a Big Ten college. Undistinguished in everything. Graduates, but no better than the middle of his class in either high school or college. Barely squeaks through a master's degree in business administration. Moves through a series of finance jobs at mid-sized to large companies. But again, makes no waves until several years ago. He strikes out on his own and assembles a huge empire within a short time."

"But his career changed so dramatically," Solo said. "Was there anything in his personal life that happened around that time? Did he meet up with some kind of mentor, maybe?"

"If he did I can't find it."

Solo's mind raced. His own words. A mentor.

Suddenly, Solo felt deja vu. He had indeed seen something like this before. Could this affair somehow be tied in with the long-closed case he now remembered? He thought through the time line of the old case. It might fit. This was the longest of long shots. But Solo persisted.

"Tell me, Cindy. What was his last job? I mean, what was the last thing he was doing before he became a business genius?"

"He was in the finance department of  A.X. Enterprises, based on the East Coast."

"And this was seven or eight years ago?"

"Yeah. The company went out of business or something. It became a big selling point -- man thrown out of work, rises from the ashes and becomes his own boss."

Solo took the pen communicator out of his pocket once more. Cindy wasn't sure what Solo had been doing the first time he used the pen because she was so flustered by the unfolding action. This time, she stared as Solo manipulated the device.

"Open Channel D," Solo said. "I need records." The agent paused, then gave the name of A.X. Enterprises and asked the records clerks to cross-reference it with another corporate name and the name of another company executive.

After he finished, Cindy spoke up. "What was that all about?"

"If I'm right, your book is going to be a lot better than you expected."

Act IV
"Behold the Phoenix"

Illya Kuryakin was dumbfounded. He required several seconds to formulate a response as the woman communications officer at U.N.C.L.E. San Francisco watched.

"Napoleon, no disrespect, but are you sure you didn't hit your head? That's quite impossible."

"As far as this gentleman was concerned, little was impossible," Solo said, sitting in a identical office in U.N.C.L.E.-Los Angeles. The scene was similar, except Cindy was also there with Napoleon and that office's communications officer on duty, an Asian American woman. "And there is a connection between him and our Mr. King."

"But Napoleon, how could he do it?"

"Illya, I haven't got those answers. And even if I'm wrong, you've seen the exo-skeleton and we've both seen the kind of man King is. Personally, I don't think King is capable of the planning involved while our friend from the past is. In any case, we can't let a potential weapon like that get into the wrong hands."

"On that much we can agree."

"Fine. It appears Mr. King is getting ready for a trip to your territory. His private jet filed a flight plan for a trip to Northern California, and he should be in the air now. Based on the description you provided, I'd say the exo-skeleton is pretty far along. My guess is the thing is ready for a major test of some kind. Besides the facility you visited, is there anything else belonging to Toking?"

"Records indicate he has a sizable residence up here," Kuryakin said, feeling more at ease in discussing facts, rather than conjecture. "It's rather isolated, well outside the city itself, and it's somewhat close to the Toking complex. Suggestions?"

Solo glanced at Cindy. "Well, I think if a certain journalist paid a visit, Mr. King might be unnerved," Solo said. He now looked her directly in the eyes, his next remarks addressed to her. "I won't lie. You've seen Mr. King and -- if I'm correct -- the man behind him is dangerous. We will do our best to protect you. It's a risk. I am sure, however, a visit from you will be the last thing he expects."

Cindy swallowed hard. As she was brought into the U.N.C.L.E.-Los Angeles office -- like most U.N.C.L.E. facilities, it was well disguised -- Solo had discussed a deal. She could get access to information that would make her book dynamite. There'd be a few strings attached, mostly in terms of obscuring details about specific U.N.C.L.E. operations. She decided she had gone too far to refuse.

"All right, I'll play Mata Hari."

"This is not a game," Solo said sternly. "You're a decoy, or a distraction. Hopefully when the shooting starts, I'll be the target. But don't forget what you saw early this morning out on the highway."

"Of course."

Solo now directed his comments to Kuryakin. "Cindy and I will be up in a couple of hours. In the meantime, get what you can about King's residence up there, especially any plans you can get your hands on. I'm sure they're registered somewhere."

 Two hours and thirty minutes later, Cindy was in the U.N.C.L.E. office in San Francisco and she called King's unlisted number, which had been obtained from the local telephone company.

A servant answered on the second ring. Cindy asked for Mr. King. "Tell him it's the reporter he met last night in Los Angeles."

"I'm sorry, but..."

"He's going to want to talk."

The line fell silent for agonizing seconds. Abruptly King came on, sounding a bit shaken. "Who is this?"

"Cindy Evans. We met at your party at the museum. A while later, there was quite an auto accident, Mr. King. Rumors are circulating that some of your people were involved. I wanted to hear your side of the story. I'm on leave from the magazine but I think they'd be interested. It might also make a great part of my book."

"W-what? I don't know..."

"I think the rumors might be unfounded, but there's also talk of a new weapons system, something called the exo-skeleton. In any case, maybe we can discuss this in that interview I mentioned. Maybe today?"

Cindy heard no reaction at the other end. She guessed King was silent, unable to respond to such an audacious request. "Listen, representatives of some agency are bugging me about you. I just want some material for the book."

Again, Cindy didn't hear a response immediately. Af ter a long silence, she could hear King's voice.. "Okay, Okay. How about four o'clock? My place. I'll give you directions."

King described the route to Bay Area estate. Solo was watching Cindy's face. He sensed she was enjoying this a bit.

"Fine. I understand you have security needs, but I'd feel better if someone else came with me. And I'd feel better if you didn't have a lot of those burly types crawling around."

King agreed and hung up the phone.

Cindy placed the receiver down. She had been anxious and let out a brief sigh of relief.

She had been sitting at a table with Solo. He now got up walked over to the communications console being manned by a U.N.C.L.E.-San Francisco employee and threw a switch.

"Open Channel R," he said. This indicated a regional channel. Solo was sending a message beyond the local channel range but close enough that the long-distance Channel D was unnecessary.

"All right, Illya. Four o'clock. Can you be ready?"

"It's a bit tight, but I should be in a secure area by then."

"For our sakes I hope so. Solo out."

 Solo drove a white Saturn that was part of the small U.N.C.L.E.-San Francisco fleet, while Cindy rode in the front seat next to him. He wanted to present as non-threatening a picture as he could. But if another BMW should make a move, the car was adequate. It had nowhere near the power of a BMW.  However, this Saturn had specially reinforced front and rear bumpers, perfect for ramming -- something that could be of use on the more isolated roads of Northern California. And, if the need arose, the Saturn had additional weapons, including a hidden machine gun.

It took more than an hour to reach the King estate from downtown San Francisco. The last twenty-five minutes involved driving on narrow, two-lane roads. The estate was near the top of a hill in a heavily wooded area. Solo guessed they were maybe fifteen miles from the Toking complex Illya had seen, but it would take forty minutes to get there because the roads weren't real direct.

The Saturn stopped at a security gate. Yet another no-neck stood watch on the other side. This one wore a loudly-patterned shirt, at least one size smaller than it should be. Solo guessed the no-neck wanted to show off his chest muscles. Solo, who prided himself on clothes -- he wore a classic cut, light blue suit today, with a white shirt and blue and red tie -- didn't appreciate sloppiness.

The no-neck, who was also wearing sunglasses, looked puzzled. He had been told two people were coming. But he had also been notified to watch out for a man fitting Solo's description. He wasn't expecting the man to come in the front gate.

Solo rolled down the window. He pointed toward Cindy and yelled to the no-neck: "Your boss is expecting this woman and I'm getting impatient." The no-neck flipped a switch that opened the gate but he had a sneer on his face like he wanted the chance to get Solo.

The Saturn went up the hill. Neatly trimmed bushes bordered the long driveway. At the top, the driveway formed a circle at the front doorway. There was a garage to the left of the big, white house. All very neat and tidy. Solo pulled up, not quite in front of the door. A no-neck came out but Solo waved him off. "No need to park it, son. We won't be here that long."

Cindy got out. She understood the plan but fretted that Solo was going out of his way to insult the hired help. Solo, on the other hand, felt he knew what he was doing. If they couldn't think clearly, and let themselves get angry, it might give him an edge for a crucial second.

Solo opened the door and let Cindy enter. She wore a basic red dress, suitable for the office, with the hem at knee level. She wore black stockings and business-like flat shoes. That was something else Solo insisted upon. If trouble blew up, he didn't want her slowed up by even a low heel.

Thomas King was standing in the front room of the house. The room had all new, contemporary furniture. He wore a dark blue jacket and slacks, with a powder blue golf shirt, no tie.

"Mr. Solo? I wasn't expecting..."

"I'm sure you weren't, but then, I'm just along for the ride."

Cindy spoke. "Mr. King, thanks for seeing me on short notice."

As Cindy made the standard small talk, Solo spotted something interesting. There was a sort of elevator at the stairway behind King. It was an external elevator -- not built into the wall -- set up so a wheelchair-bound person could go upstairs without bothering with steps.

Solo's mind raced. If the man he thought was behind this had survived, it was certainly possible he was in bad shape. Perhaps too bad to walk.

The talk continued. King was objecting to Solo's presence. Solo interrupted. "I told you Mr. King, I'm with a financial firm. I have no interest in any book, I just enjoy Miss Evans' company. If you'd like, I could wander the grounds while you two talk, but I suspect you wouldn't appreciate it. I'll just watch, if you don't mind."

King  let out a grunt, but motioned the journalist and her friend through an archway to a nearby den. "I sent the servants home early so we wouldn't be disturbed. There are a few security men on the grounds but they won't bother us," King said.

Once in that room, King sat on a brown vinyl chair, while Cindy chose a loveseat. Solo stood, eyeing King. Again, it was part of the drill to try and unnerve a potential adversary.

Cindy started with a series of simple questions. It was a standard reporting technique, where the journalist eases the interview subject into a discussion. Get them used to talking, used to the reporter. Then a gentle prod here and there, followed by a softer question to relax the mood. In the case of an especially adversarial type interview, the toughest questions would come at the very end, in case the subject cut off discussion abruptly.

Within six questions, Cindy had gotten into the present day era of Thomas King and Toking.

"How did you make such an abrupt change, Mr. King?" Cindy asked. "I mean you were in your thirities and hadn't gotten above a certain level. Now you are an entrepreneur. What happened?"

"I decided I needed to make a change. It was just that. I was tired of the path I was taking and decided to take command," King said.

Solo thought he sounded like an endorser for a self-help infomercial. "I'm sorry, Mr. King, Miss Evans. But I couldn't help wondering something. Mr. King, did you benefit from a mentor, perhaps?"

King's head shook slightly. "What do you mean, Mr. Solo?"

"I mean someone of experience, someone who could point the way, lend you the benefit of his experience."

"Well, not really..."

"A man who knew what he wanted, but perhaps wasn't in a position to get it himself. But he could teach someone else, make that person the vehicle to obtain those goals."

"W-what?"

Cindy was watching, her eyes darting between both men. She remained silent.

Solo continued. "I knew of a man once. He had great dreams. Very ambitious. But even he had the need of a mentor. The problem was, he and his mentor had a falling-out."

King had turned white. Solo decided to pour it on now.

"The man I'm thinking of, in fact, had a goal to take over the world. He was going to start in a small country in Asia, figuring that would be a nice base of operations. But as I said, he's dead now. Or is he, Mr. Alexander?"

A voice came from the distance. "Very perceptive, Mr. Solo."

The voice was close, but not quite at the den. Solo turned around. There was the mysterious Alexander. His background was so cloudy no one knew what his first name even was. Solo wasn't surprised that Alexander was sitting in a wheelchair. The U.N.C.L.E. agent thought of the possibility the moment he saw the lift by the stairway. But Solo was momentarily shocked to see the badly scarred face, mostly on the right side. Alexander had also lost much of his hair, but it looked as if were due to severe burns and not hair falling out with age. The voice, however, still had the sense of purpose and power. Nor was Alexander alone. Zorik, King's security chief, was pushing the wheelchair.

Solo quickly regained his composure. "I suppose this explains the Phoenix calling cards left at Glenconix and the other companies you robbed?"

"I am reassured, Mr. Solo. I rather hoped you were still on top of your game. When did you figure it all out?"

Both King and Cindy could only watch. There was a sudden, intense mood in the house. Clearly, this was an old feud which remained as fresh as if it had just occurred.

"Actually not until I had a chance to go through Miss Evans' research materials," Solo said. "However, some things had bothered me from the beginning. Mr. King, despite his recent business success, didn't seem to have the background for anything this ambitious. And why should a successful industrialist risk it all to pursue a speculative project like the exo-skeleton? Then, I used the word mentor in discussing King. What if King had gotten the idea from somewhere else? I checked further and heard the name A.X. Enterprises, King's last stop before becoming a dramatic success story. Finally, the alarm bells went off."

"How so, Mr. Solo?"

"Suddenly, I recalled another industrialist -- you. It was as if I was listening to an old recording, slightly altered. You risked everything, despite your great wealth, to try and take over a little country in Asia because you had dreams of using that as a base to eventually take over the world. You robbed the U.S. Army of what it called BG-30, the so-called 'will gas' intended to make its victims docile. Just change the names and the target, and we have a surrogate -- Mr. King here -- stealing technology to make the exo-skeleton."

"Bravo, Mr. Solo."

"Oh, there's more."

"By all means."

"There was the touch of the Phoenix cards. Obviously, that was supposed to be a clue about yourself, rising from the ashes. And perhaps something to draw U.N.C.L.E.'s attention?"

"I'm glad to see you haven't lost your touch."

"Well, I hate to sound like a cliché, but how did you do it, Mr. Alexander? I mean, you are supposed to be dead. As I recall, as best as we could piece together, you had a falling-out with your mentor. Mr. Kevon was the man's name, I believe."

Alexander's hideous face broke into a grin. Most of the right side of his face was discolored as well as scarred. The left side was better off, but not much. Alexander was wearing casual clothes. Meanwhile, the security man was standing rigid. He, obviously, was ready to launch an attack the moment Solo made a move.

"You're quite right, Mr. Solo. The attempted coup you mentioned, of course, didn't work out. It was quite the embarrassing scene at that embassy in Washington. I thought I had triumphed and then it all came crashing down. We last met when you jumped aboard the plane taking off from my farm in Virginia. I thought you were gone forever when you subsequently fell from the craft during our fight. But you had held a parachute and floated safely to earth. I took the controls from Mr. Kevon, but he had other ideas. You recall that crutch of his? It had a hidden blade."

"Yes, I recall he had designs of using it on me, "Solo said.

"Hmmm? I didn't know that, but then I was quite busy at the time. In any case, he did use it on me. Rammed it through the seat. The pain caused me to scream and black out. It was probably no more than a minute later that I was reawakened by flames. Somehow, the old fool had caused an explosion and there was fire. Mr. Kevon had caused me a severe spinal injury. I couldn't walk -- still can't, as you can see. Another explosion was inevitable even before we crashed. I had to crawl through fire to the back of the plane. Kevon was unconscious on the floor. I was burned quite severely, the pain was quite unbearable. But I bore it, Mr. Solo. I crawled and got the other parachute and bailed out before the last explosion."

"But the authorities should have spotted you."

"Actually, in a perverse way Mr. Solo, I have you to thank for that. They were so busy retrieving you, no one must have seen me parachute. Certainly, no one in that crew of U.N.C.L.E. agents. However, some of my operatives did see me -- they were men stationed at the Virginia farm who were off duty. They saw the farm was under guard by U.N.C.L.E. and headed the other direction. They were fleeing when they saw me come down."

Solo was incredulous. Alexander was one of the fiercest adversaries he had ever encountered. His mind raced. He had to keep Alexander talking. "But if there was only one body in the plane, why didn't anyone check to see if you survived."

"Come now, Mr. Solo. There was very little of the plane left, and there was damn little of Mr. Kevon. A couple of explosions, debris hitting the ground at hundreds of miles an hour? The authorities were simply lazy, Mr. Solo. They would have been lucky to find a few fillings and simply concluded both men on the plane had died. U.N.C.L.E. had already turned its attention to other matters and the aviation authorities were happy to close out the paperwork."

"So you started anew?"

"It wasn't quite that simple, Mr. Solo. My holdings were frozen, put into probate. I had access to some secret bank accounts. Enough to live comfortably, but a fraction of my former capital. No, Mr. Solo, I was going to have to build it up again."

"But you needed a substitute."

"Well, with a face like mine -- not to mention my being wanted for a number of crimes -- I wasn't in a position to build openly. I settled on Mr. King, here." Alexander pointed to his lackey. "I helped get him started, guided his career, suggested strategic moves. Perhaps even dictated on occasion. In any event, Toking Enterprises was soon an up-and-coming concern. If it didn't have access to what I wanted, it could be the vehicle to get it."

"And what you wanted was the exo-skeleton?"

"Precisely. Now I have it and you and the girl are expendable."

"No doubt. Still, why do you want it? I mean you could get a high price on the illicit arms market. But you want more than money. What's so special about the exo-skeleton system?"

"Now, you do disappoint me, Mr. Solo. The exo-skeleton is not only a weapons system. It's perhaps the only way for me to get out of this chair."

 Solo and the woman had just entered the house when Kuryakin got to work.

The King estate was fenced off, but it was near some wooded hills. Kuryakin had begun scouting a location as Solo and Cindy started on their way from San Francisco. Although he was outside the King fence, Kuryakin approached the task cautiously. Clearly, King's men were dangerous to deal with and he couldn't assume some might not patrol outside the property boundary.

Kuryakin was wearing a black shirt underneath a black jacket, dark pants and hiking shoes. He also carried a large backpack. He spent about forty-five minutes before he found his spot -- a good line of sight to the King compound, yet wooded enough that it wouldn't be easy for King's men to draw a bead on him.

He sat down at the base of a large tree at the edge of the woods. Below him were scattered trees atop a grassy hill. The hill extended down to the rear of the King compound. From his perch, Kuryakin could see the large men that Solo had dubbed the no-necks. Kuryakin unzipped the backpack and emptied its contents. In the pack had been the parts of a specially designed rifle. Kuryakin spent the next three minutes and twenty-six seconds assembling the weapon. The rifle somewhat resembled the U.S. Army M-16. But it fired a different kind of ammunition which was in two containers he had carried in the backpack. One had a small red mark, the other blue.

Kuryakin opened the plastic container with the blue mark. Inside were approximately fifty sleep darts. The particular formula was quite potent -- their targets would sleep at least six hours. The darts would also arrive with some force. Likely, when someone was hit, they'd be knocked down. Even though the darts brought sleep instead of death, it wouldn't be a pleasant experience for those targeted to receive them.

The U.N.C.L.E. agent retrieved an object from his jacket pocket. It was a small but fairly powerful pair of binoculars. He could see if a car entered the driveway, but the rear of the house would block the view as the vehicle pulled up closer to the home.

Kuryakin watched another ten minutes before he finally saw Solo's Saturn enter the grounds. The Russian now sat up and positioned himself. A nearby tree had a low branch that was big enough for him to use as a rest for the gun. The rifle had an extended sight and Kuryakin began to scan the King grounds. There was a large pool near the rear of the house, and the rest of the property consisted of a large yard and trees. At the very rear, he saw one of the no-necks scanning the large yard between the fence and the house. He was also alone.

Kuryakin decided now was the time. He had the no-neck's back in his sights. Kuryakin pulled the trigger. He saw the man fall to the ground as if someone had kicked the him in the back. Kuryakin now scanned again. Another no-neck was starting to run up to his fallen co-worker. The aim was a bit more difficult this time, but the man paid no heed to the fact he might be in anyone's sights. Before he could change his course, Kuryakin pulled the trigger once more. The no-neck grabbed his right shoulder, and landed on his back on the ground.

Kuryakin put the weapon down, and walked back a couple of steps to where the backpack lay, with the other container laying near it. He now loaded the rifle with several cartridges from the other container. These projectiles wouldn't be as gentle as the sleep darts. Kuryakin put the back pack on and headed in the direction of the estate, keeping close to trees as he could. When he had to cross an open, grassy area, he ran, but in a crouched position to avoid giving any opponents too large a target.

 Solo was playing for time, hoping Kuryakin was coming this way. But Solo was genuinely puzzled by Alexander's comment about the exo-skeleton.

"I'm afraid I don't understand. How is the exo-skeleton going to get you out of the wheelchair?"

"I once told you, Mr. Solo, you'd never be a great man because you believe victory can be accomplished in simple, direct moves. Thanks to Dr. Nichols, I've been able to, er,  reprogram the device. You see, Mr. Solo, I'm going to get into the exo-skeleton and I'm going to walk. I won't bore you with the details. But the exo-skeleton, essentially a high-tech suit of armor, is being reoriented. The exo-skeleton's internal components can, in effect, bypass the area of my spinal injury, send impulses from my brain to my legs. It's quite complicated. Of all the systems I've stolen, the Glenconix artificial intelligence software was the most necessary to making my alterations work."

Cindy, listening to all this, was numb. She was barely familiar with the Alexander story. It was as if some old science fiction story had unfolded and abducted her.

Solo, on the other hand, was concentrating on his situation. While Zorik didn't have a weapon drawn, Solo was sure the security man had one ready. Solo hadn't yet been relieved of his gun, but the room was too crowded for sudden gunplay.

"In case you're wondering, Mr. Solo, I'll also be quite strong when I'm in the exo-skeleton. In fact, that's why I'm glad you're here. You see, the exo-skeleton is here, in this house. You and the woman are going to be its first field test. I'm sure it's going to be a fascinating experience for me."

Thomas King, who had sat through Alexander's explanations, was fidgeting. He had come to enjoy the role of major industrialist. He didn't like being reminded that, in effect, he was just one of Alexander's employees.

"I am boring you Thomas?" Alexander said.

"No, but let's get on with it."

Alexander's torso above the waist began to rock and back forth. "Do you know how long I've dreamed of meeting Mr. Solo again? Of course, you don't. This man cost me my dreams. But they're now again within my grasp. Do not forget whose business strategies made Toking the company it is today, Thomas -- certainly not its namesake!"

"This is a dangerous man, I just think we should be rid of him." King said.

"Perhaps you're right, Thomas. Zorik, would you do the honors?"

Zorik took a step to Alexander's side, drawing a large automatic pistol in the same motion. He then aimed straight ahead at Solo. But before pulling the trigger, he moved the gun in King's direction and pulled the trigger twice. The bullets struck King in the head, the second causing the skull to split open.

Solo was already rushing Zorik after the first shot. He pounded his closed fist into Zorik's throat at full force. Solo hadn't struck the target squarely, but the force had knocked Zorik backwards. Solo pressed his advantage, striking a karate blow at the back of the man's head. Zorik was now sprawled on the floor. Solo landed on the man, his knees folded, and struck three or four more blows with his fists. He wanted the security man out of commission immediately.

While the two men scuffled, Alexander was moving. He was propelling the wheelchair down a hallway. When Solo was certain that Zorik would be no trouble, he drew his gun and fired in Alexander's direction. But it was too late. Alexander had already closed a door behind him. Solo could hear a hum. Though it appeared to be a simple doorway, it must have been the entrance to an elevator. There was no doubt a basement to the house.

Solo turned his attention to Cindy. She was hunkered down at the side of the couch. She had thrown up at the sight of Thomas King's demise.

"Cindy, pull yourself together," Solo said.

Cindy was in tears. "It was horrible, his head..."

"Cindy, we're not out of danger yet. Alexander got away. We've got to get you out of here."

"What?"

"He's going to put the exo-skeleton on. He's going to be coming for us, at least he will if I don't stop him. But first, I'm getting you out of here."

She started to protest, but Solo grabbed her arm hard and he yanked her out of the large den, through the front room and to the door. He stopped, opening the door slightly. He saw a no-neck approaching the Saturn. Solo drew his gun and paused. He then opened the door quickly, hunched down and fired, striking the no-neck directly in the chest.

Cindy stood, clutching her notepad and tape recorder. She was nearly in shock. She had never dealt with such brutal, sudden violence. She staggered toward the car and Solo yanked her forward again. He unlocked the vehicle using an electronic device on the key. He had just gotten her in the car when he could hear a smashing sound coming from inside the house.

The entire doorway collapsed, with debris scattering in all directions. For a second, there was dust. Then, Solo could see.

It was Alexander standing in the exo-skeleton. He was covered as if by external metal limbs that covered most of his body. The hands were covered by metallic gloves, and he wore boots. On his head, Alexander had on a helmet with a dark visor that obscured his face. Alexander was taller than average and the armor made him seem much taller, perhaps six-foot-five.

Solo swallowed hard. The exo-skeleton had always seemed a figment of someone's imagination. But the design drawings only hinted at how freightening the thing could be -- and Solo knew its destructive powers were now trained on him.

Kuryakin had now neared the bottom of the hill, perhaps seventy-five feet from the rear of the estate.

He lay down on the ground and fired the special high-powered round at the fence that surrounded the King property. He aimed the weapon a good one hundred feet from the sleeping no-necks. The resulting explosion tore open the fence. When the cloud of smoke dissipated, the fence looked like twisted spaghetti. Two more no-necks were coming. Kuryakin fired again, this time aiming perhaps twenty-five feet from the security men. Another explosion tore open the ground in front of them. Kuryakin hoped they had only been knocked unconscious. The U.N.C.L.E. agent moved ahead, but kept his senses alert.

 The roar from behind the large house distracted Alexander. Solo yelled at Cindy to start the car and she did so. She was still crying, still feeling queasy from the violence. Solo felt momentary relief as he saw the car take off down the driveway. He now turned his attention to the massive figure ahead of him. Alexander couldn't move quickly but the exo-skeleton was still an awe-inspiring sight. Solo tempered his emotions, knowing one of his deadliest enemies occupied the Silicon Valley version of a knight's armor. Alexander was, symbolically speaking, a technological black knight.

Alexander started to approach. Solo, who had never been relieved of his U.N.C.L.E. special, drew the gun from his shoulder holster and fired. The cartridges didn't even make a dent. The exo-skeleton had a large chest plate, protecting that vital area. There were portions of the arms and legs that appeared exposed, but Alexander was wearing the metallic looking material Solo had seen in the drawings of the exo-skeleton. Solo guessed that material was also bullet-resistant. He fired at the right arm, at a spot not covered by metal limb. Alexander flinched but it was clear the bullet hadn't penetrated the metallic-looking cloth..

"Now Mr. Solo, it is my turn," Alexander said. His voice was amplified electronically throught the helmet.

Solo didn't wait, diving to his right. Alexander fired a laser beam at the spot where Solo had just stood. Solo rolled on the ground, building momentum to bolt back up and started running. Alexander hadn't fired the laser again and Solo hoped it would take a minute or so to recharge the weapon. He ran along the side of the house.

"I might not move as quickly as you, Mr. Solo. But you will not survive today."

 Kuryakin had seen all kinds of wonder in the years he had worked for U.N.C.L.E. But as he saw the lumbering exo-skeleton chasing his friend Napoleon, even he had to pause. He had seen the empty exo-skeleton but nothing prepared him for the sight of it in operation. It was a science fiction fantasy come to life. Who was operating it? Was it King? Or was Napoleon's crazy theory about Alexander possibly correct?

The Russian soon had his answer as he heard Alexander's voice. The remark brought Kuryakin's mind back to the matter at hand. He now aimed the rifle at the exo-skeleton and fired.

The explosion knocked Solo off his feet and Alexander definitely staggered. He appeared stunned but was still standing. In a moment, he began his advance. Alexander now raised his right arm and held it outward. A laser beam fired in Kuryakin's direction. It missed off to his left but was closer than the Russian would have guessed. He thought Alexander had been lucky to not drop in his tracks.

Solo had gotten back up and was now running past the pool near the back of the house. Alexander was  parallel to the pool, perhaps three feet away. He still walked as if he were dazed. Kuryakin now aimed again and fired.

Incredibly, Alexander was still on his feet. His movements were jerkier and he seemed to have to pause to steady himself. But the system itself was amazing for the abuse it could withstand.

Solo had watched Kuryakin fire the explosive rounds at Alexander. The last round had exposed some electronics systems. Alexander also seemed to wobble. Solo saw that Alexander was close to the pool. He rushed the armored madman. He knew he couldn't harm Alexander but if he could knock him off balance, he could send him into the pool.

The U.N.C.L.E. agent dived low, shoving at Alexander's legs with all his might. Solo had landed into the armored legs with his left shoulder. He hit Alexander's legs with a thud. Solo laid by the side of the pool, his left shoulder throbbing in pain. But the force of the collision, though it had injured Solo, was enough. Alexander flailed his arms, trying to recapture his balance. Instead, he tumbled and fell into the water.

Sparks flew and steam rose from the pool. Kuryakin's last shot had broken water-tight seals for the electronics systems. The resulting short-circuiting was ugly to watch. The armored figure sunk to the bottom, unable to move. Despite the technology, despite the genius of the design, this modern knight fared no better in water than the knights of the Middle Ages.

Kuryakin approached the pool, still holding back. But no movement came from the pool. The smell of death was in the air. He walked up to his injured friend, who was now only starting to sit up.

The Russian examined Solo's injured shoulder and the American winced in pain. "I think you'll need a doctor to look at that," Kuryakin said.

"I bet he wishes he could say the same thing," Solo said, looking in the direction of the pool. The Phoenix had returned to the ashes.

A few days later, Solo and Kuryakin were entering the U.N.C.L.E. San Francisco office for a debriefing session. Solo's left arm was in a sling, the result of his shoulder injury. Luckily, there were no broken bones but he would have to wear the sling for another few days. The jacket to his gray suit covered much of the sling.

"The woman, I gather, has already arrived," Kuryakin said.

"I suspect she's not in the best of spirits. At least, she probably won't be when she sees me," Solo responded.

"Why is that?"

"The violence she saw was unnerving to her," Solo said. "I think she blames me, and she's right to a large extent."

The two men approached the end of a corridor where a door automatically slid open. Cindy Evans was waiting inside, sitting at a round conference table. Also sitting at the table was Alexander Waverly, who greeted Solo and Kuryakin as they entered. Cindy, however, said nothing.

Twenty minutes later, Cindy Evans still was withdrawn. She heard the older man talking but she could only stare blankly at him.

Waverly had flown out to the West Coast from the primary U.N.C.L.E. office in New York. With Cindy present, He provided Solo and Kuryakin with a summary of what had occurred since Alexander's death. Dr. Nichols had been apprehended at the Toking complex in the Silicon Valley. It was likely he would be charged as an accessory to Alexander's crimes. At the same time, Zorik was also being held on charges. The initial summary by U.N.C.L.E. and other agencies was that Zorik or members of his staff, who had accompanied the late Thomas King on his visits to the three electronics companies, were involved in the theft of high-technology secrets. It was likely, for example, that Zorik himself had helped plant the gas bomb that had rendered the guards at Glenconix unconscious. Additional research had shown sabotage of the security systems at the other two companies where break-ins had occurred. For now, Zorik was under guard in the hospital, suffering from a broken jaw and other injuries he had received at Solo's hands. Finally, Wall Street was in an uproar about Toking with the news of Thomas King's death. The reports about his demise were still pretty sanitized but that wouldn't last long. In fact, that was one reason why Cindy had been invited to Waverly's briefing.

"I understand Mr. Solo pledged his cooperation with your book project, Miss Evans. While we expect our organization will likely be discussed I was hoping some of the specifics, such as the location of this office, could be withheld."

"Oh? Yes, I understand. We discussed that," she said. "The book is now a story of how an industrialist arose but it was all a fake. Quite honestly, the whole thing is so incredible, I don't think people still will believe Thomas King was basically a creation of Alexander."

Waverly's eyes betrayed some skepticism. "You could be exposing our personnel to danger if too much of their modus operandi were written about in your book."

"Mr. Waverly, I've seen the world your personnel live in. You have nothing to fear from me. The research I've gathered about Toking is what I'll use. The fact that  U.N.C.L.E. exposed the plot will be mentioned, but I won't get into office locations and the like."

Solo watched Cindy's eyes. He believed she meant that. He could also tell something was troubling her.

"Mr. Solo, do you have a recommendation?" Waverly said.

"Sir, I think we can trust Miss Evans. In any case, you generally can't dictate to journalists what they write or say. She was of great assistance and her presence helped get me into the house with Alexander and King."

"Very well," Waverly said, not entirely convinced but knowing he had pressed the matter all he could. "I must get back to New York. Good day, gentlemen, Miss Evans." The Number One of Section One began to walk to the exit and the automatic door opened.

Kuryakin motioned to Waverly to hold up. "Pardon me, sir, but there's an unrelated matter I should discuss with you on the way out."

The two men left and the door slid into place. There was a moment of silence, which Solo broke. "Something's wrong, what is it?"

Cindy paused. "I was very scared there. I was scared of them, but I was also scared of you. I know you were in danger but ...I've never seen such violence."

"Cindy, I don't expect you to understand. I just ask one thing. Don't remember me only for mayhem. There are dangerous people out there. I walk a fine line. I sometimes have to use the same methods as the dangerous people. But I try not to become one of them. In any event, it's a job that has to be done. So, I do it."

"I know. And, no, I won't remember you only for the violence. But I don't suppose I'll forget it, either."

She rose, and kissed Solo on the cheek and left through the sliding door. Solo pondered for a moment whether he should follow but held back. Cindy had been brave in that she had let herself get staked out like a Judas Goat. This had been an especially tough assignment. Perhaps one day in his past he might have felt the same way.

Kuryakin re-entered as Solo seemed to be lost in his thoughts. "One of the office personnel is escorting her to the exit," he said.

Solo didn't respond.

Kuryakin could tell the woman's reaction was still bothering Solo. "You know, it's not like you had a lot of choices out there," Kuryakin said to his friend.

"I suppose," Solo replied. He had made his choices long ago. Those choices tended to shut the door on women like Cindy.

Kuryakin had seen this melancholy before. He knew no words would shake Solo out of this mood for a while. Kuryakin simply turned and left, leaving Solo alone with his thoughts.

THE END

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