The day began like almost every other. He rose from the bed, stared at the bare room and spent the next half hour, or hour, or however long, gazing at the walls. Some days he chose to shave, others he didn’t. Today, he felt a bit more energy so he decided to shave – not just yet, but soon, after he finally rose from the bed.

    Mostly, Napoleon Solo lay there, a blank expression on his face. The memory replayed itself in his mind, just as it had the day before and the day before that. The mental video was a bit fuzzy on the edges, but it felt just as real now as it did the day before and the day before that.

    He closed his eyes, took in a deep breath and then let it out slowly. Nothing in the memory had changed. Nor was there any prospect that it would. What was past was past. Nothing could be changed. How could it?

    Despite all the precautions an agent can take, there are times you have to play the hand. This certainly seemed like one of those times. But not only was the subject of the hunt missing – Dammit, Solo thought, why can’t I remember the name? – they were ready for them. A volley of gunshots, a seemingly endless volley, kept Solo and Illya Kuryakin pinned down. Illya moved off, trying to get a better angle of attack. Instead, he was hit. Solo couldn’t tell where, but it looked bad. Then, the concussion grenade went off, sending the stack of crates down on top of them.

    And then he was here. Three days ago. Or was it four? Or was it a week? Maybe two?

    Solo began to rise from the bed, then thought better of it and lay down once more.

    They had been partners for more than a decade. And then it was over, no good-byes, no ceremony. A gunshot. Your partner, a man with whom you had cheated death, not once but many times. Gone. They had done their best. They had overcome stunning obstacles for years. Yet, when Illya’s time had come, it was over in an instant.

    Once again, Solo began to think of others. Other agents he had seen die. Of a woman he had seen die of a ravaging disease. Of another woman, a larcenous one, but one who didn’t deserve to die, killed with a knife while trying to steal a valuable object.

    He had been unable to save any of them. And now he was here, at the hospital, convalescing. Except, he didn’t particularly feel like getting over his injuries. The muscles were a bit less sore than they had been. The bruises were just about all gone. But none of that mattered. Nothing did. Not anymore.

    The door to the room opened. A nurse entered, the same Asian woman who had come the day before and the day before that. Again, bringing the tray with the two cups.

    “Time for your morning vitamin,” she said, no emotion in her voice.

    “Sure,” Solo replied, his own voice flat.

    He sat up halfway, and reached out while the nurse deposited the pill in the outstretched hand. A second later, he took the other cup and gulped down the water.

    “The doctor would like to conduct another session,” the nurse said. “Please try to make yourself presentable. He will arrive in about one-half hour.”

    “Whatever,” Solo said.

    The nurse gave no hint of a reaction and instead turned and left the room, closing the door behind her.

    Solo rubbed his face. He again felt the urge to shave and finally summoned the energy to get out of the bed. Off to the side was a small lavatory with a few essentials – razor, shaving cream, toothpaste and a toothbrush. Solo turned on the water. He splashed the lukewarm water on his face. A few seconds later, he slopped on the shaving cream, and began to shave. He missed a couple of spots of whiskers but made no effort to go back over them with the razor. He just splashed some more water on his face and cleaned it with a towel.

    Solo stared back at the bed. It was tempting to just lay back down. But he thought better of the idea and went to a small closet. Inside was only one garment, a robe. He put it on and decided to sit on the edge of the bed. Solo wasn’t sure why, but he felt it’d be better somehow if he didn’t lay back down right away.

    A minute later, there was a knock at the door. Solo sat silently. The door then opened and a bald Asian man entered. Despite the man’s girth, his walk was precise, he moved as if there were not a single wasted motion.

    “Ah, Mr. Solo,” the Doctor said, holding a clipboard. “And how are we today?”

    “The same, I guess.”

    The Doctor smiled for a second. “Does that mean you still haven’t eaten?”

    “Haven’t been that hungry,” Solo replied.

    “Obviously. However, I am more concerned with your mental condition. You’ve experienced quite a trauma. We want to make sure there have been no ill effects.”

    Solo tried to focus on the Doctor’s face. Something about the man. He shook off the thought.

    The room was silent for many long seconds. “Well, you’re the doctor, Doctor.”

    The Asian man nodded.

***

    The old cliché was that women don’t sweat, they glow. Helga Thorstrom knew all too well how ridiculous the saying was. As she entered the Manila airport, she perspired all over. Even though she had a light yellow dress, Helga might as well have dressed in a parka given how hot she felt. It felt especially bad while she waited in Customs. As in many airports in the Far East, there weren’t nearly enough Customs agents to deal with the crowd of incoming visitors. The terminal’s air conditioning wasn’t up to the task of trying to cool down the facility, and the slow pace of the line didn’t help Helga’s mood.

    She tried her best to put her discomfort out of her mind. Twenty-four hours ago, she had been on leave – one of the few vacations she had been able to enjoy since being assigned to the New York office of the United Network Command for Law and Enforcement many months earlier. For once, she had decided to go somewhere as far as she could from either New York or her native Scandinavia. Japan, with its ancient wonder and modern conveniences, intrigued her. Indeed, after a few days in the megapolis of Tokyo, she was preparing to take the bullet train to Kyoto, the spiritual center of the country with its vast array of temples, when the summons came.

    Helga was preparing to dine in the hotel when the pen communicator vibrated. A minute later, she underwent a sudden briefing – it was Alexander Waverly himself who had called. She no longer had an appetite --  only a momentary sensation of light-headedness followed by an enormous sense of urgency.

    It had taken a strenuous effort to get to Narita International Airport, about forty miles from Tokyo, and get on an available flight to Manila. As she dealt with the airline agents, Helga wondered why the old fox had picked her for this task. The Tokyo station, once penetrated by a Thrush mole, had resumed normal operations. It surely had a qualified Station Two operative. What’s more, Helga’s knowledge of Asian languages was next to non-existent. She had built up a working knowledge of Japanese, but that was only because of the now-abandoned vacation.

    Finally, Helga had asked Waverly if her normal partner, the headstrong Israeli, Dov Kapiloff, would also be assigned to this affair.

    “Mr. Kapiloff is tied up with other matters, Miss Thorstrom,” Waverly had said at the end of the transmission she had received in Tokyo. “You’ll have to get through this on your own. I’m quite sure you’re up to it. Waverly out.”

    Waverly out, Helga thought. No further discussion. She had her instructions. Now she had to carry them out.

    Helga finally reached a Customs clerk. She had traveled light – her main suitcase remained checked at her Tokyo hotel – and the clerk dispensed checking with her in less than ten minutes. The carry-on bag, like the suitcase, contained a compartment to keep the U.N.C.L.E. Special hidden from X-ray machines and security devices. Normally, she would try to get the firearm out as soon as possible. But that task would have to wait.

    Fifteen minutes later, Helga tried to secure a taxi cab. The cab stand was chaotic, even more disorganized than the terminal. It took another twelve minutes before Helga could finally flag down a taxi. Thankfully, the driver had a working knowledge of English and asked for an address.

    Helga spat out the destination.

    “The hospital?” the driver said.

    “Yes, and I’m in a bit of a hurry.”

***

    The Doctor pulled up a chair, looked at Solo for a moment, then sat down.

    “The first thing you should know is that your physical condition is quite splendid. Even the muscle soreness should be gone in no more than a week.”

    Solo looked at him but said nothing.

    “Your mental condition, however, seems to be something else. While I hesitate to say much without a thorough examination of the facts, it would appear you are suffering from depression.”

    “I’ll be fine, Doctor.”

    “If you’ll pardon me, that’s what I am here to find out. Tell me, do you feel guilty?”

    Solo’s face wrinkled.

    “Guilty for having survived the encounter while your friend did not.”

    Solo sighed. “I suppose some.”

    “Enough that you let yourself languish in this room.”

    “I said I’ll be fine.”

    “Really? I’ve been doing some research, Mr. Solo. Your superiors are naturally a bit – shall we say reluctant? – to provide documentation. However, I believe I have impressed upon them the seriousness of the situation. You have known death, Mr. Solo. Your associate was only the latest such incident. There have been other agents with whom you have worked who met premature deaths. A woman acquaintance of whom you apparently were quite fond, even your own parents were both dead before you were even in your middle twenties….”

    Suddenly, Solo’s face reddened. “I don’t see what this has to do with anything.”

    “It has everything to do the situation, Mr. Solo. You have experienced the deaths of those close to you. You have killed others. It would hardly be the first time that a so-called ‘hard’ man crumbled from the pressure around him. Your case is hardly a routine one, sir.”

    Solo made a sweeping motion, cutting off the Doctor. “I’ll be fine!” the agent said, his voice rising. “This isn’t your concern, Doctor!”

    The Asian man said nothing but kept looking at Solo. The man’s eyes were steady. This was not someone who would be dissuaded by a show of emotion.

    Then, Solo’s mind began to shift gears. Do I know this man? The goatee isn’t right, but something…Another thought burst into his head, piling onto the observation about the Doctor’s appearance. And wouldn’t there have been a debriefing…

    The Doctor put his hand on Solo’s shoulder.

    “I can assure you, Mr. Solo, this is very much my concern.”

    Solo looked into the brown eyes of the Doctor. They were clear. The man’s voice had been booth soothing and authoritative. The hand on the shoulder felt tight, but reassuring.

    Solo could now only focus on the Doctor. The other thoughts crumbled away.

    “I’m sorry Doctor. It’s just….”

    “That is quite all right,” the Doctor said, removing his hand from the shoulder. “You have been through an ordeal. I have some other matters to attend to for the moment, but I shall return shortly. Does that sound acceptable?”

    It was getting hard for Solo to concentrate.

    “I…I suppose so, Doctor.”

    “Excellent,” he replied. “I shall return in one hour.”

    The Asian man said nothing more. He turned and then left the room.

    Solo squinted and shook his head. Laying down seemed like a good idea. So he did.

* * *

    The cab took nearly an hour to reach the hospital. The driver had snaked his way through the Manila traffic. He glanced back a few times and thought Helga Thorstrom appeared relaxed.

    The driver was quite wrong. Helga was mentally reviewing the meager information. Her mind was stuck in a look, thinking of the same facts, going over the same conjecture, over and over again. The lack of answers only caused her to keep examining the facts over and over.

    Finally, she rubbed her forehead in an attempt to break out of the mental loop. She was only partially successful. Instead of thinking about the moment, she began to review the past.

    Helga’s partner Dov Kapiloff had long talked about Napoleon Solo and Illya Kuryakin. Indeed, during their U.N.C.L.E.’ Survival School training, Helga noticed that the Israeli paid rapt attention on those occasions that Jules Cutter, the head of the installation, referenced the exploits of the Solo-Kuryakin team. Cutter seemed particularly proud of the work Solo had done and that prompted Kapiloff to research the case files even more. During meals at the Survival School commissary, Kapiloff described to Helga the details he had discovered. It had not bored Helga, but she thought Dov was almost making the senior agents into idols. A few years later, Kapiloff had worked with the two men on an affair that resulted in the capture of a Thrush scientist, Agnes Dabree, who had been at large for several years. Helga never saw the agents until a year later, after Dabree had been freed to work on another Thrush project.

    Helga’s impressions of the two men were somewhat different than her partner’s. Granted, she had not met them until the end of the assignment, but Helga trusted her instincts. Her first reaction to Kuryakin was of someone not unlike her self – quiet, but always watching, always observing. Kuryakin didn’t speak unless necessary, but when he did so, his words carried weight. She also thought they shared something in common. Neither she nor Illya would ever be completely comfortable in the Western, consumer-driven culture where they were now stationed. While they had not talked much since, Helga viewed Illya as a colleague who could understand not only the work but also the sense of isolation she felt while living in New York. Her analysis of Solo was even more different than Dov’s. Solo was no superman. In fact, Helga believed that the American – while outwardly charming and glib – carried more burdens than might be apparent. Solo could kill, and obviously had on numerous occasions. But somewhere inside, Solo was aware of his vulnerabilities. He did not permit the vulnerabilities to slow him down – she agreed with Dov that Solo would accomplish the assignment, regardless of the cost to himself. However, she wondered if something, perhaps multiple events, still gnawed at him.

    The cab pulled up to the hospital entrance, forcing Helga to dispense with the memories. The agent quickly paid off the cabbie and entered the facility. After twenty minutes of questioning and runarounds, Helga found the wing of the hospital where she needed to be.

    On the third floor of the hospital, Helga hunted around for the room. It wasn’t hard to find. An U.N.C.L.E. agent, apparently flown in from the Tokyo station, already was playing bodyguard outside the door. Helga’s gaze met the agent’s, a Japanese man, sitting down in a chair next to the door. She recognized him an U.N.C.L.E. dossier. He hardly moved, but she could tell from his eyes that he recognized her as well.

    Helga prepared to approach the bodyguard when she heard steps behind her. She tensed momentarily, but relaxed when she saw a Filipino doctor approach.

    “You are Miss Thorson?” the physician said slowly, his English unsure.

    “Yes.”

    “I’m not quite sure what to say. It is,” he paused for several seconds, “quite remarkable.”

    “What is remarkable?” Helga said, her eyes starting to squint.

    “By all means, Mr. Kuryakin should not have been able to survive his wounds. Yet, he appears to be out of danger.”

* * *

    The sharp pain in his left arm woke up Napoleon Solo. His eyes didn’t focus immediately. All he could see was a form. A few seconds later, his eyesight cleared and he could see the Asian nurse extracting the syringe from his arm.

    “What’s that?” Solo said. His voice trailed off a bit.

    “A vitamin shot.” It was the sound of the Doctor but Solo couldn’t see him near the bed. He propped himself up and saw the Doctor was sitting in a chair on the other side of the room.

    “You have not been keeping up on your nourishment, so I took of the liberty of having the nurse provide you with some.” The Doctor’s voice betrayed no sign of an accent.

    “That’s taking quite a bit of liberty…”

    Solo’s mouth was dry. He closed his eyes once and slowly opened them and tried to concentrate on the Doctor’s appearance. It was hard to concentrate, even worse than before. Had he seen the man before? In a photograph, maybe?

    “I think it is once again time to address the subject of guilt, Mr. Solo,” the Doctor said. “You are a most remarkable man. Yet, the guilt you carry eats at you. This can be most destructive for someone in your position.”

    “Doctor, I really don’t think….”

    “That is precisely the problem, Mr. Solo,” the Doctor said, the voice sharper this time. “You have made your way through scores of adventures, yet you leave destruction in your wake. You destroy human beings, Mr. Solo. And while your conscious mind seemingly pays no attention, your subconscious recalls every scream, every whimper, every plea for mercy that went unheeded.”

    “That’s not true, Doc…” Solo let the thought hang in the air. “Doctor….you don’t talk like a doctor.”

    The Asian man got out of the chair and put his hands in the pockets of the white lab coat. “Technically, I don’t recall ever specifying my occupation, Mr. Solo.”

    Solo attempted to take off the blank but his arm became numb. He suddenly realized he had been dizzy – very lightly for the past few minutes but now the room seemed to spin, like the “bed spins” one has after consuming too much alcohol.

    “You are responsible not only for the deaths of your enemies, but your loved ones, Mr. Solo. Ms. Richards, your former lover. Mr. Kuryakin, your esteemed partner. Not to mention all those operatives you killed, allegedly in the line of duty.”

    Solo lay back on the back. The Asian man moved closer.

    “When Mr. Kuryakin needed your help, you were helpless, just as you are now.”

    “No!” Solo’s voice was fading.

    “Your mind – your subconscious mind – knows I am right, Mr. Solo. Never fear, however. I have a special treatment in mind. When we are done, the guilt will no longer be a problem, Mr. Solo.”

    Solo closed his eyes once more, except this time he couldn’t open them again. Just before he nodded off, he could faintly hear the Asian man starting to chuckle.

* * *

“It is really against my better judgment, Miss Thorstrom,” the physician said. “It is amazing enough that he is alive. I do not want to bother him with visitors.”

Helga took a deep breath and exhaled slowly. She knew Asia was a region where women were not accorded the same professional respect as men. However, she also knew that giving the man a rebuke would not aid her cause.

           “Doctor, it is my understanding that you have been briefed about the United Network Command for Law and Enforcement. This is a highly serious matter.”

“So is Mr. Kuryakin’s health.”

He frowned. He could tell from Helga Thorstrom’s expression that she was not going to bend. Plus, his superiors had indeed made clear he was to cooperate with U.N.C.L.E. He knew he had made the point as best as he could.

“Very well. He is still very weak.”

“Thank you, Doctor,” Helga said, no emotion in her voice.

She walked by the bodyguard and entered the hospital room. In the single hospital bed, Illya Kuryakin lay, an i.v. on one side, leading to his right arm, and a monitoring device on the other. The display indicated the Russian’s heartbeat was slow, but steady. Illya himself began to move, as if trying to will himself to awaken. As Helga got closer, she could see the blonde-colored stubble on his face.

Kuryakin’s movements began to intensify. She placed her hand on his left arm, the one without the i.v. She squeezed the arm gently, hoping it would calm him down.

Suddenly, Illya’s head jerked and his eyes opened.

“It is all right,” Helga said, not sure if it really was.

Kuryakin’s eyes narrowed on her. “Helga Thorstrom? I…” He closed his eyes again and frowned. “I’m sorry. I’m feeling a bit disoriented.”

“You suffered a chest wound. However, you are recovering.”

“Where is Napoleon?” His eyes again focused on her. This time, they had a clarity she hadn’t seen a few seconds ago.

“We don’t know.”

“Is Dov Kapiloff with you?”

“No, Mr. Waverly sent me alone. I was on a holiday in Japan when he ordered me here to find out what happened. I was given only a minimal briefing. But we don’t know what happened to Napoleon.”

Kuryakin glanced around the room and then his eyes locked in on the monitoring equipment. “Apparently, it must have been a bad wound. Was I expected to survive?”

Helga was taken aback for a second. Enforcement agents knew all too well there was danger associated with their jobs. She rarely heard it mentioned so casually.

“When I boarded the plane in Japan, the prognosis wasn’t very good,” she said.

“I don’t blame them.”

“Illya, what did happen? You and Napoleon had completed an assignment, or at least that is what I was told.”

“Yes,” Kuryakin replied. “A Thrush operation. The details aren’t that important, but during some follow-up work, one of the Thrushmen who had been captured attempted to bargain for immunity. He provided some details about another operative, an independent wanted by various intelligence and law-enforcement agencies. He provided just enough data to whet our appetite.”

“Why didn’t you report this to Mr. Waverly?”

“Napoleon wasn’t a hundred percent convinced, but wanted to perform some preliminary investigation before taking it to Mr. Waverly. If the information was genuine, time was short. Yet, things seemed too coincidental. So we decided upon a middle ground – seek to verify but not in a rash way.”

Helga frowned. “Who is this operative?”

Illya cleared his throat. “His name is Wo Fat. He is wanted by a large number of countries. Napoleon and I encountered the gentlemen some months ago. He was attempting to acquire a rather nasty biological weapon.”

“Yes, I’ve heard Dov talk about it.”

“I might have guessed.”

Helga fought back the temptation to grin. Even if Dov was over enthusiastic at times, he was her partner. She felt the need to show solidarity with the Israeli.

“Dov energy gets the best of him some times, but he is an efficient agent.”

“I know. In any event, Wo Fat represented a sufficient threat that it merited an immediate investigation. Unfortunately, despite our precaution, we were discovered. There was a building in the warehouse district. Evidently, Wo Fat was already preparing to move out. Wo had quite a few free lancers on the premises.”

Kuryakin shook his head. “Poor Dov would have been quite disillusioned to witness what happened next.”

He paused. “Now, Napoleon is lost, perhaps dead.” Illya tried to rise. Helga tensed, but could see that Kuryakin strained merely to move. The Russian lay back down.

“I’ve got to do something.”

“Illya, you’re in no condition to attempt anything,” Helga said. Her mind reviewed the story she had just heard. “This informant – where was he being held?”

“The Philippine government was holding him for us. His name is Phe-Nu Nguyen.”.  

“He holds the key to this. Clearly, he knows something about Wo Fat’s operations. The question is how much.”

“I would very much like to be part of that interrogation.”

“Impossible,” she said.

Illya grimaced. “I owe it both him and Napoleon.”

“Just a moment ago, you could not get out of bed. I will need to move quickly.”

Kuryakin frowned. “One dislikes being defeated by logic.” He took a deep breath then let it out slowly. Then his eyes lit up “Very well. However, may I offer a suggestion?”

“Of course.”

“It is something Napoleon attempted some time ago. I wasn’t there at the time, but read about it later while compiling information for our report. It was a tactic that you might want to employ.”

“Tell me,” Helga said.

* *

Napoleon Solo dreamed but couldn’t make out any distinct images. All he could discern were a series of odd, dark shapes. Each shape blended into the other, slowly at first. Then the pace accelerated. After quite a while the shapes had blended together and whiled and whirled. Finally, everything resembled a whirlpool and Solo felt himself being sucked into it….

The agent abruptly woke up but couldn’t move. He could feel the thick leather strap across his forehead, then glanced down. Solo was still dressed in his hospital gown but was sitting up in a chair. Additional leather straps held his arms down to the arm of the chair. It was like a barber’s chair. Solo jostled himself and felt the chair move with him.

“Now we can begin.”

It was the voice of so-called Doctor. But Solo could only look ahead, not to the side. All he could see beyond the chair were two large lights focused on him and darkness beyond them.

Once again, Solo felt a needle being jabbed into his arm. After the injection was completed, Solo could feel someone grabbing the back of the chair. Then, the chair rotated. Halfway through the rotation, Solo saw three men – the bogus physician, who now only had a mustache, an averaged size man in a lab coat and a third, very tall Asian man. There was something about his face that Solo couldn’t quite tell. On the second rotation, Solo concentrated. Part of the tall man’s face was red with scar tissue.

The phony doctor looked to the tall man. “Thank you, Chow Lee.”

The rotating continued. The chair wasn’t moving that quick yet Solo felt as dizzy as if he had been in a centrifuge. Whatever he had been injected with was potent. All he could concentrate on was the nausea. The leader of this was familiar, somehow. Had they met? Still, Solo could not focus.

“Now, Mr. Solo, it is time for us to continue.”

Solo’s mouth again felt dry. He said nothing.

As the chair’s momentum slowed, Chow Lee again grabbed the back and spun it around.

“The subject at hand is guilt, Mr. Solo. Your guilt.”

Solo’s nausea passed but he could still not concentrate. He could only think about the recurring images – the darkness, the lights, the three men.

“The guilt eats at your soul, Mr. Solo.”

The darkness, the lights, the three men.

“You cannot contain the guilt any more, Mr. Solo.”

The darkness, the lights, the three men.

“How many have died at your hands?”

The darkness, the lights, the three men.

“How many have died because you could not react quickly enough?”

The darkness, the lights, the three men.

“Mr. Kuryakin died a horrible death.”

The darkness, the light, the three men.

“Even those you believed to be guilty – did they deserve to die?”

Solo tried to raise his right hand yet the leather strap did not yield.

“You are the top of your profession. Yet, you are empty inside.”

Solo screamed.

“The screams will not erase the guilt.”

Beads of sweat now covered Solo’s face. The hospital gown had become damp around his neck.

“The guilt is about to consume you.”

Suddenly, the chair stopped turning. The tall man stepped in front of Solo.

“Look at Chow Lee’s face, Mr. Solo. Look at the scars. He has had access to expert plastic surgery. Yet his face will never be the same. All thanks to a fire you started, Mr. Solo. And Chow Lee is one of the lucky ones. Just one small piece of the guilt that you carry, Mr. Solo.”

Solo tried to shake his head then screamed again.

Chow Lee then stepped back. There was only darkness for a moment until the leader stepped forward.

“You have no choice. You need to erase the guilt.”

Solo’s face now was streaked with sweat. Much of the hospital gown became damp.

A series of faces began to flash in front of Solo. Many he couldn’t identify by name, but belonged to large men who had tried to kill him. Anonymous men, the kind who worked for Thrush or the Black Hand or other opponents, the kind of men Solo had dispatched time and time again when it had been necessary.

“You must atone for the guilty before it is too late.”

The agent’s mouth was agape. His eyes didn’t blink.

“There is one way. Only one.”

Solo’s head pounded with pain. He could feel his temples throb.

“One way.” The leader grinned.

Solo strained to yell again, but could not.

“Mr. Waverly.”

The agent squinted.

“Mr. Waverly sent you out to kill those men, did he not?”

Solo closed his eyes.

“Mr. Waverly sat in his office in comfort while you stained your hands with blood, did he not?”

“No….” Solo said in a low, almost inaudible voice.

“If it were not for Mr. Waverly, who knows, perhaps you and Clara Richards would have been married.”

The images of other faces began to flash before Solo. Clara. A woman named Henrietta Van Buskirk. Another woman, with frost-colored hair, now dead.

“It is Mr. Waverly who is really responsible, is he not?”

One more time, Solo tried to summon the energy to speak. He barely got out a “no” before he lapsed into unconsciousness.

* *  

    The guard led Phe-Nu Nguyen down the corridor. Despite the leg shackles the prisoner wore, the guard had instructions to keep Nguyen under exceptionally close watch. The guard had received no information why Nguyen mattered so much but the message was most clear. The guard’s superiors said to take nothing for granted and even the slight sign of lax security would be cause for severe discipline.

    The guard counted doors as the two men walked down the corridor. When he reached the correct one, he opened while maintaining eye contbrwith Nguyen. He motioned the prisoner to enter.

    Both men paused when they go inside. The room was bare except for one table and a chair on both sides. A Caucasian woman sat, no expression on her face to read. She just sat there. She was rather striking. The guard hadn’t seen many women with such a pale complexion.

    “Do you speak English?” she said with a trace of an accent. The guard couldn’t quite place it but not American. He had seen enough American movies to tell that much. Somewhere from Europe. Judging from her pale skin, he guessed a colder climate. .

    The guard hadn’t been told about this. What was happening here?

    “Yes, good enough.”

    “Good,” she said. “Helga Thorstrom. I am a representative of the U-N-C-L-E. You have heard of it?”

    “U.N.C.L.E.?” The guard asked. “I am not very familiar with it.”

    “No matter. Unchain this man.”

    The guard frowned. “My instructions are very clear. He is considered a high-security risk.”

    Helga reached to the table where a small purse lay. She extracted a cellular telephone and quickly punched in a number. “Hello? Yes, I am here now. Will you tell your man about our arrangement? Good.”

    She handed the cell phone to the guard.

    “Sir? I--. Yes, sir….Very well.”

    The guard handed the phone back to the woman. He shook his head, then took out the keys to the Nguyen’s shackles. After a minute, the guard had the shackles gathered up as best he could.

    “Thank you, very much,” Helga said to the guard. “Mr. Nguyen, please sit here. This should not take long.”

    The guard was still shaking his head as he left.

    Nguyen eyed Helga as she sat down. He gazed first at the bust, then turned his attention lower.

    “Mr. Nguyen, please, leering is not conducive to business discussions.”

    Nguyen became annoyed. Who was this woman? How dare she try to assert herself in this setting.

    She spoke again. “Mr. Nguyen, I have little time. A standard interrogation would be sure but could take several hours. I need answers now.”

    “That is your concern, not mine.”

    “Ah, but that’s not true,” Helga responded. “You were questioned by Napoleon Solo and Illya Kuryakin after they shut down this recent Thrush operation. You claimed to know the whereabouts of one Wo Fat, who is wanted by many nations.”

    “I do not remember.”

    “And I do not have time for such games. Let me pose a question, why would a Thrush operative have knowledge be so well informed about Wo Fat? Could he perhaps be in Wo Fat’s employ as well as that of Thrush?”

    Nguyen said nothing.

    “Mr. Kuryakin survived. I think he is looking forward to interrogating you himself.”

    Nguyen shifted in his chair.

    “However, as I said, I do not have the time to wait for the results of such an interrogation. You are free to leave”

    The prisoner shook his head.

    “You heard me,” Helga said. “Why do you think I had the guard unshackle you?”

    She reached into her purse, took out a piece of paper and began looking at it.

    Nguyen began to get up, keeping his eyes on the woman. But all she only read off the paper.

    He stood there for a minute, then two. Finally, he took a step toward the door.

    “Of course, you may find your former employers somewhat angry with you,” Helga said, still looking off the paper.

    Nguyen stopped. “I do not admit to working for any particular organization, but hypothetically speaking, why do you say that?”

    “A donation of one hundred thousand U.S. dollars was made into a Swiss bank account belonging to you.” She held up the paper. “This is the receipt. Approximately fifteen minutes from now, word will spread through the intelligence community about this deposit. Thrush should find out within twenty-four hours. Probably less than twelve.”

    Nguyen stared at the woman agent.

    “Trust is in short supply within Thrush. I doubt your superiors would be very understanding of your claims the money was not a bribe.”

    Nguyen cleared his throat. “You cannot be serious. Do you think I would believe that U.N.C.L.E. would make such an expenditure.”

    “My superiors are not very happy but this matter is considered serious enough to merit such an investment,” Helga said. “If you believe it is a bluff, however, you could simply walk out the door.”

    Nguyen looked at the woman’s face. It was cold and unyielding. He stepped back from the door and sat down once more at the table.

* *

    For the better part of an hour, the only sound in the room was that of Wo Fat’s stubby fingers striking the keyboard of the computer. Even in the midst of this business, there were other matters to be dealt with. A visitor to Wo’s quarters would think he was watching a businessman attending to his investments. In fact, the visitor would not be that far wrong.

    Front companies are like legitimate enterprises. They have receipts, they have expenses, in some cases they have employees and payrolls. There was money to be moved from account to account, around the world.

    Even as he tended to the mundane tasks, Wo recalled events of recent years. Once, he had been so close to his goals – control of China, a plan that would ensure that China, not the United States, emerge as the planet’s surviving superpower. The damnable Stephen McGarrett had triumphed yet again. How it had crumbled beneath him. Then, even more humiliating, his capture by McGarrett. It had only been a matter of time before he could escape prison. Then, the long rebuilding began. Wo had enjoyed a number of successes before a great opportunity arose. A U.S. scientist, more interested in money than anything, was auctioning an incredibly potent bacteria called the Q strain. It was just what Wo needed to make another try at taking over China. It had been child’s play to manipulate the rogue scientist into thinking he was in control of the situation. As it turned out, Hawaii – the scene of Wo’s greatest defeats – was the perfect backdrop for all of this, with the scientist isolated on Wo’s yacht. And, best of all, not even the hated McGarrett showed any signs of knowing Wo’s involvement.

    And then, the U.N.C.L.E. agents intervened. The now-deceased Kuryakin had come across Wo, necessitating the Russian’s capture. However, it was the American, Solo, who undid everything – from his preposterous disguise to the miniature incendiary devices. Not only had Solo destroyed the Q strain, Wo and his chief associate, Chow Lee, had barely escaped alive, with the loyal Chow Lee had been badly burned.

    And now, once more, Wo had been forced to rebuild his organization. It had been hard work. Yet, Wo felt the fates were again smiling upon him. Here, in Manila, after completing a profitable venture, Wo’s contact within Thrush informed him that Solo and Kuryakin had journeyed to the Philippines. It was too temping to pass up. Besides this latest transaction would ensure additional funds while simultaneously providing revenge.

    Wo looked up from his computer. His lips showed only the slightest sign of a smile. The Thrush representative had been in little position to bargain, especially after the U.N.C.L.E. agents had smashed the Manila operation. Thrush, also, was quite interested in revenge and welcomed Wo’s proposal. The first half of the fee was transferred into the specified Swiss account that very day.

    The knock on the door interrupted Wo’s memories.

    “Enter.”

    The physician opened the door. “I believe Solo is well enough to resume. However, I would advise caution. These drugs have quite an impact on the human body.”

    “Understood, Doctor,” Wo said. “It would not do to damage Mr. Solo too much just yet.”

    The doctor nodded, with only the slightest outward hint of nervousness. He then left the room as quickly as he could.

    Wo rubbed his chin. If the next session went as well as the others, Napoleon Solo would be a ticking bomb by the end of the day.

* *

    “A psychiatric hospital? Are you sure?”

    Alexander Waverly’s voice sounded agitated. Helga hadn’t calculated the time difference but knew it couldn’t be an convenient hour for the Number One of Section One.

    “The available records correspond to what Nguyen told me, sir,” Thorstrom said. “There appear to be genuine patients being treated there. It is only a few miles from the warehouse district where agents Solo and Kuryakin were ambushed.”

    “This all began when Mr. Solo decided to investigate one of Mr. Nguyen’s tips,” Waverly said. “We’re extremely fortunate Mr. Kuryakin is still alive. We’re still not sure of Mr. Solo’s status. I would be extremely displeased to lose another agent to the word of some sort of double-dealing operative.”

    “Sir, I’ve checked. This Wo Fat remains on the top-priority list of various agencies, not only our own. I think I can understand why Mr. Solo felt the matter needed to be investigated. And if Wo Fat went to these lengths to attack two of our agents, I think that reinforces that U.N.C.L.E. should address the matter.”

    Helga looked at the pen communicator, but no words came.

    “Sir,” Helga said.

    Several more seconds passed. “You are correct, Miss Thorstrom. It would be a few hours before we could send additional agents from the Tokyo station.”

    “I don’t think we have that sort of time, sir.”

    “I thought you might say something like that.”

    “Sir, I won’t disobey a direct order. But if I strongly recommend some sort of immediate action. We could attempt to have the Manila police assist me, but I think that would only alert Wo Fat.”

    “You intend to infiltrate the facility.” Waverly said it as a statement, not a question.

    “I have some ideas, sir.”

    More silence. Finally Waverly spoke. “I will leave it to your discretion, Miss Thorstrom. I will instruct the Tokyo station to send agents as quickly as possible. However, you will have several hours to take action on your own. Is there anything else?”

    “Yes, sir. I could use the assistance of the agent currently acting as bodyguard for Mr. Kuryakin.”

    “Yes, Mr. Obota. Hmmmm. All right, I’ll arrange for some Manila police to stand guard over Mr. Kuryakin’s hospital room. Mr. Obota will be available to you in approximately an hour. Will that be sufficient?”

    “Yes, sir.”

    “Waverly out.”

    Helga stared at the communicator for many long seconds. Well, she had asked for it. The old fox had given it to her. It was now up to her whether she had the room necessary to operate – or had just received enough rope to hang herself professionally.

* *

    Napoleon Solo dreamed yet again. This time, he kept seeing the face of Chow Lee and the scars it had.

“Look at Chow Lee’s face, Mr. Solo. Look at the scars. He has had access to expert plastic surgery. Yet his face will never be the same. All thanks to a fire you started, Mr. Solo. And Chow Lee is one of the lucky ones. Just one small piece of the guilt that you carry, Mr. Solo.”

Fire? Flames shot over Chow Lee’s face in the dream. Suddenly, as sometimes happens in dreams, one realizes it is a dream. When have I set anything on fire? Solo thought in the dream.

Immediately, a rash of images flashed through Solo’s mind. Each was as real as the time it happened. All of this talk of guilt had made it all too easy to begin recalling acts of violence he had committed. Images of gun battles and hand-to-hand fighting were relived. A fire? Suddenly, Solo dreamed he was on a yacht, and he was throwing something….he was yanking small items off a men’s bracelet, throwing them….one man erupting in fire…the yacht, catching ablaze….

At that moment, Solo’s eyes opened. He wanted to scream, but something held him back. He breathed quickly, almost to the point of hyperventilating. He slowed down his breaths. It took most of a minute before he got his breathing down to near normal levels.

It was so hard to think. Names should be coming to him, but he was having trouble. Still, he could remember basic facts. Hawaii. The yacht. A man incinerated almost immediately, screaming as he died.

Dr. Egret?

Solo mentally reviewed the thoughts. Yes, Dr. Egret had been there. Was she responsible? No, it didn’t seem quite right.

Wo Fat?

Yes, Solo thought. He had never seen Wo Fat himself, but Wo had captured Illya. And Solo had gone to the yacht, disguised…the name would not come, but it didn’t matter. Illya had told Solo over the communicator that he had observed Wo Fat – that it was Wo Fat who really manipulating the events behind the affair that had brought the agents to Hawaii.

Solo could feel the cold sweat that covered his entire body, making the hospital gown damp. It had to be Wo Fat. The agent closed his eyes for a minute, hoping he could get his mind working better. However, when he opened his eyes, he still had the same blank spots.

No matter. Whatever Wo’s goals this time, Solo knew he was being reconditioned mentally. God only knew what Wo Fat intended. Revenge? It didn’t matter. Solo knew he had to end this, somehow.

Solo looked around the bed. No obvious weapons. Had the reconditioning been completed? No way to tell. At this point, Solo couldn’t fully trust his own thoughts.

Think, damn you, think.

Suicide was a possibility. If Solo was indeed being reconditioned – brain washed in the slang of old movies – it was for a terrible purpose. Solo couldn’t even guess at this point. Not that it really mattered. It had to stop. Somehow.

The agent grimaced. He tried to rise, but the treatments had left him drained. He had almost no energy. Could he commit suicide to ruin the plan? He didn’t have the reserves to take the sheet off of himself.

Yet, Solo knew he had to do something. Whether it was Wo Fat, or whoever, Solo had to ensure the reconditioning would not succeed. Yet, what could he do?

* * *

The attendant looked up from the reception desk just as the front door opened. He did a double take as the man in the white lab coat pushed the pale woman in the wheelchair. She appeared dazed and looked off to the side instead of straight ahead. Her head was bandaged and she hummed some tune the attendant could not recognize.

“What is this?” the attendant said as the man approached with the woman.

“I am Dr. Obota. You are expecting me.”

“I most certainly am not,” the attendant said, a tension in his voice.

The woman in the wheelchair began to turn her head from side to side. “Tell him I will not do the move for less than fifteen million dollars! Not one penny less!”

The attendant frowned. “What is she talking about?”

Obota shrugged his shoulders. “She is under a great delusion that she is some sort of movie star.”

“I am the biggest star!”

“Of course you are, dear,” Obota said.

“What do you think this is?” the attendant said.

Obota motioned for the woman to stay still, then he approached the attendant.

“Do you not know who she is?” Obota said softly.

“No.”

Obota glanced around as if someone were watching. “She is Greta Van Helsing. Heir to a great European fortune. Oil. Electronics. Resorts for the very rich.” Obota paused. “She is suffering a most unfortunate delusion. She was vacationing in Asia when she suffered a total breakdown. It is a most challenging case.”

“What does that have to do with this facility?”

Obota looked once more at the woman, who nodded in return.

“We are in great need of a place that can be, what is the word, discreet. Miss Van Helsing needs some time away from the large parties and sycophants. This institution comes most highly recommended.”

“But this is impossible!” the attendant said, his voice beginning to rise. Obota put his index finger to his lips in response.

“It cannot be done,” the attendant said, this time in a softer tone. “This clinic does not accept any patient….”

“I think I can make it worth your while,” Obota said, producing bills of various currencies. “Mr. Van Helsing, her father, is most generous of those who assist him in his time of need.”

“I am afraid…”

“No, you must look at this before you give me your answer.”

Obota reached deeper into the pocket of his lab coat. The attendant’s eyes opened wide, trying to catch a peek. Then, Obota grabbed the man’s arm with his right hand as the left produced a taser device. The U.N.C.L.E. agent jabbed the arm with the taser. The attendant jerked for a second, then fell unconscious. Obota grabbed the attendant as the man went limp and looked for a place to deposit the unconscious man.

Helga Thorstrom jumped out of the wheelchair, looked around, and took the attendant’s spot behind the reception desk. There, she looked over a computer and began typing on its keyboard.

“With all due respect, Ms. Thorstrom, I sincerely hope you know what you’re doing,” Obota said as he stuffed the attendant into a nearby closet.

“I’ll take that under advisement,” Helga replied.

“There are surveillance cameras, after all,” Obota said.

“Disabled,” the Scandinavian agent said as she continued to type at the keyboard.

Obota reached into his pocket and took out the standard U.N.C.L.E. drug kit. He checked the dosage, then jabbed the needle of the syringe into the attendant’s arm. When he completed that task, Obota shut the close door on the unconscious man. “Well, he won’t be bothering us for a few hours.”

“He may be the least of our worries,” Helga said, still pecking away at the keyboard. “There’s a special facility on the third floor.” She paused for several seconds. “No time to try to defeat any alarm system. We’ll have to blast our way in. Damn.”

“The time for being subtle has passed,” Obota said.

“So it has. Let’s go to the stairway, Mr. Obota.”

* * *

The physician approached Napoleon Solo slowly. He had concerns earlier whether the American should undergo another treatment less than twenty-four hours after the previous one. Yet, Wo Fat paid so well – and treated failure so harshly – the doctor knew there was little point in protesting. As long as he could monitor Solo carefully, no fatality would occur – which, of course, would be the worst failure as far as Wo Fat was concerned.

The doctor entered Solo’s room. The U.N.C.L.E. agent had more than a day’s worth of stubble on his face. The American also looked paler than when the physician first saw him. Nonetheless, the doctor prepared the syringe then walked toward the bed.

The Asian man looked over Solo one more time. The agent was dozing, hardly surprising considering the ordeal of the past days. The doctor checked the syringe one last time then prepared to make the injection.

Just as the doctor started to grab as Solo’s arm, the agent instead grabbed the Asian man’s throat.

The doctor was totally caught off guard. All breath immediately left his body. Panic washed over him, causing him to drop the syringe. His arms flailed at Solo, but he could see the American’s eyes were clear. Solo’s hand dug into deeper into the doctor’s throat. The doctor shook for several seconds, then fell to the floor, limp.

Solo wasn’t sure how long he lay there. Seconds? Minutes? Hours? No, not hours, he thought to himself. The odor from the doctor’s body only now had become evident, the result of the physician’s digestive tract letting go following the man’s death.

The U.N.C.L.E. agent struggled to rise, stopping once before completing the task. He now felt dizzy and his vision clouded for long, seconds. But he held on and his vision cleared. His strength was another matter. Killing the doctor had taken all of his reserves. He hadn’t intended to do the man in. However, once Solo attempted to choke the doctor, the agent knew he didn’t have the energy for another attack. So he held on. And held. And held.

Solo looked down at the man’s body. The doctor’s face, even in death, betrayed his shock. He looked away for a second, then again stared at the body. Come on, it’s your handiwork. You can look at it, the agent thought.

God, how he wanted to crawl in a hole and just disappear. He was totally spent – and still had to face Wo Fat and the tall Asian man named Chow Lee.

Solo knew he couldn’t possibly survive. His luck had surely run out. What was it Illya had always said. You are fortunate you are both lucky and good.

Illya was dead now, Solo thought. Soon, he would join him. And the others. Regardless of whether Solo could take out Wo Fat, the agent knew Wo’s plan would fail if Solo died.

He laughed to himself for a moment. It’d be easier just to kill himself. But despite the bloody path he had taken, he could not shake himself from the lessons of his faith. Kill yourself and you would be damned. He was almost assuredly damned now, Solo thought, but why not leave yourself one out, one chance? Besides, if he could cause Wo Fat enough trouble, maybe Solo could slow Wo up enough that other pursers would have their opportunity to snare Wo.  Perhaps Wo’s old friend McGarrett might finally get his shot. That would be the supreme irony, Solo thought, given how McGarrett had reacted the last time the Five-O chief’s path crossed U.N.C.L.E.’s.

Just as he struggled to his feet, Wo Fat and Chow Lee entered the room. Wo’s face tightened, but he showed no visible emotion. Chow Lee’s face looked as if it had been chiseled in granite, utterly without pity.

Wo looked once at the doctor’s body. “It appears, Mr. Solo, you have even more guilt for which to atone.”

“I don’t think so,” Solo said weakly. “The treatments end now, one way or another.”

“You do surprise me, Mr. Solo,” Wo said. “One hates to admit one has underestimated an opponent. Indeed, as you Americans say, you are the proverbial man in the dark alley one does not wish to meet. But you’re finished, Mr. Solo. Look at you.”

Solo felt his knees almost buckle. He looked in Chow Lee’s direction. The tall man betrayed none of his intentions.

“You could not resist me now, Mr. Solo,” Wo said. “The physician was necessary only to monitor your vital signs. I am skilled enough in my reconditioning techniques to ensure you will survive. And then, you will be mine – and my client’s. Think of it, Mr. Solo. I will accomplish both a personal revenge and enrich my own organization.”

Wo smiled. Solo watched the fat man’s face a second too long. He looked back at Chow Lee too late to prevent the tall man from rushing.

Solo tried to resist, but Chow Lee easily fought off the American. Quickly, Chow Lee got behind Solo and held his arms over Solo’s chest like a vice. Solo couldn’t even struggle. He hung there, nearly as limp as the body on the floor.

Wo took a step toward Solo. “Now, if you are all through, it is time to begin the latest treatment,” Wo Fat said.

Just then, the room shook from an explosion.

Wo nearly stumbled from the blast, then saw that Chow Lee still held Solo. Wo cursed to himself. This facility was not his main headquarters. Making the cover work of the psychiatric depended on being unobtrusive in this crowded neighborhood. The bulk of Wo’s security contingent was based elsewhere.

Wo’s face again tightened. He could not remain. “Damn you, Mr. Solo. Chow Lee, kill him, then join me.”

Wo sprinted out of the room, his speed belying his bulk. Chow Lee, however, was in no hurry. The turned Solo around, then placed his hands on the American’s throat.

Solo looked up at Chow Lee’s face. The agent, by now, could not even provide token resistance. As his breath grew short, Solo momentarily thought of the irony – dying by the same means he had just killed another man. As his vision began to cloud, however, he thought of others. Illya. Clara. U.N.C.L.E. agents he barely knew the names of but had seen die in battle. Of people he himself had killed.

His vision had totally clouded over now. It would be over in second.

Suddenly Solo heard an odd noise. Had he passed over? Thwup, thwup.

Then, the pressure on his throat disappeared all at once. The clouds in front of his eyes parted just a bit. Chow Lee was still there, but he looked different somehow. His eyes were looking up, up, up. Suddenly, Solo could feel himself falling to the floor, with Chow Lee draped all over him.

Solo could only lie there for long seconds. He moved Chow Lee’s arms off, and could feel the limbs were lifeless. Then, over looking him was a blonde woman, he had seen somewhere before. He knew she was with U.N.C.L.E. His memory still struggled. Then he spat out her name.

“Helga? Helga Thorstrom?”

For just a second, Helga’s face showed the hint of a grin. Then, she was all business once more.

“Mr. Solo, can you hear me?”

“Not exactly what I expected on the other side.”

“This isn’t the other side, Mr. Solo.”

“Napoleon…” he caught himself. This wasn’t over. “Where is he? Where is Wo Fat?”

Helga looked backward. Solo couldn’t tell what she was looking at.

Then, the agent could see Testuro Obota, a Section Two operative based in Japan. Solo shook his head. His memory was so foggy on some things, yet he could remember Obota’s dossier as if it were in front of him.

Obota was panting. “I’m sorry,” Obota said to Helga. “There was a passage. I followed it. But…” He caught a couple of breaths. “He was gone. It was the damnest thing. I’ve alerted the authorities who were holding back.”

Helga became flustered. But Solo could say nothing, and fell back unconscious.

* * *

Yet again, the shapes swirled. This time, though, they didn’t move nearly as fast and their color was lighter than before. The swirling gradually decreased. And when it stopped, this time, Napoleon Solo knew he could open his eyes.

Yet again, he was in a hospital bed. Almost immediately, though, adrenaline shot through his body. There, sitting up in another bed, was Illya Kuryakin, reading a book and wearing his tinted reading glasses.

“Illya?” Solo said, his voice weaker than he expected.

Kuryakin moved the reading glasses further up his nose. “Once more, you are a master of the obvious.”

“But you’re…dead.”

“The hospital premiums U.N.C.L.E. is absorbing indicate otherwise.” The Russian paused for a moment. “A chest wound. But I will be out of here in a few days. And how are you, my friend?”

Solo reached and rubbed his chin. His face was even more stubbly than before. “Like I need a shave.”

Then, the room to the hospital room opened. In came Alexander Waverly with Helga Thorstrom.

“Gentlemen, it is good to see you both coming around,” Waverly said. “For a while there, I thought we would lose both of you.”

    “Thank you, sir,” Solo said. “Although I think most of thanks should go to Ms. Thorstrom.”

    Waverly looked at the blonde woman for a moment. “Indeed, you’re quite correct, Mr. Solo.” The Number One of Section One turned to Thorstrom. “You and Mr. Obota performed most professionally.”

    “Thank you, sir, although I’m afraid the affair is only half complete.”

    Solo’s ears perked up. “You never found Wo Fat?”

    “I’m afraid not,” Waverly responded. “Some vermin have the most astounding ability to survive. Quite unfortunate.”

    The words hung in the room for several seconds. “Nevertheless, his organization has suffered.” Waverly now looked straight at Solo. “Do you remember very much about what he did to you?”

    “Some, sir,” Solo said. “I’m not sure how, but he was able to reach deep…” The agent didn’t finish the sentence.

    “Quite, Mr. Solo,” Waverly said. “Through a combination of drugs and psychological tactics, he reached quite deep into you, I imagine. Based on some materials we confiscated, it appears the next step would have been a kind of transference. All you would need do is, well, assassinate me and you would feel cleansed. Or some such.”

    Solo tensed. “Sir, is it…”

    “Yes, it’s quite all right. The drugs are out of your system. Admittedly, I don’t know how long the psychological healing will take. However, I’m certain the reconditioning Wo Fat attempted was not completed.

Kuryakin sat further up in his bed. “Mr. Solo has always been quite resilient, sir.”

“As have you, Mr. Kuryakin. Something I’m depending on in both of you.” Waverly again looked at Helga. “Ms. Thorstrom, I would say you’ve earned the rest of that holiday you were spending in Japan. I have a car waiting to take you to the airport. Thanks again, very much.”

Helga glanced at the agents. What she saw was an unspoken message. In their hazardous trade, Helga had just crossed a threshold. It would never be spoken of, but it was real. She then looked back at the U.N.C.L.E. chief. “Thank you, Mr. Waverly,” she said, the sound of surprise in her voice. “I guess I’ll be going now.”

After she was gone, Waverly again spoke. “Now, gentlemen, if you’ll excuse me as well, I have other pressing matters.”

“Of course, sir,” Solo said. A second later, Waverly was out the door.

Kuryakin resumed reading his book for a minute until he noticed that Solo continued to look ahead, blankly.

“Is something the matter?” the Russian asked.

“Hmmm? No, no,” Solo said. “I was just thinking of how real it all seemed. You dead. Wo Fat reaching inside my head….”

“The man is quite skilled in a nefarious science. One has to give the devil his due.”

“Of course,” Solo said. The American lay back down and seemed as if he would go back to sleep. Illya looked at him for a moment, and wondered if should say something more.

Kuryakin held back. Although Illya knew only some of the details, he knew in a way Solo had been violated. Not physically, of course, but in a way that was just as real to Napoleon. In the end, it would be up to his friend to mention it. For Kuryakin, the best he could do is be there when that happened.

THE END

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