The single page of information waited for them on Waverly's round briefing table:

 Objective: Gain access to top secret U.N.C.L.E. personnel files in a safe in one of the executive offices of Macklin, Macklin, and Dern Advertising.

Background: Section Three operative Milton Parr was transferring the files from the secret meeting site of U.N.C.L.E. Board of Governors to NY office, when he was involved in a traffic accident.  He was killed.  The severity of the crash caused the briefcase to open and files were blown on the breeze.  A witness to the accident dropped her own file case when the cars hit, and by the time she collected her papers, the U.N.C.L.E. information had disappeared.  The missing U.N.C.L.E. files may be in her possession.

Witness ID: Tuula Crighton, age 28, 5'10", 170 lbs., light brown hair, blue eyes.  Member of an advertising think tank at Macklin, Macklin and Dern.

Sensitivity: High.  Files contain information about individuals in Section One that could leave them vulnerable to attempts on their lives and might put their families in jeopardy as well.

 Napoleon Solo read the brief info sheet, then turned the paper over, looking for more.

"This is it?"

Alexander Waverly looked up from a thick file he was perusing.  "Hmm?  Oh, that.  Yes, Mr. Solo, that's all we have."

Illya Kuryakin pushed his blond hair out of his eyes.  It fell back immediately.

"I take it the obvious has been tried," said the Russian.  "Someone has asked her to return the files?"

Waverly harrumphed.  "Not exactly.  If she has them, we don't want her digging through them."

Napoleon made a skeptical face.  "If she has them, she probably already has," he offered.

Waverly was curt.  "And if she hasn't, we don't want to steer her in that direction!  That is the assignment, gentlemen.  Please make haste.  I will be unavailable this afternoon.  I'll be attending Mr. Parr's funeral.  When you gain access to the files, remember their sensitive nature.  I will expect you to look only as far as needed to verify that they are indeed our property.  Understood?"

"Yes, sir," chorused Solo and Kuryakin.

"Then get on with it.  I'll expect a report on your progress in the morning."

Solo glanced at his watch.  It was 2:30.  No time to waste.

Illya waited until they left Del Floria's before he posed his question.

"So, my friend, what do you think?"

Napoleon raised one eyebrow.  "I think the stuff in the files is about Waverly.  Why else would he assign us to what looks like a simple retrieval operation?  And he's not thrilled with the idea that we might find out what's in them."

"I agree," said Kuryakin.  "Who was Milton Parr, anyway?  I barely recognize the name."

Napoleon hailed a taxi.  "Parr was in semi-retirement.  He's fifty-five.  Was fifty-five.  Been in Section Three for fifteen years.  He was Section Two before that.  He and Waverly were friends."

Illya climbed into the taxi after Napoleon.  "They must have been close," said the Russian.  "Mr. Waverly does not ordinarily attend agents' funerals."

Napoleon gave the driver an address on Madison Avenue.  They rode in silence for a while.

"I wonder," mused Illya, "if he would attend ours."

"Our what?" asked Napoleon.

"Our funeral."

Solo's face twisted into an expression of mock horror.  "I'd rather not discuss the guest list at my funeral as we embark upon an assignment, thank you."

Illya suppressed a mischievous grin.

 Macklin, Macklin and Dern was one of those offices that presents a flashy, sophisticated face to the world in the hopes of intimidating all who enter there.  Napoleon Solo felt quite at home in the marble and chrome lobby with its scattered chrome chairs ergonomically designed to resemble melting icicles.  Illya knit his brows and hoped he didn't have to sit down and wait for anyone.

Solo approached the meticulously groomed receptionist.

"Good afternoon, miss."  He smiled Dazzling Smile Number Three, the one that told receptionists that he understood the true nature of the power they wielded in their organization.  "I hope you can help me.  You see, I was supposed to make an appointment with Tuula Crighton for three this afternoon, but it was my fiancée's birthday and I got swept up in ordering her flowers and I forgot to call Crighton.  And if I don't see her, my boss will have my head.  Is there any way you can squeeze me onto her calendar?"  He looked hopeful, boyish, charming.

The receptionist sighed and rested her chin in one hand.  "You are really cute," she said, "so I hate to say no, but--no."

"Oh, please?  I only need ten minutes.  Honest."  He crossed his heart and gave a boy scout salute.

She really looked sorry.  "I'm not allowed to make adjustments to executives' calendars," she explained.  "But Miss Crighton keeps a sort of unusual schedule."  She looked around and lowered her voice.  "This time of day, she's usually two doors down at the Madison Ab."

Napoleon and Illya exchanged puzzled looks.  The Russian scratched his head.  "The Madison Ab?"

The receptionist nodded.  "You know.  Abdominal.  It's a gym.  For body builders.  Madison Avenue.  Madison Ab.  Cute, huh?"

"Adorable," nodded Solo.  He blew her a parting kiss.  "Thank you, dear. If things don't work out with my fiancée, do you mind if I look you up?"

The receptionist laughed and shook her head.

Outside, Napoleon straightened his tie.  "I think she likes me."

Illya humphed.  "I think she found you amusing."

Napoleon considered for a moment.  "Okay," he said, nodding.  "Amusing is okay."

 The Madison Ab entrance was a glass door at one edge of a glass-block wall.  Inside, however, it was all gym.  The wall of glass lit the interior clear to the back wall.  Huge blue letters spelled out LOCKER ROOM over a blue door, and giant red letters spelled out OFFICE over a red door.  At three in the afternoon, the place was nearly empty.  Two guys vying for the title of Godzilla were busy to the right, one doing bench presses, the other spotting.  In the rear to the left a well-muscled woman was doing leg raises at a dip station.

Napoleon pulled the information sheet from his breast pocket and reviewed Tuula Crighton's physical description.  Light brown hair, blue eyes, 5'10", 170 pounds.  The amazon in the corner was tall enough, and she had light brown hair and blue eyes.

Solo chewed his top lip and cleared his throat.  "Uh, Illya, I don't think it's fair that I always get to meet the women, do you?  I think you should have a chance.  She's all yours."

"Oh, joy," said Kuryakin evenly.  "Very well.  Anything for U.N.C.L.E.."

Illya approached the woman but did not speak right away.  Instead, he stood back a few feet and watched her work out.  She was dressed in jogging shorts and a halter top.  Sweat rolled from her hairline to drip onto her chest and make a big wet spot on the grey stretch fabric of her halter.  She completed her last leg raise and dropped to the floor.

Illya handed her a nearby towel.  "Very impressive," he said.  "I admire strong women."

"Yeah?"  She wiped the sweat off her face and patted at her neck and chest.  "Most men think I'm freaky looking."

"Oh, no," said Illya softly.  "I am Russian, you see, and we have learned to appreciate female strength."

"Russian, huh?"  She sat on a nearby bench and wiped the towel over her glistening biceps.  "What do you want, Mr. Admiring Russian?"

"Oh, forgive me.  My name is Illya Kuryakin.  I work for an organization called U.N.C.L.E..  Perhaps you've heard of it?"

"Yeah, I've heard of it."

"Are you Tuula Crighton?"

"That's me."

"Tuula is a Finnish name," said Illya softly.

Crighton smiled.  "My grandmother was Finnish.  I'm named after her.  Not many people know that."

Illya shrugged.  "Finland is very close to St. Petersburg. Have you been working out long?"

"Five years."  She smiled up at him, her eyes twinkling with humor.  "Illya.  That's a Russian name."

It took him a second to realize she was teasing him.  "Oh.  Yes."  He smiled half a smile.  "I need to ask you a question."

"Let me guess."  She moved the towel to her quadriceps.  "How big are my thighs?"

Illya laughed in spite of himself.  "No, not that."

"Okay, how big are my arms?  No?  Okay, how about this.  I can clean and jerk three hundred pounds."  She stared him in the eye.

Illya paused.  "Excuse me a moment."  He returned to his partner.

"What's the matter?" asked Solo, perusing a membership application.  "Isn't that her?"

"Oh, yes, it is Tuula Crighton.  But you handle her.  She’s talking dirty to me."

"What?" Napoleon registered astonishment.

Illya sidled up to his friend and whispered in his ear.

"I don't get it," said Solo.

Illya made an impatient noise.  "You remember, last week, we went to that strange movie, and I asked you how you say in English what that man was doing, and you said he was--"

"Oooohhhh," said Napoleon, effectively cutting him off.  "Oh, that.  No, no, no, she didn't say that.  You're forgetting the preposition."

Illya thought for a moment.  "Oh," he said at last.

Napoleon laughed.  "Come on. I'll ask her about the files."

Tuula Crighton waited for them.

"You guys are a team, right?  Like Laurel and Hardy?"

"I'm Napoleon Solo.  We're with the U.N.C.L.E."

"Yeah, I know.  We got that far before your friend here took off like a rabbit at a greyhound convention.  What do you want with me?"

"Miss Crighton, the other day you witnessed an automobile accident in which one of our agents was killed."

"Yeah, it was rough.  Blood everywhere."

"Well, after the accident it was discovered that a briefcase in his car flew open during the collision and several files he was carrying were lost.  Other witnesses reported seeing papers blowing on the wind, and also that you had a similar problem with some files of your own."

"That's right.  I spent ten minutes chasing them down."  She stood up.  She was eye to eye with Solo.  "What's your point?"

"Well, we were hoping, actually, that perhaps when you collected flying file papers, you might have collected some of ours.  We've been sent to ask you to let us examine your files for the missing U.N.C.L.E. information."

Tuula did a slow take.  "I see."  She draped the towel around her neck.  "Let me get this straight."  She picked up a thirty pound dumbbell and started doing curls.  "You want to come back to my office at Macklin, Macklin and Dern and go through my confidential files on the off chance that some of U.N.C.L.E.'s secret papers got mixed in with my stuff?"

"Yes, that's right."  Napoleon tried a sincere smile.

Tuula made a rude noise.  "Okay, who do you boys really work for?  Hutton and Lodge?  Brice, Jones and Dinwitty?"

Illya offered, "We really work for U.N.C.L.E..  Here is my identification."

"Nice try, boys.  But I'm in a major client war here, and you just happen to show up with this little secret file story?  No way.  I don't buy it.  You go back to Tom Hutton and tell that son of a bitch he's not laying his hands on my Proctor and Gamble presentation, and that's final.  Now if you'll excuse me, I have to shower."  She started for the locker room, then paused.  "But when I clinch this toothpaste contract," she added, looking Illya up and down, "you come back and see me, okay?  I'll show you my glutes."  She flicked at Illya's thigh with her towel, then she was gone.

"Ouch."

Napoleon tapped himself on the chin with the rolled up membership application.  "Now she's talking dirty to you," he winked at Illya.

 Out on the sidewalk, Solo looked at his watch.  "Three thirty.  Got any ideas?"

Illya made a face and let his eyes drift up and down the street.  Sometimes inspiration could be found in the most ordinary surroundings.  Nothing to the left.  He swung his gaze to the right in time to see a pizza delivery boy load his scooter full of hot pies and swerve into the traffic-filled street.

The glimmer of an idea sparkled in the Russian's eyes.  He pulled out his wallet and counted seven ones.

"How much money do you have on you?" he asked Napoleon.

Solo flipped open his wallet to reveal a stash of twenties.  Illya pulled one out.

"Charge it to the expense account," said Illya.

"It's a little early for dinner, isn't it?"

"Advertising geniuses have cravings at odd hours," explained Illya with a straight face.

"Aaahhh."  A syllable of comprehension.

At four o'clock a short, blond pizza deliveryman bustled through the lobby of Macklin, Macklin and Dern.  He balanced two large pizzas high on one hand, the hand between his face and the receptionist.  Straight to the elevator.  Half a dozen citizens were coming and going at the same time, and the elevator doors opened before the receptionist could call out, "Excuse me!?  Where do you think you're going?"

Illya was already in the elevator.  As the doors slid shut, he called back, "Pizza delivery!"

He stopped the car on the second floor, propped his back against the open door, and waited.  A few moments later Napoleon appeared at the end of the hall and jogged toward him.

Illya brushed something orange off the front of Napoleon's jacket.  "You have rust on your suit."

Napoleon smoothed his hair.  "Just pray there's not a fire while we're in this building.  The fire escapes are not well maintained.  What floor is Crighton's office on?"

"Six," said Illya, pressing the appropriate button.

Napoleon looked impressed.  "How do you know that?"

"While you were making time with the receptionist, I was reading the building directory."

"Good thinking."

"One of us has to," said Illya with a straight face.

The elevator doors slid open on the sixth floor and emptied into a lobby almost as big as the one on the ground floor.

"Rats," muttered Solo.

Illya waved the pizzas around a bit to spread the aroma of cheese and pepperoni and strode up to the anorexic brunette at the front desk.  "Pizza delivery for Crighton," he snapped, glancing at his watch.  "Where's her office?"

The brunette's brow furrowed. "Let me che--"

"Hurry up, please!  If I am two minutes later, she gets pizza free and I have to pay out of my own pocket!"

"Well, okay.  Six oh nine.  That way."  She pointed right.  "Hurry!"

Illya nodded and trotted down the right hand corridor.  Napoleon caught up with him a moment later.

"Not bad.  You're getting pretty good at spur of the moment lying."

"It must be the company I keep," said Illya, the corners of his mouth curling with amusement.

A cursory knock on six oh nine and Napoleon turned the handle and went in.  Illya was right behind him.  A moment later Illya collided with Solo's back and nearly toppled when his partner stumbled backward and pushed him back out the door.  Tuula Crighton leaned casually against the door jamb to her office.

"Hello, boys.  Nice try."

Napoleon steadied Illya and gathered his dignity about him.  "Fast shower," he commented.

"Look," said Illya, "we are telling you the truth.  We are U.N.C.L.E. agents, and the papers we are looking for are very--"

Napoleon cut him off.  "Would we try a silly trick like this if we weren't really U.N.C.L.E. agents?"

Tuula rolled her eyes and chuckled deprecatingly.  "Oh, please.  This isn't even imaginative.  Last week two women from the Paul Frankel Agency came here posing as masseuses and told me I'd won a full body massage.  One of them tried to jimmy my safe while the other one tried to seduce me."

Napoleon and Illya exchanged glances.  "What happened?" asked Solo.

"The safecracker is in traction," said Tuula.

"What about the other one?" asked Illya uneasily.

"I'll let you know.  We're going dancing Saturday."  She snagged one of Illya's pizzas, winked broadly, and closed the door.

Back in the elevator, Illya asked, "What now, moy droog?"

"Now," replied Napoleon, "we find a pitcher of beer to go with this other pizza while we formulate yet another plan."

In the lobby a bored Puerto Rican male in faded green overalls was emptying little trash cans into a big one on wheels.  Across the back of his uniform black letters announced that he was the property of Bright Side Cleaning.

Napoleon snapped his fingers.  "Hey, didn't we get your friend Pavel Nureyev a job at Bright Side?"

 Solo waited at the table in the Pizza Mission while Illya talked to Pavel on the phone.  Napoleon was on his second mug of beer before Illya returned.

The Russian picked up his own mug and clinked it against Napoleon's.  "Congratulations.  We are now proud temporary employees for Bright Side Cleaning.  We meet Pavel at the service entrance to the Macklin building at 9 p.m."

"Why did it take so long?"

"Oh, just some minor concern that he might lose his job.  I told him not to worry.  If he loses his job, he can have mine, because if we can't get into one silly little office safe, I will be too embarrassed to face Mr. Waverly tomorrow morning."

Solo grinned broadly.  "Four hours," he said.  He pulled a nickel out of his pocket, flipped it, caught it and slapped it on the back of his hand.  Before he uncovered it, he said, "Heads, we go to a movie.  Tails, rollerskating in the park."

It was tails.

 At eight fifty-nine Napoleon and Illya arrived at the service entrance to the Macklin Building.  Their faces were flushed a healthy pink and their breath made clouds in the crisp autumn air.  Pavel Nureyev greeted Illya with a warm hug and a kiss on both cheeks.  He shook Solo's hand vigorously.

"How are the English lessons coming?" asked Solo.

Pavel raised a thumb in the air.  "A O-Kay," he replied.  "Got to learn fast.  Boy is starting school now and speaks more than me."  He handed them each a pair of coveralls.  "I get you inside building, yes?  You know how to clean?"

Napoleon and Illya exchanged looks.

"Never mind," said Pavel.  "Do what I do.  If electric engineer can learn, you can learn."

The sixth floor appeared deserted by ten p.m.  Napoleon moved desultorily from office to office, desk to desk, emptying trash.  Illya was dusting and polishing, being careful to put things back exactly where they were, as Pavel had instructed him.  In order to avoid problems for Pavel, they pretended to be trainees in front of the other Bright Side people, and wound up cleaning half the sixth floor before they got to office number six oh nine.

It was 12:15 a.m.  The outer chamber was dark.  Solo flicked on the lights and glanced around for a wall safe as he emptied the trash.  Illya started dusting the desk.  One of the Bright Side people moved slowly past the doorway, guiding a carpet shampooer that moaned and vibrated like a cow with bad gas.  Napoleon waited until the shampooer was several yards away before he quietly closed the door.

"It's got to be in the inner office," said Illya quietly.

"Agreed," said Napoleon.  He listened at the door, just in case.  Nothing.  Soundlessly, he opened it and stepped through.  Illya followed, closing the door silently behind him.

They stood for a second in the dark.  Illya was about to reach for the light switch--they were, after all, legitimate in their Bright Side coveralls--when Napoleon grabbed his arm and leaned close to his ear to whisper, "Someone's in here."

At that moment a lamp flashed to life on a six-foot mahogany desk. Tuula Crighton steadied her elbows on its surface and pointed the muzzle of a Smith and Wesson .38 caliber revolver at Solo's chest.

"Good evening, gentlemen.  Let me introduce you to Retired Police Officer Randall Crighton's regulation Smith and Wesson, with a six-round cylinder and a muzzle velocity of 650 feet per second.  From this distance, that means once its .38 caliber cartridge leaves its chamber, you will have approximately eighteen thousandths of a second to get out of the way.  How fast do you think you are, boys?"

Napoleon and Illya grimaced in defeat and raised their hands in the air.

"Please don't shoot," said Solo calmly.  "The coveralls aren't ours. I don't want to get any holes in them."

Illya was a trifle less calm.  "Or in us either.  Would you mind pointing that thing somewhere else?  I promise we'll be good."

Tuula maintained her position.  "Sit down on the floor, cross-legged, Indian-style," she ordered, "and lace your fingers behind your head.  Do it now!"

Napoleon hesitated, but Illya tugged his sleeve hard and they sat down.  The Russian chided him, "This is not the time to worry about your male ego, my friend.  You have enough scars."

Tuula laughed.  "Yeah, right."  She relaxed her aim a little once they were in position.  She left her chair and perched on the edge of the desk, but her grip on the gun was still all business.  "What kind of scars can copy writers get?  Paper cuts?"

Napoleon cleared his throat.  "I told you, we are from the U.N.C.L.E."

"His scars are real," said Illya.  "Too many of them are from .38s."

Tuula seemed uncertain.  "Show me," she said at last.

Napoleon glared at Illya.  "Thanks a lot, partner."

"Come on, hurry up," said Tuula.  "If you're really from U.N.C.L.E., show me your scars."  She pointed the muzzle of the Smith and Wesson at him again.  "And don't try anything funny."

Napoleon unsnapped his coveralls and pulled his arms free.  It was awkward, trying to undress while sitting on the floor.

"I have to take off my shoulder holster," he said.

Tuula acted like Colt .45s were standard issue for the advertising biz.  "Illya, you take his gun out with two fingers, left hand, and scoot it carefully toward me."

Illya did as he was told.

Tuula glanced down at the weapon.  "M1911?"

"M1911-A1, actually," said Solo smoothly, disentangling himself from the shoulder holster.  He was wearing a soft black wool sweater under the coveralls.  He pulled it over his head but didn't bother to take his arms out of the sleeves.  "Is this good enough?"

Tuula stood up and walked around behind him to turn on another lamp.  She sucked in air so hard it whistled between her teeth.  "Holy shit!  Look at your back!"

"May I put my sweater on now?" asked Solo.

"What are those stripes from?"

Illya replied, "A horse whip."

Napoleon was decidedly uncomfortable.  "Excuse me?  May I get dressed now?"

Tuula's demeanor changed completely.  "Oh, sure, put your sweater on.  Hey, guys, I'm sorry.  How was I to know you really are U.N.C.L.E. agents?  I mean, we're in the advertising business.  Do you know how easy it is to fake an ID with the right kind of art equipment at your disposal?"

Napoleon was already into his shoulder holster.  "May I retrieve my weapon?"

"Yeah, sure."  Tuula realized she was still holding the Smith and Wesson.  "Oh, sorry about this.  Dad gave it to me for protection in the big city."  She placed it carefully in a drawer of her desk.

Illya's relief was evident.  "You believe us now?"

Tuula nodded a vigorous affirmative.  "Yep. You must be the good guys.  If you were the bad guys, you'd just shoot me and take what you want."

Napoleon lifted the corner of his top lip.  "Darn.  I suppose the moment has passed...?"

"Ha, ha," said Illya exaggeratedly.  "Very funny.  Tuula, now that you believe us, will you let us see the files?"

"Sure."  Crighton strode to the safe on the back wall of the office.  No attempt was made to conceal it.  She twirled the combination lock to the right, left, right again, and turned the handle.  From the 2.5 cubic foot interior she removed a stack of manila folders.  "These were the folders I was carrying the day of the accident."  She set them on the desk.  "Help yourselves."

Napoleon and Illya bent over the files and began turning pages.  The first three folders contained nothing that belonged to U.N.C.L.E..

"These are clean," said Solo, setting them aside.

"This one also," said Illya, adding another to the stack.

"And this one," said Solo, sounding a bit disappointed.  "I hope this wasn't a wild goose chase."

Illya's face lit up.  "Nyet, nyet, nyet.  No gooses.  Look.  U.N.C.L.E. letterhead.  One, two,...a dozen pages."

"Okay, let's keep'em together," said Solo.  "And here, there's a whole envelope here with the U.N.C.L.E. logo."

"And more pages in this file.  Eureka!  That is the word, yes?"

Solo grinned and did his best W. C. Fields.  "Yes, indeed, my little chickadee."

When they were finished, they had collected fifty-three pages of typed information and two envelopes stamped with the U.N.C.L.E. logo.

"All the rest is yours, Tuula," said Napoleon.  "Sorry for all the trouble."

"No problem," she shrugged.

"By the way," asked Illya, "what are you doing here so late?"

"I was putting the finishing touches on a presentation for tomorrow morning.  I worked until ll:45 and decided it was too late to go all the way home, unwind, sleep, etcetera and make it back by nine a.m.  So I stretched out in here.  I wasn't expecting you two to make another try at my safe.  You gave me quite a start."

"Likewise," said Illya.  "Have you ever considered a career in law enforcement?"

"And wind up with a keloid collection like Napoleon's?  No, thank you."

Napoleon shrugged.  "There's always Section Three," he said.  "They back us up and do a lot of support work for field agents."

Illya nodded.  "And you would make excellent backup, Tuula."

"I tell you what.  If this advertising thing doesn't work out, I'll give you a call.  Now get out of here.  I need some sleep."

Illya returned their coveralls to Pavel, along with warm thanks and a hundred dollars from Napoleon's wallet.  Pavel didn't want to take the money, but Illya finally convinced him.  Napoleon waited for him at the service entrance with an arm full of files.

"Put that hundred on the expense account as a consultant's fee," said Illya.  "I told Pavel U.N.C.L.E. pays consultant's fees to everyone who helps us."

"Are you crazy?  Waverly will never go for that.  We'll put it down as the price of the coveralls."  He glanced at his glow-in-the-dark watch face.  "It's almost one thirty.  Come stay at my place.  It's closer than your apartment.  I'll buy you a drink."

Illya clapped his friend on the back.  "My favorite tavern."

"And all the pretzels you can eat," quipped Solo.

It was two a.m.  Illya had kicked off his shoes and propped his feet up on Napoleon's glass-topped coffee table.  The kidney-shaped glass perched sturdily on a chunk of redwood burl with more twists and turns in it than a mountain road.  Napoleon sat down next to his partner.

"Stolychnaya, neat," he announced.  "And Glenlivet for me."  He relaxed against the overstuffed back of the cream-colored sofa.  Neither of them said anything for a long time.  They sipped their drinks and stared at the files on the coffee table.

At last, without moving his gaze, Illya said, "I bet you ten dollars the photos are Waverly with a woman."

"No contest," said Solo.  He picked up the first envelope. "But twenty says she's Section One."

"You're on," said Illya.  "Why would he pick a woman in Section One when he could have much younger and more attractive companionship?"

Napoleon frowned in alarm.  "Illya!  What a sexist thing to say.  She's got to be Section One or what would they have to talk about?"

"Just open the envelope," said Illya.

Napoleon grinned and undid the flap.  "Our secret," he said.

Illya crossed himself in the Russian fashion--up, down, right, left.  "We tell no one that we looked in the envelope," he agreed.

Napoleon slid the photos out into Illya's lap.  They both stared hard at the people in the pictures.

"I win," Illya began.  "She's not in Section One."  He held his hand out for his twenty.

Napoleon was still staring at the photos.  "Sorry, partner."

"What?"  Illya peered at the photos again.  His eyebrows rose to the ceiling.  He looked at Napoleon.  Napoleon looked back.  Then very deliberately he collected the photos and replaced them in the envelope.

"We never opened this envelope," said Napoleon with feeling.

"What envelope?" said Illya.  "Pass the vodka.”

 End