Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

written by LRH Balzer

At precisely 7:31 a.m., July 6, 1964, John Ricker pulled out of U.N.C.L.E. headquarters to pick up the mail as he had done every work day for the past twenty years. The white panel van proclaimed he was working for Universal Cleaning, a custodial company in Queens, although anyone who actually called the telephone number discovered that UNiversal CLEaning had exceedingly high rates.

Ricker swung into the congestion of New York City's morning traffic. The sun shone fiercely through the windshield as he pulled the visor into place; he rolled down the window, heedless of the fumes in his desire for a cooler breeze in the van. It was a seventeen minute drive to the Main Post Office and Ricker spent the time reflecting on his upcoming retirement, now only a few months away.

He turned into the General Post Office's underground driveway, casually waving to the security guard before driving to his usual space in the back loading zone area. He got out of the van, opened the rear doors, and entered the building. As usual, the mail bags sat waiting for him, and, typical of a Monday morning, there were quite a few.

Ricker sighed, pulled a trolley over, and began loading. Things would have gone a lot faster if the trolleys had held more than three bags. With this stack, he would have to make three full trips. Grumbling to himself, he loaded the mail bags in the van, then went back into the building for a quick chat with the dispatching clerk, Frieda.

Five minutes later, Ricker hurried back to the van and peered inside to make sure he had returned the trolley. He stood staring for a moment, frowned, then shrugged and closed the door on the ten bags.

Morning sun slid in through wooden Venetian blinds and cast striped shadows across the gleaming hardwood floors and the priceless Persian rug that had been in his family for over a hundred years. Louis Armstrong's trumpet wailed softly from the corner phonograph, serenading the designer furniture and brass lamps. The immaculate room smelled of freshly brewed coffee, expensive aftershave, and the new leather couch.

In an alcove of the apartment, a telephone speaker sat perched on top of the oak stained roll-top desk. Turned up full blast, his answering service duly read off the messages that had piled up in the last few hours, the woman's elderly voice steady.

"2:32 a.m. No name left. Message: Napoleon, darling, why ever did you leave so early? I came back from the powder room at the club and Paddy told me you had an emergency of some kind and had to go. Call me, sugar."

"7:00 a.m. Del Floria Tailors. Message: Mr Solo, your suits will be ready to pick up this morning at 9:00 sharp."

"7:10 a.m. From the Imperial Rental Agency. Message: Mr Solo, since your uncle advised us that the bachelor apartment on East 58th is currently unoccupied, it should be cleared out by tomorrow morning. We have renters already lined up. You are listed as next-of-kin, so if you could see to this immediately, we'd be most grateful. We understand that you are in the same building and hope that this will facilitate a speedy clearing of the furniture and other items."

"7:15 a.m. No name left. Message: Good morning, Nap. What happened last night? I'll pick you up at a quarter after eight. Be ready."

In the master bedroom, Napoleon Solo stood at an antique oak bureau and wrestled with his tie. The face in the mirror remained void of emotion as he struggled to adjust the knot to his satisfaction. As the last message was read, he glanced down at his watch and groaned. He had less than ten minutes.

The answering service hung up and an annoying dial tone echoed through the apartment. There was no time to call his date from the evening before and apologize for ducking out on her. He called the answering service back quickly and asked the grandmotherly operator to send some flowers and an appropriate card.

He didn't want to think about the Imperial Rental Agency or the apartment several floors below him. During those first few weeks, he had used his key and entered the apartment, walked through the silent rooms, and stared out the dusty windows. He'd emptied the refrigerator. He brought in the mail. He did the laundry up-to-date. Made sure to change the sheets on the bed.

But as weeks turned to months, he found himself avoiding even the sight of the floor button in the elevator when he went to and from work.

He stared now at his reflection in the mirror. He would call the Imperial Rental Agency and send a check over today for another month's rent, another month of waiting. He had no choice. He wasn't ready to let go.

He moved to the kitchen and poured himself a cup of coffee. Where once he would have savored the aroma and enjoyed the imported indulgence, he now found himself restless, drinking mechanically, not tasting the fine roast. He felt numb. On edge.

With a shake of his head, he brought himself back. The cryptic message about the suits had been from U.N.C.L.E. Headquarters, advising him of a 9:00 a.m. meeting with Waverly. He drained his coffee cup, pulled his lightweight suit jacket on over the shoulder harness, then tucked the U.N.C.L.E. Special into its slot.

Paddy Dunn had no doubt received the same message, which was why he would be waiting downstairs in a few minutes. Napoleon glanced out the window to the street below. Dunn was punctual, as usual.

It was beginning to irritate him.

Napoleon sprinted down the front stairs of his apartment building and out into the warm summer day. The temperature was already up to seventy-five and promised to be eighty-seven degrees by mid-afternoon.

The double-parked gleaming MG convertible had its roof down and without opening the door, Napoleon vaulted into the seat beside Dunn. "Sorry. I had some business to take care of."

Patrick Aralic Dunn eased the car into the traffic and cast a glance over at the other agent. "You left rather suddenly last night, mate."

"I had other things to do."

"I covered for you. Drove Betty home after."

"I see it didn't slow you down at all."

Paddy grinned and indicated his tuxedo. "I had to take them both home. It takes longer with two."

"I'm sure it did. You should have changed, though. Waverly doesn't like sloppiness."

"So who's sloppy? I'm dressed to kill – or so the saying goes. Not even a wrinkle." The man looked like something out of a bad spy movie; his suit appeared 'just pressed' even after a full night on the town and the white rose in his lapel was still dewy fresh. His trademarks were in place: the emerald green silk scarf tied rakishly around his neck and the white linen handkerchief monogrammed P.A.D.

"What's eating you, Nap?" Paddy's fiery red curls scattered in the breeze as the car changed gears and picked up speed. "The Winthrop Case is finally over after six months. Your strategy in flushing them out worked perfectly. The boss is once again assured that you're a matchless genius. You have the respect of one and all. So what's haunting you? You don't appear to be with us."

"Like I said, I have other things on my mind." Napoleon turned and stared intently out the passenger window, feeling Paddy's darting glances at him, but not wanting to talk further. He should have waited until later to listen to his messages. Or get one of the secretaries to do it. He needed to concentrate on his job, not be distracted by . . . other things.

Paddy cleared his throat, expertly sliding the MG into the left hand lane and taking the corner as the light switched to red. "We've lost men before. It happens."

Napoleon said nothing. He scanned the blur of pedestrians on the sidewalk, always watching, always alert for a familiar walk, a certain set of the shoulders.

"Napoleon?"

"How I feel is not up for discussion, Dunn," he said, sharply. "Have you gone over the final report on the Winthrop case? I wrote it up late yesterday, but I didn't notice if the steno pool had it back yet."

"I'll look when we get there." Paddy Dunn was annoyed, and it came through clearly in his voice. The Irishman was a good agent, dependable and solid. He'd been virtually faultless as a partner. He deserved an honest answer.

Napoleon hit the dashboard with his fist. "I just don't like having a partner written off until I see his body."

There was an awkward moment, then Paddy said softly, "He's been missing for well over three months."

Paddy stopped for a light and Napoleon watched the pedestrians crossing the road in front of them.

"Waverly was just following procedure," Paddy added.

Napoleon didn't answer. Paddy was right. When Waverly had assigned Dunn as his partner eight weeks before, he had done exactly what was necessary to keep the operation running smoothly. Napoleon had lost partners before, but there had always been a corpse and a reason, something to finalize the horror so he could focus his attention on exacting justice. Or revenge.

The announcement had simply been tacked on the bulletin board next to the coffee machine. It was brief and to the point. Illya Kuryakin had left his apartment at 7:35 a.m. on March 20. He had never shown up at the U.N.C.L.E. buildings. No one had seen him since. There were no letters, no demands, no clues. And no body. Until further notice, his status was missing, presumed dead.

John Ricker turned the corner by the U.N.C.L.E. New York Headquarters and honked at the two agents as they walked down the sidewalk and disappeared into Del Floria's tailor shop. Ricker had been around long enough to have observed most of the agents work their way through the ranks into the higher echelons of the Network. Some ended up in Research or Personnel, others in Communications or Security. The most dashing of the bunch had to be the Enforcement agents, and the two he just passed by were no exception.

Napoleon Solo, of course, was the Chief Enforcement Officer, and he looked every bit the part. Medium height, dark hair, and brown eyes that twinkled mischievously when he tried to sweet-talk Linda down in the mailroom. A real lady's man, that one. And from what Ricker had heard, an excellent marksman and a darn good agent. With the world the way it was heading, it was nice knowing Solo was on your side.

But Solo hadn't been around the mailroom lately. Trouble had been brewing on the top floor; Ricker had seen the long faces as he passed from desk to desk collecting the outgoing mail. Business as usual, but the casual banter was gone. No one felt like chatting with him anymore. One of the favorite parts of his job had always been the twice daily mail rounds throughout the building, stopping to swap a joke or listen to a tall tale. Or, if he was lucky, eavesdrop on a case discussion. Five years ago he had even made a suggestion that led to the arrest of an enemy spy. The Old Man had sent him a note, thanking him. It was framed now and hanging over Ricker's desk.

But he wasn't blind. He knew what was going on. He'd read the message posted in the office.

Too bad about that Russian fellow. Kuryakin. Never saw him around much in the lower levels; when he was in the building, he usually stuck to his office, or the research labs and libraries. He was kind of a gloomy chap. With his long hair and intense eyes, you could never tell what he was thinking.

Ricker chuckled and backed the van to the rear delivery door. Agents came and went, but funny how the mail was always there, through rain or snow . . .

Now that new guy with Solo – Paddy Dunn – he was a character. Always quick with a joke, chomping away on chewing gum, six foot three of lean muscle. A real tough cookie with a heart of gold and a mean right hook. It was hard not to like him. The grapevine said he was doing a bang up good job of fitting in with the department, and the tension was starting to lift from the agents' faces. He was just what they needed, Ricker decided.

"Hey! Bobby! Jose! Give me a hand – and bring our trolley. We have a big load today."

With fifteen minutes to spare before his meeting with Waverly, Napoleon Solo stood behind the desk he used in the Enforcement Agents' office and looked around. The room was full; the skeleton crew on at night was just packing up, and the day shift was arriving. There was the normal shuffle of feet, the tersely worded updates of cases, phones ringing, and typewriters clicking.

Paddy Dunn lounged at the desk next to Napoleon's reading over their typed joint report, his feet up on Illya's desk, knocking over the nameplate.

Before he could fix it, Napoleon was occupied for five minutes as several Enforcement agents approached to request his approval for a Search and Raid planned that evening. As Chief Enforcement Agent, he was supposed to be available for consultation, endorsing all matters before they were sent to the Legal Department for verification. In reality, he spent most of his time outside of the room, often out of touch for weeks at a time on cases of his own. Routine matters, such as the raid, were then passed on to Waverly, but today he added his signature to the bottom of the request form.

The next agent handed Napoleon a document to initial, and he kept his face steady as he saw Kuryakin's name in the text. It stood out, familiar letters against a sea of blurred ink.

The document reported that the massive, new U.N.C.L.E. radar dish facing out to the Atlantic Ocean had been destroyed. It had been effectively camouflaged between two billboard signs, undetectable from the air or from the ground and impossible to find even if you were walking on the roof right next to it. It had been a remarkable design by three members of the New York office – Kuryakin, Powers, and Garcia – and was just now being imitated around the globe by U.N.C.L.E. offices.

Napoleon assigned the case to two of his agents. He scribbled on the file sheet for them to investigate and report, as well as send out warnings to other offices considering the design.

As those two agents headed out, Napoleon reached to straighten out the nameplate on Illya's desk. Except, it no longer read Illya Nickovetch Kuryakin, but Patrick Aralic Dunn and Illya's belongings were in a cardboard box under Napoleon's desk in his private office down the hall.

Paddy's crossed feet moved in beat to the soft music playing over the speakers. Napoleon stared at the protruding limbs with their glossy black shoes. His reflection stared back, distorted by the leather surface. "Did the steno pool get everything right this time?" he asked.

"Hmm? Looks like it. Give me a sec, Nap. I'm almost done." Paddy skimmed the last few pages and tossed the document back on Napoleon's desk. "Ready for the Old Man himself. Where are the others?"

"Reception says they're on their way up," Napoleon said, referring to the two Dutch agents they were to be meeting that morning. "It's three minutes to nine. We'd better get going."

"After you, Kimosabe."

As they entered Waverly's office, several things happened simultaneously. The massive grandfather clock in the corner struck the hour, the security alarm went off, and Waverly's desk lit up with calls.

"Mr Waverly?" a voice blared over the intercom. "This is John Ricker in the mailroom. We have a problem here, sir. I signed for nine mailbags from the post office this morning, and when we unloaded them here, I see we have ten bags. Security is scanning them now."

"Thank you, Mr . . . uh . . . Ricker. Keep me informed." Alexander Waverly, head of the Policy and Operations department—or Number One of Section One, as he was commonly referred to—looked up and motioned for the two enforcement agents to sit at the circular desk where two other agents already sat.

The visiting agents were tall and blond, the older one with a receding hairline. Napoleon would have pegged them as Scandinavian rather than Dutch.

Waverly cleared his throat. "These two gentlemen are the heads of our U.N.C.L.E. offices in Rotterdam and Amsterdam, Mr Vandermeer and Mr De Witt. They will be updating us on the current escalation of THRUSH activity in their country. This is Mr Solo, our Chief Enforcement Officer, and Mr Dunn, also of Section Two."

They all shook hands and exchanged quick greetings, Louis De Witt adding quietly to Napoleon, "Sorry to hear about Kuryakin. I hope—" He stopped himself and then continued on, "I worked with him on an assignment last year. He was a good man."

Napoleon nodded politely in response, then placed the file he had brought in on the table and spun the revolving surface toward his boss. "The Winthrop Case, sir."

"Hmm. Yes. I understand our legal department has cleared up the unfortunate demolition of the bank involved."

"Yes, sir. It couldn't be avoided. The bank was vacant at the time and no one else was injured."

"Good, good. Has the case been cryptographed yet?"

"It has been coded, sir. The Banana Peel Affair."

"The Banana Peel Affair?" Waverly reached for his pipe. "I would like to speak to whoever is involved in attaching code names to our files." The agents exchanged tolerant smiles as Waverly struggled to light his pipe.

The older man spent several minutes looking over the report, pausing to ask questions and jot down a few indecipherable notes. He had just closed the case file when the security alarms sounded again.

"Mr Waverly? Bastion in Security, sir. We have isolated the tenth bag. We have a ticker, sir. Bomb squad is on its way."

"Any idea where the bag originated, Mr Bastion?"

"No, sir. We have it behind a superglass shield now. Our cameras show it's a standard, large, New York State Mail Bag addressed to Mr Napoleon Solo, c/o U.N.C.L.E. Headquarters, New York City. Insufficient postage. Post Office says we owe them $28.97."

"Addressed to Mr Solo, you say? I'll send him down."

"Thank you, sir. We will keep you informed of any updates."

Napoleon and Paddy stood as Waverly completed the call.

"Mr Solo, perhaps you and Mr . . . uh . . . Dunn could make a quick trip down to the mailroom and see to this problem. I will continue with Mr Vandermeer and Mr De Witt."

"Yes, sir." The two agents left quickly as Waverly resumed his conference with the Dutch agents as though bombs in the U.N.C.L.E. building were commonplace.

The elevator sped them to the bottom floor and they raced down the security-ridden hallway. The offices were being evacuated; they dodged among scurrying clerks carrying documents and other irreplaceable items to the explosion-proof Safekeeping room, elsewhere on the floor.

Bastion met them at the door. "Solo. Dunn. This way, please." They followed him, threading their way past the stationery department and the vaults to the mail room. Security guards were scattered throughout, maintaining a tight professional order within the confusion of machinery, voices, and shouting. Colored lights flashed on the bomb control panel as it was wheeled in and activated.

As they watched, a single mechanical arm reached across the superglass barrier to within a yard of the large well-packed mail sack and seconds later, amplified ticking echoed in the mailroom.

Bastion crossed his arms and frowned at the mail bag. "We've isolated the bag. It's heavy – about 120 to 140 pounds, we estimate. There's no scale available. As you can see, it measures about two feet, by two feet, by three and a half feet. Our X-ray shows the actual bomb is strapped to an object covered with something resembling Inrhysec. We're getting a sample now."

Napoleon glanced at Paddy's puzzled face. "Intumescent Rhytidomic Sequela," he explained. "It is something our researchers came up with last year. It's still experimental, and we haven't used it much. It's supposed to be hush-hush." He looked around the room. "This could mean we have a security leak in Research and Development."

"What does this Inrhysec do?" Paddy asked.

"For one thing, it reflects back any attempts to X-ray or scan it."

The Irishman peered skeptically at the sample brought over to him by the Security Chief. "Sort of a super aluminum foil?"

"I don't have the technical term handy. Illya always took care of—" Napoleon bit off the rest of his reply. A guard passed a clipboard with the current report. He read it quickly and said, "Paddy, call Waverly and fill him in."

Paddy took the offered clipboard and sat at Ricker's desk to make the phone call. Napoleon paced the room, obviously agitated, pausing only to drill Ricker with questions.

"Where did it come from?"

"I don't know, sir. I signed for nine, watched them loaded and everything. I went back inside for maybe five minutes, you know, just conferring with the staff there," Ricker broke off uncomfortably. "Then I came here. It's just the mail, sir. Letters and things. They're x-rayed before we get them, then x-rayed again when they arrive, but we've never had anything like this before."

"Who unloaded it?"

"I started to, but it was heavy so I got Bobby and Jose to help me. Bobby McQueen and Jose Fernando. They're my team." Ricker looked around the room, but his 'team' wasn't in sight.

"No one loitering around the truck when you got back from . . . conferring?"

"No, sir. No one near the truck at all. There'll be security tapes. I've already called for the security tape from this morning."

"See when we can expect it," Napoleon said, then turned to stare at the mailbag.

When Paddy had finished the update to Waverly, Bastion introduced him to one of the researchers involved with developing Intumescent Rhytidomic Sequela, a rather bland looking, balding agent in his late forties named Dan Powers.

Powers was extremely reluctant to part with any information, insisting that only a few U.N.C.L.E. personnel even knew it existed and there were far too many people present for him to go into detail.

"I understand your concern, but Mr Waverly has asked you to fill me in on what this formula is all about. You were part of the team who created it?" Paddy asked.

Powers nodded, nervously. "Yes," he answered in almost a whisper.

"And what is its purpose? What use is it?"

"Once perfected, plans for future use – among other things – are to coat the inside of this building with a liquid version of the formula to prevent listening devices or surveillance equipment from penetrating the U.N.C.L.E. Headquarters."

Powers peered down at the small piece of Inrhysec fabric that had been cut away from the bundle. He muttered to himself, and Paddy had to lean forward to hear him. "It's absolutely impossible for another group to independently come up with the exact same formula. Yet it appears–" Powers left to return to his lab and conduct a complete examination of the fabric, promising to have the results immediately sent up to Waverly.

Paddy raised his head from the report he was writing to see his partner suddenly stop pacing in mid-stride.

Napoleon stood frozen as the buzz of activity continued around him, then slowly turned to the partition and moved across the room up to the protecting barrier until he leaned against the superglass, his hands pressed flat on the unyielding surface. His sharp eyes were fastened on the bulging mailbag.

"Napoleon?"

Napoleon didn't answer. His eyes widened slightly, then narrowed as though he was unable to believe his own thoughts.

"Napoleon, what's up? What are you thinking?" Paddy glanced to Bastion and back to Napoleon. "Nap, I can't read your mind yet. Talk to me."

"Quiet!" The word fogged the glass for an instant. Napoleon shifted his weight but maintained his fixed stare. "Move the microphone closer! Volume at maximum."

Bastion leapt to adjust the mechanical arm holding the sensitive microphone, gently maneuvering it closer to the bag until it was barely an inch away.

Napoleon joined him at the console and impatiently twisted the volume lever. The bomb's ticking reverberated throughout the room, but voices died to silence as the agents and staff listened in shock to raspy, shallow breathing.

"Impossible," Bastion whispered.

Paddy flew at the controls. "Is that live or taped?"

The security agent pressed a few buttons and then nodded, dumbfounded. "Someone's in there, all right."

"My God." The room turned as the Chief Enforcement Officer moved stiffly back to the heavy, glass partition. "Illya."

continued

Chapter Text

At 9:45 a.m., Paddy entered Waverly's office as Bastion's voice reported over the loudspeaker. The Dutch agents still sat quietly in the office, but they had judiciously moved away from the conference table to a couch and armchairs, trying to stay out of the way.

"So that's where we stand right now, sir. A live human body seems to be tied up in the mailbag. Dr Lawrence is monitoring the heartbeat, but because of the Inrhysec the body is wrapped in, we can't pick up more than a trace. We only heard it in the first place when a small piece of the fabric was cut away to examine it. Dr Lawrence believes that whoever is in there is not conscious and is having difficulty breathing. If there isn't some kind of oxygen being fed in – and it's impossible for us to tell without an X-ray – the breathable air must be almost nonexistent."

"Understood, Mr Bastion. What actions do you plan to take?"

"Dr Lawrence has volunteered to attempt to remove the body from its casing, but at present, we can't allow that until we discover how the bomb is set up. Certain wires cut out of sequence may set it off."

"By all means, do not allow Dr Lawrence near the mailbag until our bomb disposal crew feels it is safe. And I would like to know why nothing further has been done. The bomb was discovered three quarters of an hour ago." Waverly tossed one pipe on the desk and reached for another.

"We are all assembled now, sir, and the bomb squad is ready to attempt to open the bag."

"Fine, fine. Keep me informed. Waverly out." The Head of North American Operations lit the second pipe as the trio watched. He accepted another urgent call piped in from Mexico and listened as the agent there gave his report. A third call came from Baton Rouge, and he handled it briefly, shifting through the files on his desk and making illegible notes. "Thank you, Miss Ward. Let me know the results of your investigation." He hung up the phone and puffed for a moment on the pipe. "And you, Mr Dunn? Why are you here? Do you have anything further to add to Mr Bastion's report?"

Paddy took a deep breath and exhaled slowly. "Solo thinks Illya Kuryakin is in the mailbag."

Across the room, Dirk Vandermeer sank back into his chair groaning. "Any chance he is right?"

Paddy shrugged. "I don't know. It doesn't seem possible that a grown man could be in a parcel that size, but it is definitely an adult's heartbeat. They say Houdini could fit in some pretty small spaces."

"So could Illya," Vandermeer retorted. "I remember what you told me about the case in Amsterdam last year," he said, turning to his colleague, Louis De Witt. "Illya sewed himself into a sack of grain and stayed hidden for hours until the shipment cleared customs."

"He also wiggled through the air vent in the warehouse afterwards," De Witt added. "He's somewhat of a legend around our office."

"Well, gentlemen, I'm quite certain Mr Solo will notify us immediately in the event that it is Mr Kuryakin." Waverly puffed on the pipe, appearing unaware it was no longer lit. "Mr Dunn, we will await your case until after the bomb has been deactivated, and Mr Solo rejoins us. Perhaps you could return to the mailroom and escort Mr Solo here as soon as the ... disturbance ... has been rectified."

By ten o'clock, four members of the bomb squad had lifted the heavy mailbag and set it delicately on one of the mailroom's long sorting tables. They gave the cord rope around the top a gentle tug and loosened the noose. After a quick examination, they carefully lowered the canvas bag, slitting the sides to reveal the bundle within. Without the bulky covering, the inner package began to take the shape of a tightly bound human. Masking the body was a sheet of cloth, painted with the shiny silver Inrhysec coating. There was a six-inch rip down one side where the bomb crew had cut through the canvas bag to get a sample of the cloth, and the microphone was immediately placed near the opening.

Napoleon had remained motionless throughout the preliminary tests and debates, watching the proceedings silently from behind the superglass enclosure. The U.N.C.L.E. bomb squad was the best in the business, and he had no intentions of distracting them from their job. Not this job. He wasn't sure why he was so positive this was Illya – he just was. He just knew; every cell in his body knew. He held himself back, waiting, wanting to rush in and pull the sack from the body, but he knew he had to let the others do their assignments. Everything was happening at breakneck speed, and time crawled.

As Dr Lawrence was cleared to join the crew, Napoleon moved at once and followed him around the barrier, only to be stopped by a member of the bomb disposal unit.

"I can't let you in there, sir. It's too dangerous. Please wait behind the superglass."

"I'll take the risk," Napoleon snapped. "Let me through."

"Sir, it's just too dangerous-"

"I said I'll take the risk," Napoleon said, pushing through, only to be stopped again. He pushed the man's hand off his arm. "Back off. I'm the Head of Section Two. And I'm going in there."

"Sir, I'm not authorized–"

"Let him through," Bastion ordered harshly, as he entered the room and approached them. Bastion tossed a full set of protective gear to the guard, gesturing for him to assist Napoleon in putting them on. The security chief strode out of the room, already barking orders at the rest of his team. The Enforcement agent paused long enough to slip into the oversized jumpsuit before heading around the barrier.

Dr Lawrence, at the control panel, was intently listening on his monitors to the heartbeat and respiration of the unseen man.

"It's Illya," Napoleon said, flatly, moving up beside him.

"Pardon? Oh, it's you, Napoleon." The tall, thin doctor looked up from his dials. "Maybe it is Illya, I can't tell from this. We'll find out soon enough – we have to move quickly or whoever this is will suffocate, and all we'll have left is a body. The breathing is faltering." The cardiograph screen before him lit up suddenly showing the heart rate as a stethoscope microphone was attached directly to the body.

Napoleon's attention was spit between the assembled security team and the display showing the rate of the unseen man's heartbeat. His hands were sweating. Time became caught up in each beat of the struggling heart. Other sounds registered peripherally, their intensity fading and rising between blips on the monitor and amplified thud of the heartbeat over the speakers. It was Illya. He knew it.

Minutes later, the bomb disposal team gingerly sliced through the Inrhysec sheet and the back of the man became visible, revealing rows of tight baling wire circling the bound figure.

A low growl came from Lawrence's throat as he peered over the dials at the emerging form. "That explains why the breathing is so shallow," he said aloud to Napoleon. "Besides the lack of oxygen, those wires prohibit the chest from expanding."

Lawrence left his post and joined the bomb squad as they slowly eased the fabric away, revealing the back of the bent head. The filthy hair was matted and dried blood gave it a rusty hue, but they didn't have to see the face to know Napoleon was right. The unconscious, trussed up man was Illya Kuryakin.

As the Inrhysec sheet was carefully removed, the next problem became evident. Illya's body was arranged in a seated position, the knees drawn up to the chest, and his face down on top of them. Illya's arms circled his ankles. A hundred yards of thin baling wire kept the figure – and the bomb strapped to the ankles – securely in place.

Napoleon felt his blood run cold. He switched his emotions off. He was, for the time being, only the Chief Enforcement Officer for U.N.C.L.E.'s New York office. His friendship with this man had to be put aside. It was just a body. Just another agent. Just a puzzle to solve.

Paddy stood on top of Ricker's desk, the phone to his ear, passing on the news to Heather McNabb, Waverly's assistant, and staring over the barrier and the growing crowd of spectators at the small group frantically working around Illya Kuryakin. Bastion had chased out everyone who was not essential. Despite the identity of the man whose life they were trying to save, there was still a live bomb to consider. The lives of everyone in the room and probably in most of the building were in jeopardy if the bomb went off.

"You're sure it's Illya?" Heather demanded. "It's Mr Kuryakin?"

Paddy had never met the man, but everyone else in the room seemed to be acting as though it was the long-lost agent. "That's what they're saying," he replied. He ended the call when an agent rushed in with a box of extra wire cutters from Maintenance, promising to call back when anything new happened.

The noise level in the room increased. The tension was high, but controlled. Bastion took the box, then quickly passed the wire cutters on into the sealed-off area.

Inside the barrio, holding an oxygen mask and tank loosely in one hand ready, Lawrence paced back and forth, shouting orders to his medical staff who waited beyond the partition. Supplies were passed around, agents raced from the room searching for items, while others entered with other requested bits and pieces.

Paddy moved his surveillance from Kuryakin to Napoleon. His partner appeared calm, watching the cardiograph screen intently, already detaching himself from his emotions. They would be dealt with later. Napoleon could be a cool bastard when he wanted to be.

The crew inside the barrier worked quickly, isolating the active wires connected directly to the bomb and tagging them to avoid accidentally cutting through them. They had decided to first attempt to remove the live bomb, then see to detonating it.

Lawrence hovered beside them, listening as they conversed, and cursing under his breath as the heartbeat on the screen became more erratic. Lawrence swore. Napoleon went ashen.

Then a medical technician standing below Paddy yelled, "Blue!"

In alarm, Paddy swung his attention to the cardiograph screen as it registered a straight line. No heartbeat. A high-pitched drone pierced the room, and the technician flicked off the sound. Paddy glanced at the clock, then at the flurry of activity that erupted beyond the partition. He watched in stunned silence as Lawrence and one guard grabbed the wire cutters and began slicing, almost indiscriminately, through the many strands binding the dying figure. Freed of its restraints, the head fell back revealing a scarcely recognizable, swollen face. Kuryakin no longer resembled his picture. The oxygen mask was quickly slipped on and the two men continued to sever the wires, heedless of the small cuts and gashes they inflicted on the near-lifeless body.

Additional cutters appeared. Napoleon seized a pair and moved beside Bastion, frantically slicing the bomb away from his friend's body, while avoiding the wires marked by colored tabs. Within fifteen seconds, the upper torso was freed and lowered back to the table. Lawrence stripped off the mask to begin massaging the heart back into action, while another medic came to force air into the starved lungs.

With a relieved gasp from the spectators, the bomb was detached from Illya's legs, deposited in a special container, and quickly wheeled out to where it could be safely detonated.

Paddy listened numbly as the revived heartbeat resounded through the room and the crowd outside burst into cheers. Not only had the missing Russian been returned to U.N.C.L.E., but he was somehow still alive. Barely.

Paddy glanced at the clock on the wall; in all, the heart had stopped for just over two minutes. The battered, unconscious body was lifted onto a waiting stretcher, Dr Lawrence readjusted the oxygen mask on his patient, and then the medical team wheeled him out from behind the barrier.

Paddy appeared at Napoleon's side and, with a casual grip on his elbow, inconspicuously maneuvered the shocked man through the crowd. "Snap out of it, Nap," he whispered. "Waverly wants us in his office with a report."

Napoleon nodded sharply, then turned back to the agents still congratulating themselves in the mailroom. "I want everything here checked for prints, for where it came from, what materials were used – anything you can get," he barked at them, jerking them back into action. "I want the report on my desk an hour ago. Move it!"

Paddy joined Napoleon as they followed the stretcher into the elevator, the closing door blocking out the curious stares.

Alexander Waverly looked up from his desk as Napoleon Solo moved briskly into his office, Paddy Dunn on his heels. "What news, gentlemen?" he asked, closing a still-sensitive file.

"It is Kuryakin, sir," Solo reported.

"They've taken him to the infirmary," Dunn added. "Sam Lawrence is handling the case."

"When will he know anything?" Waverly asked. "Is Mr Kuryakin conscious?"

"He wasn't conscious when we left the mailroom but was breathing on his own," Dunn replied. "The doc ordered us out of the infirmary and said to give him time to check Kuryakin over and run some tests."

"And how long did Doctor Lawrence say these tests would take?"

"He needs at least two hours."

"Has a guard been posted?"

Dunn blinked. "A guard, sir?"

Ignoring him, Waverly studied Napoleon Solo. Apart from those first few words, it had been Dunn handling the questions, which in itself showed how disturbed Solo was. "Do you believe a guard is prudent, Mr Solo?" Waverly asked.

Solo didn't hesitate. "No, sir."

"You have two hours, then. That should give you both ample time to go the Post office and ascertain where that bag came from. Keep me informed of your findings, gentlemen – and take the mail clerk with you. Ricker, is it?"

"John Ricker," Solo confirmed. "I'll pick up the security tape from the post office well."

"Miss McNabb," Waverly said into his intercom. "Have Mr Ricker in the Mailroom join Mr Solo and Mr Dunn in the garage. He'll need to bring his daily pickup inventory sheet with him."

"Yes, sir," McNabb responded. "I'll have the mail van waiting for them."

Waverly cut off the intercom and looked up. "That will be all, Mr Solo."

"Yes, sir." Solo nodded sharply, then spun on his heels and left.

"Mr Dunn," Waverly said, just as Paddy Dunn reached the door.

Dunn paused in the doorway.

Waverly said nothing more, but Dunn understood, giving a nod as he followed Solo out.

The New York General Post Office was a monstrous affair covering two city blocks. It had a larger than life Corinthian colonnade edifice of imposing pillars alternating with large bay-like windows. Rising to its entrance, like the Great Pyramid of Cholula in Mexico, was a long and broad and steep flight of stairs. Inscribed over the entrance were the words: "Neither snow nor rain nor heat nor gloom of night stays these couriers from the swift completion of their appointed rounds."

As John Ricker drove the Universal Cleaning panel van into the underground loading zone, Napoleon thought of the words of the Greek philosopher Herodotus and decided they also described U.N.C.L.E. agents. It was hot out and even with the windows rolled down, there was no relief from the muggy temperature. At least below ground there would be some relief.

Ricker waved to a security guard, who motioned the van through, then he backed into his customary spot.

The guard approached the driver's side window, peering across Ricker to Napoleon and Paddy Dunn. "Everything okay, John?"

"Yeah, Horace. They're with me."

Horace went back to his usual post, still watching the white panel van carefully as the three men exited it.

As Napoleon strode along the loading ramp, Paddy ran to catch up. "The guard seems to be alert for people coming in."

"Horace is the best," Ricker said quickly, keeping up with them, somewhat breathlessly.

"Was he on duty this morning?" Paddy asked.

Ricker nodded. "He was there. We chatted about his new granddaughter on the way out." Ricker moved past Napoleon and opened the door to the building. "I'll show you where I pick up the bags every day."

Napoleon glanced at his watch again and patted the U.N.C.L.E. cigarette case transceiver in his jacket pocket. No news may be good news, but it certainly didn't feel that way at that moment in time. He knew Waverly had sent them on this errand to get them out of the building for a while – there was no reason why some of the greener agents couldn't have done the grunt work – but he'd been assigned it and he would do it. He followed Ricker down the corridor.

Alexander Waverly refrained from looking at the clock on his desk. He was dealing with a call from Malawi in southeast Africa. The nation, which changed its name from Nyasaland the previous year, had just officially declared independence from the United Kingdom. On another line, the Canadian U.N.C.L.E. Head was waiting for information on President Johnson's signing of the Civil Rights Act and Voting Rights Act into law a few days previously. Promised documents from the U.S. Government had not been forwarded to their office as requested.

Another line began a steady pulsing on his phone, and he switched it for his assistant Heather McNabb to answer. While he was doing so, he switched all his incoming external lines to her. He wanted to keep all his internal lines open right now.

The U.N.C.L.E.'s New York Headquarters had been breached, and he wanted answers.

With a jump, Dan Powers looked up from his microscope as Napoleon entered his lab. "Oh! Mr Solo!"

"What can you tell me?"

"About?"

"What do you think?" Napoleon snapped. "The Inrhysec."

"Intumescent Rhytidomic Sequela," Powers responded, letting the syllables roll over his tongue as though they were words of seduction.

Napoleon wondered who had named the substance. "Is the sample you examined the same formula?"

Powers nodded, frowning. "I find it difficult to understand how this could have happened. The odds are quite astounding that a secondary source could do the research and come up with what essentially is an exact duplicate of the Intumescent Rhytidomic Sequela formula."

"So the Inhrysec was leaked."

"Yes, but by whom?" Powers pondered, as Napoleon turned and left the lab.

Dr Samuel Lawrence studied the backlit x-rays before him, staring at the proximal and middle phalanx phalanges bones of the ring and middle finger of the left hand, and comparing them with an x-ray taken the year before. Thin cracks, now healed, were visible in the x-ray taken an hour ago.

He circled the fractures on the x-ray and added the notes to the already thick case file. Every point made, every additional injury documented, made the case more ominous. The x-rays alone painted a grim picture of what the past few months had been like for Illya Kuryakin. It was a bloody miracle this man was still alive, and Lawrence would do everything in his power to keep him that way.

He looked up from his paperwork as Napoleon Solo and Paddy Dunn entered the infirmary, moving at a fast clip. A nurse intercepted them as they headed towards the intensive care unit and directed them his way. Lawrence had left strict instructions that he would speak with the agents prior to them descending on Illya's bedside. There were some things they needed to know.

"Napoleon. Paddy. Have a seat, please." He finished his notation, then closed the file and deliberately studied the two men sitting before him.

Napoleon Solo appeared to be his usual three-Cs: Cool, calm, and collected. He was anything but. Lawrence's practiced eye saw an agent who was as tense as a bow, seething with anger, and one step from taking out the first person who crossed him.

Next to him, Paddy Dunn was wary, his eyes darting from Lawrence to Napoleon, obviously concerned about what he could and couldn't do to somehow help the situation. Dunn also knew he was the outsider here. He didn't know Illya, and although he knew the two men were friends, he knew little of the battles they had been through to bring them to that point.

Lawrence picked up a file simply labelled KURYAKIN 1964 July 06 and handed it to Napoleon. "The top report is what you'll need for Alexander. It lists the injuries, the probable cause, our current course of treatment, and the subject's present condition. The remainder of the file consists of the results of individual tests we've conducted. The rest will be forwarded, once they are completed."

Napoleon grimaced as he scanned the report intended for Waverly. "You work fast, Sam. It's only been two hours."

Lawrence smiled grimly. "Napoleon, in my business – as in yours – you learn to work quickly and thoroughly, or risk losing a life. In your case, it's your own life you are protecting. In mine, it's a patient's."

Napoleon passed the report on to Paddy and hesitated before asking, "And how is this particular patient?"

Lawrence stared out his office door, across the infirmary towards the intensive care unit. "Let me put it in some sort of perspective for you. Physically, Illya has been through a tremendous amount in the last few months. We've examined him carefully, and I have the results of a full set of blood tests and X-rays in that file. A brief rundown is like this: I suspect that around five or six o'clock this morning, he was beaten up and tied in that position. He has several broken or cracked ribs, multiple abrasions and lacerations – some of which we did when we freed him – as well as a compound fracture of the skull, his right eye is swollen shut, and his lip split. And to top it off, his heart stopped pumping for over two minutes today, and he hasn't regained consciousness yet.

"But these are recent injuries," he continued, "probably done, as I said, early this morning. Beneath those injuries are others, most half-healed, and I'm more concerned about them. Scars and burn marks on wrists, chest, and back. Several fingers on his left hand have been broken and are almost mended. One of the ribs that cracked this morning had been previously broken in the last few months. He is dehydrated and is suffering from malnutrition. I doubt he has eaten more than a handful of food in the last few weeks. His weight has dropped drastically and, in this condition, he is a prime candidate for pneumonia."

"What did they do to him?" Dunn asked softly, when Napoleon remained silent.

"At the risk of sounding melodramatic, what didn't they do to him?" Lawrence retrieved his file from Paddy and paged through the documents, pulling one out. "They obviously wanted something from him. We have listed various forms of torture they put him through, some of which are standard THRUSH methods of interrogation. His blood shows traces of every truth serum known to science. The marks on his wrist and forehead show the possibility of electric shock. It looks like someone used his chest for an ashtray."

The doctor tossed the file back on the desk, then sat back in his chair and looked at the Chief Enforcement Agent sitting stiffly before him. "But here's my real concern, Napoleon. I was told the Inrhysec formula was designed by Kuryakin and two other of our researchers and is top secret. Since he came to us wrapped in a sheet painted in Inrhysec, whoever is responsible for this wants us to know that they did succeed in breaking him. And that is what really worries me, not the injuries. The injuries will heal; they aren't anything he hasn't faced before. But when Illya recovers, will he be able to handle betraying U.N.C.L.E., regardless of the circumstances involved?"

Napoleon's eyes closed briefly, confirming what the doctor already knew.

Paddy Dunn walked silently beside Napoleon as they left the doctor's office and headed down the hall to the intensive care unit where Illya had been cleaned and bandaged. Paddy cast a sideways glance at Napoleon, but the agent was once again unreadable, smiling pleasantly at passing U.N.C.L.E. personnel, his face returning to a neutral glaze after each walked by.

"Hey, Nap. He'll be okay."

Napoleon nodded without turning to him. "Sure."

"I mean it. He's tough."

"You don't know him. Lawrence is right. It would kill him." Napoleon showed his pass to the guard at the door of the ward. The guard gave it a cursory glance but quickly nodded the Chief Enforcement agent through.

While Paddy showed his security pass to the guard, Napoleon moved down the aisle, his eyes darting left and right as he walked by the individual cubicles. He stopped at the end of the hall and stared back at Paddy who had just finished showing his security pass to the guard. "He's not here."

"What do you mean, he's not here? Did they lose him?"

"He's not here. Illya's not here." Napoleon came towards him again, pausing outside of each of the eight cubicles to carefully examine the room. When he reached the third one, he groaned and waved for Paddy to join him.

An U.N.C.L.E. intern lay unconscious on the far side of the medical bed, his white jacket and security badge missing. Napoleon called Waverly while Paddy summoned the guard and notified security. Alarms rang throughout the floor and the intruder isolation walls fell and slid into place.

"Yes, sir." Napoleon stood at the medical reception desk, phone to his ear. "There is no sign of forced entry. The receptionist left for lunch and the guard assigned to watch the infirmary arrived a short time later, leaving us with only two minutes unaccounted for."

"We shall deal with that infraction later. Mr Solo, have the area flooded with – one moment, I have an urgent call on another line." Waverly's voice disappeared, returning a few seconds later. "Hold off on the gas, Mr Solo. Dr Lawrence advises me that it is doubtful Mr Kuryakin would survive the effects. You'll have to search the building. Dr Lawrence also feels that Mr Kuryakin could not have left on his own." Waverly paused. "We shall see; he has surprised us before with his recuperative abilities." Waverly broke the connection before Napoleon could reply.

Paddy motioned him to the cubicle where the intern was groggily drinking some water. "What's the last you remember, Brilly?" The intern winced as a nurse applied an ice bag to the darkening bruise on his temple. "Did Kuryakin do this to you, or did someone else?"

"Whoever hit me came from behind. It couldn't have been Kuryakin; he was still unconscious."

"Are you sure he was out?" Paddy waved down Napoleon's protest. "Could he have been faking it?"

Brilland Stokly held his throbbing head, trying to remember his last few conscious minutes. "I suppose so. I don't know. Sue – Miss Johnston – and I had just transferred him over to the bed, and I told her to go ahead for lunch, and I'd watch the desk until the relief guard arrived. All I had to do was give Kuryakin an injection and hook him up to the I.V. It must have happened seconds later."

Napoleon picked up the discarded needle from the trolley and handed it to Stokly. "I take it he never got the injection."

The intern shook his head. "I was just turning to do it."

Nurse Johnston hurried in to offer her apologies, her face white at the trouble she knew they were in. Napoleon and Paddy left Brilly resting on the bed and headed out of the infirmary.

"What do you think? As you say, you know him better than I do." Paddy brushed his fingers through his curls and looked across at Napoleon as they waited for the elevator to take them to Level Two.

"If Illya is acting on his own, after what he's been through he probably thinks this is a setup and they are trying to trick him with a duplicate U.N.C.L.E. Headquarters. It happened to us once before, a complete floor that looked exactly like level two." The elevator door slid open. They entered and Napoleon pushed the Sub-level button. "Paddy, I'll meet you in my office in about fifteen minutes. I want to check something out first. Do me a favor and go down to the cafeteria and grab me a sandwich."

"Sure thing. Any special kind?" Paddy held the door open with his foot when they reached the lower level.

"Whatever's there." The door slid shut and Napoleon pushed the elevator's Level Two button. When the doors opened, he hurried down the hall, past a guard patrolling the halls searching for the intruder, and into his office.

He pulled the box of Illya's things out from under his desk, his anger flaring as he examined it. It looked like someone had very carefully gone through everything in it. He opened a small locked box, tucked something in his pocket, and left the room. Down the hall, he slipped silently into the Enforcement offices. As usual during lunch hour, the room was deserted except for John Lagto, who now lay slumped over his desk.

But Napoleon's eyes were on the small figure hunched at Paddy's desk. "Illya?"

The almost-familiar face looked up at him and levelled the gun at Napoleon's heart. Half of the Slavic features were lost behind bandages that circled the top of his head. The one eye that wasn't swollen shut stared out coldly. In his left hand he held the nameplate which read Patrick Aralic Dunn. The contents of the top desk drawer were scattered over the floor. The gun was cocked and read to fire.

"Illya? You're safe now. Put down the gun." Napoleon slowly put his own gun on one of the desks beside him. "I know what you're looking for. I have it in my pocket." He held his hands up to show he had no other weapon and reached into his jacket without taking his eyes off the shaking weapon trained on him. He pulled out a thin gold chain and the tiny medal attached to it.

The man across from him let out a faint sigh, but didn't lower the weapon. His eye was fastened on the object Napoleon held out before him. The ancient icon was the only item Illya treasured; it had been his father's, and his father's father before him for generations. He kept it inside the desk drawer, taped under the desk top. Of course, it hadn't been there when he checked and the desk had someone else's name on it.

"You are really here at U.N.C.L.E. I'm really Napoleon. Besides, no one else but me would know about this. Trust me." Napoleon watched the gun waver, then drop. He moved quickly to the desk and placed the icon in the trembling outstretched hand. "Let's go back to the infirmary, my Russian friend. You can rest there."

Illya held the chain clutched in his palm. He looked up at Napoleon, then to Paddy and the security guards standing blocking the doorway, weapons pointed at him. His head tilted back and his bloodshot eye found the hidden surveillance camera and microphone. "Zwerver," he rasped carefully, trying to force dry cracked lips to form the word clearly. "Geld. Zwerver."

Napoleon caught him as he collapsed.

"I'll play back the tape for you, sir. I've run the word through the computer name file, but nothing came of it. It is entirely possible he was incoherent." Napoleon rewound the tiny reel the security guard brought in to Waverly's office.

Vandermeer and De Witt joined Paddy and Waverly, listening in silence as Illya's voice crackled on the tape. "It could be German," Paddy offered. "Or a mispronounced Russian or English word for that matter."

Vandermeer shook his head. "It is slurred, but it is definitely Dutch. Zwerver means wanderer or wayfarer." He shrugged and sat back in his chair. "Geld means money."

"Wandering money. Then it doesn't mean anything," Paddy said, with a sigh, rubbing his forehead. "Kuryakin was just babbling."

Waverly stood quite still, lost in thought."Zwerver...You are quite mistaken, Mr means a great deal."

continued ..

Chapter Text

January 1948

Alexander Waverly turned up the collar of his wool winter coat and pulled the fur cap down over his ears. Icy sea wind deposited frozen water droplets on his bare face as he reached for the outstretched hand assisting him from the coast guard cruiser to the gangway up the side of the large freighter. While the smaller craft bobbed on the tossing waves, he nimbly climbed the metal railing and was brought officially aboard by a smart salute from the five officers present. With a wave to the departing craft, he took a last quick look at the scattered evening lights of distant Rotterdam and allowed himself to be led out of the blustery winter air.

Speech outside was non-existent, but once inside the freighter's lounge, he relaxed and thanked the captain for his kind consideration in holding the ship. "I realize this is not something you normally do. My organization will see that you are properly remunerated."

"Come now, Alexander. When I heard it was you, what did you expect me to do? Turn down an old friend?" Captain Donald Lougheed handed him a brandy and steered him toward a chair. "You must be frozen."

"I just want you to know that I am grateful."

"We all do what we can." Lougheed drained his glass with a gulp. "Now what were you doing in Holland?"

"Oh, business," Waverly chuckled and sipped the potent drink. "Cognac. My, I haven't had this since - well, since you last poured me some. When was that, Donald?"

"Too long. Too long. It must have been in Hong Kong, before the war. Alex, I'd love to stay and chat, but we have to get under way."

"Yes, yes. Of course. Go ahead. Oh, before I forget - I'm going by the name of Alexis Virtanen this trip." Waverly stood and walked Lougheed to the door. "United Nations Representative."

"Good, then I can still call you Alex without blowing your cover. I could never remember all the names you used." The captain stopped before he stepped through the hatch. "My quartermaster will see you to a cabin. Actually, go ahead down to A5 - either 5-1 or 5-2. I know they're vacant; we had some V.I.P. cancellations. I'll tell him where you are later. Meal times are posted. I'll see you at breakfast."

"Certainly. Until then, my thanks again for waiting."

"Oh, it only held us up half an hour. This storm will set us back more than that. Don't worry about it." The captain and his junior officers left quickly to attend to their duties and left Waverly on his own.

He scrutinized a diagram on the lounge wall before reclaiming his suitcase and following the directions to section A-5. The first cabin was locked, but the second opened easily. He found the light switch and carefully locked the door after him. The quarters were small and compact, but luxurious enough to suggest they were definitely designed for first class passengers, not crew. A wide bunk bed was on his left, and a small desk, wardrobe and bureau on his right. The cabin even boasted a small adjoining head with toilet, shower, and sink.

It was only mid-evening, Rotterdam time, but the day had been long and he was not as young as he used to be. The conferences had dragged on and on, the agenda endless. The Netherlands had recently joined the UN Security Council, the Linggadjati Accord had been confirmed aboard the USS Renville the week before, and now the Netherlands, as a member of the Benelux Nations, was about to join the Organization of European Economic Cooperation. His authorized cover had enabled him to put in a word here, change the topic there, and steer the debates away from the past and toward the future.

He had often come to Rotterdam before the war. But now . . . much of it lay in ruin, bombed during the war, 35,000 buildings levelled in a few hours, its massive harbor crippled, thousands killed or deported to Germany as forced laborers, Jews shipped to and incinerated at Auschwitz and other Nazi camps. In the whole country, by the end of the war, almost three quarters of the Jewish population had been killed: 104,000 men, women, and children. By the time Germany surrendered to the Allies in May, 1945, three years previous, about 270,000 Netherlanders had been killed or starved to death.

The people were hurting. Many would never recover emotionally, financially, or physically. Families had been separated. Children orphaned. Factories, transportation lines, and shipyards had been destroyed.

The country was special to Waverly. During the war, he had worked with British Military Intelligence and with the S.O.E., the Special Operations Executive, whose task it was to undermine German morale, to foster widespread sabotage, and to organize underground armies. He had been assigned to the Netherlands. It had been hell.

Now it was time to pick up the pieces and rebuild. After the war, he had helped form the United Network Command for Law and Enforcement to lay a multi-national groundwork of offices and people so they would be ready for the next war, the next Hitler.

He set his suitcase on the lower bunk and removed the few clothes and toiletries in it. The spare suit was badly wrinkled; he'd removed it from the hotel closet in a hurry and stuffed it into the suitcase while the Rotterdam Chief of Police waited to whisk him to the harbor. The tiny wardrobe in his cabin held no hangers, so he slipped through the washroom to the empty adjacent cabin and flipped on the bed lamp. The closet was ajar. He reached in for the hangers and jumped back.

Frowning, he stared down at the sleeping figure curled on the floor of the wardrobe. A stowaway, by his looks, certainly too young to be a sailor catching a few extra winks. The boy looked eight or nine; dark wisps of hair hung below his wool cap and his fair skin was covered with dirt and grime. The boy's right hand was bandaged, and from the look of the dressing, it needed changing.

Waverly heard a noise in the passageway, switched off the light, and bolted back into the head. With the door closed, he listened as a key turned in Cabin One.

"Nico? Nico, are you there?" came the hoarse whisper in Dutch.

The wardrobe door quietly creaked open, and the older voice spoke again. "Nico? Wake up, zoon. Hoe gaat het? How are you? I brought you some bread and cheese. And some water."

Waverly could hear the tray being set down and the stowaway moving from the closet, but the boy made no sound other than devouring the food.

"My, you are a hungry one. Didn't they feed you in Rotterdam? No? When was the last time you ate?"

"Gisterenmorgen," the boy said between bites.

"Yesterday morning? Dat is niet goed. I'll make sure you are fed while in my care. Do not worry. We will get you to your father in New York City. How are you feeling?"

"Ik heb pijn aan mijn arm."

"Let me see it again. Yes, yes. You were very lucky. That knife could have done much worse damage. De Groot's man told me you killed off a man twice your size in that fight. You are indeed your father's son. He will be proud to see you again."

There was the sound of movement in the other room, the door to the wardrobe creaking. "Ach! That is a messy wound. I'll try to get some clean bandages for you, and something to disinfect it. Can you go to sleep? I won't be back until late tomorrow. I've left some more food on the bureau. Remember, you must be very quiet."

"Ja. Dank u."

"You are very welcome. Your father is a good man. The Netherlands survived the war because of men like him. Sleep well."

"Goede nacht."

The door opened and closed and the key turned in the lock. The boy finished eating and crawled back into the wardrobe, and the door creaked shut after him.

In the middle of the night, Waverly woke abruptly to the howling fury of a storm and the heaving of the freighter on the open sea. At first he thought the wind had awakened him, but then he heard another faint sound through the cabin wall. He threw on a bathrobe, hurried into the connecting washroom, and through to the far cabin.

Flicking on the bedside lamp, he stared down into the wardrobe. The boy was whimpering softly, obviously frightened and seasick, the bandage around his arm damp with fresh blood.

"Hallo." Waverly spoke in flawless Dutch and the young face looked up in terror. "I won't hurt you. I'm going to help you," he continued in Dutch. He reached down to assist the boy out of the closet, but a small fist darted out and caught him neatly on the jaw. Waverly responded with a punch of his own that stunned the boy long enough for him to lift him out and deposit him on the bunk.

"Don't twist. I'm just trying to get your jacket off and look at your arm." Waverly wrestled with the heavy coat until the boy tired and stopped resisting. With a small, terrible sigh, the child lay back against the hard pillow, resigned to his apparent misfortune.

"That is better." The jacket sleeve was soaked with blood and Waverly discarded it in the shower. He pulled the blankets off the top bunk and ripped the white sheet into strips, using some to wash and clean the wound.

Halfway through changing the bandage, he had to haul the boy into the washroom and hold him while he vomited up what little food he had eaten that day. The green tinge to the youngster's face gradually faded and he lay quietly on the bunk watching the older man skilfully wrap his arm and hand.

"Are you a dokter?" The boy's whisper was so serious that Waverly stopped what he was doing and smiled reassuringly at the child.

"No, but I have bound up many a wound in my day."

Again fear showed in the pale face. "Then, you are a soldier?"

"Of sorts. Don't worry. I won't give you away." He tied off the bandage and stopped to check his work. "That was quite a rip in your arm, but it won't cause any permanent damage. Try not to use it for a few days."

The boy nodded and lapsed into silence again. Waverly brought a glass of water and helped him drink it. Looking down into the boy's eyes, he saw not the vigor of youth, but a haunting pain and hopelessness. "Are you afraid of the soldiers?"

The boy shook his head. "Never. They are pigs."

"Did they hurt you? Did they do this to your arm?"

"There are many soldiers. Soldiers everywhere. Here and in the other place, before, when the Nazis killed my mother and brother. They burned my house." He turned his head away. "The other men hurt my arm. The new bad men."

Waverly pulled up a chair and sat by the bunk, covering the boy with a blanket. The new bad men. Unfortunately, the world was full of new bad men. "You don't have to tell me your name, but what shall I call you?"

"Nico."

"Hallo, Nico. Ik heet Alexis Virtanen."

The cold blue eyes widened and turned back to face him. "Are you related to Artturi Virtanen?"

Waverly smiled again in surprise. "No. Do you know who he is?"

"Of course. He is a biochemist. Me and my friend in Rotterdam have read some papers of his. He is quite good. He won the Nobel Prize for Chemistry in 1945."

"Do you like chemistry?"

"And physics. All of it, really."

That broke the ice and they discussed the various science fields for over an hour. The boy's enthusiasm for the subject was undeniable and Waverly was intrigued by his wide span of knowledge, rather sophisticated for a nine year old. Whoever had seen to the schooling of this little boy and his friend had done well, for it was obvious the boy had little formal education, but he was up-to-date on the latest developments in several major fields. And, as was the case with most children of the Resistance, he knew about the latest weapons and arsenal.

The storm slowly petered out and Waverly ended the discussion. He ushered the boy into the shower, scrubbing the oily black hair, more gentle on the scuffed and bruised skin, then brought him to his own cabin. The boy seemed to trust him completely now, viewing him as a fellow scientist no doubt, and settled down on the top bunk.

Waverly returned to the shower, rinsing out the boy's jacket and dirty clothes and hanging them to dry around the empty cabin. Finally, he returned to his own bed and within moments was asleep himself.

After breakfast, and an official tour of the ship, Waverly came back to his cabin to find the boy still asleep in the top bunk, sprawled about the bed and entwined in the blankets. He emptied out his pockets and put the extra orange and bread he had secured on the desk to give the boy later.

Lougheed had insisted on the tour of the freighter, newly made over from the war and now travelling between Rotterdam and New York City. By listening carefully to the conversations around him, Waverly isolated the voice from the evening before. The man who had brought food to the boy was the ship's quartermaster, Van De Laar, which explained the man's reaction at breakfast when he had told him the cabin number he was staying in. He had obviously settled the boy into the empty cabin, not expecting the ship to stop once it had left the harbor or a visitor to suddenly appear in section A-5.

Waverly was anticipating the man to make an appearance shortly in Cabin One and only had a short wait before the door key fumbled in the lock and the door opened.

1964

A buzzer rang and jolted Waverly from his narrative. It sounded a second time and he reached for the phone. An agent in Alaska was in trouble - boxed in an alley in Juno - and was unable to get local help. Waverly spent the next five minutes on several lines simultaneously, contacting police authorities and the Alaskan branch of U.N.C.L.E.

The two Dutch agents drew aside, at first conferring about something, then arguing quietly. Napoleon and Paddy Dunn stretched wearily in their chairs, unable to make out what they were saying.

As the phone calls continued, Napoleon fished a couple of aspirins from his jacket pocket and crunched them between his teeth absently, reaching to pour himself a glass of water only after he started coughing. His head throbbed. Dr Lawrence had not reported any change in Illya's condition, which was in some ways a good sign.

Illya was alive.

You never knew how a day would unravel.

Paddy nudged him and whispered, "Does Waverly do this story routine often?"

"Never."

The fans were loud. The day had reached and surpassed the expected temperature and the humidity was approaching one hundred percent. It was late afternoon now; rush hour traffic was building, the sound seeping into the building. Napoleon idly watched Waverly's hand moving from button to button on the console as he smoothly handled the crisis.

His head hurt. He did not even try to think about what a stowaway on a freighter sixteen years ago had to do with Illya lying unconscious in the infirmary.

It was hard to believe Illya was alive.

Napoleon's head still throbbed. He wanted to be elsewhere. Waverly had finished his calls and was staring out the window, lost in thought, odd behavior for the U.N.C.L.E. leader. "Sir?"

"Hmm? Yes, Mr Solo?"

"Your story, sir?"

"Oh, yes. Where was I?"

Paddy leaned forward and rested his elbows on the round briefing desk as the Dutch agents rejoined them. "I take it Van de Laar checked out okay and you handed the boy over to his father in New York."

"Van de Laar was - as you put it - checked out and turned out to be a member of an underground movement in Holland. On my recommendation, he was hired by our new Netherlands office in Amsterdam and worked with them for some years before he was killed in the line of duty.

"But to continue my narrative: Upon docking in New York, I followed the boy down the gangplank to where the welcoming crowds had gathered. A tall young man in the crowd waved in our direction and Nico waved back, quite excited, and cried out a greeting to his father. Before we could reach him, the man was shot. Assassinated right in front of his own child. Two of our agents were there to meet me and I had them locate the killer. His name was Lubinich."

"The name is not familiar, sir. Should it be?" Paddy was scribbling notes on the pad in front of him. Napoleon had given up writing anything down. He had succeeded only in breaking his pencil.

"He was relatively unknown in North America. We brought him to our old Headquarters and questioned him before handing him over to the police. Lubinich was a hired assassin, a Nazi sniper in the war, and would tell us only that he was employed by the Zekering - a group later affiliated with the organization calling itself THRUSH.

"Van de Laar and I brought the boy back to the freighter before anything could happen to him. He was returned to Holland and then smuggled back into his homeland. Except for a cousin with whom he was sent to live, his entire family had now been obliterated. A colleague of his father's saw to his safety and arranged for him to be educated with his own son.

"Before I left the freighter that day, I gave Nico a card in my alias 'Virtanen' that listed the phone number to my private line.

"I didn't see or hear from him for seven years."

Spring 1955

Alexander Waverly moved among the carpenters and painters and dug the ringing green phone out from under the layers of plastic sheets covering his desk and new office. The room was in a state of bedlam. Files and dossiers were scattered between the old building and this new one still in the finishing stages. The final move wasn't scheduled for three days, but the phone lines had been transferred early and Waverly had to be near the phones. Too many lives depended on it.

It was the first time the green phone had rung in months. He was thinking of having it disconnected, but it had been routinely rerouted with the rest of the lines and he had decided to wait.

"Hello."

A voice spoke on the other end, but the whine of a drill drowned it out.

"Quiet!" Waverly thundered, and the sound ground to a halt. "Out!" The workers fled. "I apologize for the noise," he said into the receiver. "Please repeat your message."

"Virtanen?" The quiet voice sounded strained.

"Yes."

"Zwerver. Nico. Pier 63. Six in evening." The line went dead.

Zwerver. It took Waverly several minutes to figure out the word. He had used the alias Virtanen during the Second World War and only a few times in the years immediately following. It had been five years since the code name had been deleted from his file and the green phone only rang if old contacts wanted him.

Zwerver. He reached for a file that wasn't there and called up his old office. His secretary answered and found the Lougheed file for him. His hunch was correct. Zwerver was the name Captain Lougheed's crew used to refer to their freighter. The Wanderer.

With the name came the memory of the skinny, pale, blue-eyed, black-haired little boy. Nico.

Waverly was at Pier 63 at 5:55 p.m. and casually examined his surroundings. No freighter was docked at that pier but the two on either side were teaming with activity. He watched as equipment was hoisted off a French freighter.

"Mr Virtanen?"

"Hey!" Waverly spun. He hadn't heard the boy approach. "Nico?" He wasn't sure; there were certainly similarities between the nine-year-old and this young teenager, but seven years makes a great difference at that age. He, on the other hand, had changed little during the years.

Still slight in build, the pale young man before him had a heavy woolen cap drawn down over his head and wore the rough clothes of a European seaman. "Yes, I am he. I need help," Nico spoke in thickly accented English.

"How may I help you? What is wrong?"

"I am part of group brought to New York City. We establish a . . . base for our counterparts in Soviet. Another group come, try to control us. We do not know them." The boy fumbled in his pocket for a moment, then tossed away an empty cigarette package, swearing. "Have you . . . papirosa?"

Waverly pulled out his cigarette case and offered one to the boy.

"Spasiba. Ach. Thank you."

The Russian words surprised Waverly. He stared hard at the boy watching him fight to light his cigarette, sheltering it from the breeze coming up from the harbor. "Nico, what are they called? This other group?"

"Man name: DeWeese. And bird name: THRUSH."

Waverly groaned and looked out across the city. THRUSH again. They had grown quickly in the last few years, largely by absorbing smaller groups and changing their focus while honing the rebellious or fanatical drive that fuelled the organizations. And now he had to tell Nico this group was linked to the one that killed his father.

"I know the name." He stared at the skyline again as he began to explain their objectives. "Come back with me, Nico. I want you to see where I work and look at some pictures. If you can identify the people that are infiltrating your -"

"Nyet!" The boy spun and raced away among the cargo and dock workers.

1964

Waverly stopped speaking and opened a file on his desk. He took out a photo and spun them around to the agents. "This is Pol DeWeese, a leader in THRUSH."

Vandermeer took one look at the photograph, whistled in surprise, and pulled a file from his briefcase. "Here is our connection, Waverly. This is the same man from our surveillance photographs." He pointed to shots of DeWeese entering and exiting a large city bank. "You say his name is DeWeese?"

"Yes, Pol DeWeese. When was this taken?"

"Two weeks ago . . ." Vandermeer glanced over to De Witt. "You are right. Okay, I'll show him." He pulled out a series of three photographs and handed one of them to each man. "These were taken the same day as the other. The image is blurry, but it could be your man, which is why we brought them."

The black and white photos, enlarged to 11 x 14, showed several men walking in the finance area of Rotterdam. Although taken with a long-range camera, the rather haggard young man in the middle of the group appeared to be Illya Kuryakin wearing a dark suit and sunglasses, DeWeese at his side.

Solo stared at the photograph, trying to make some sense out of the picture. Although he was thin and looked tired, Illya did not appear to be a prisoner but many things could account for that: drugs, hypnosis, threats.

Waverly nodded as though the photographs merely confirmed his own suspicions. "Let me continue my story."

"How does Illya connect with Nico?" Napoleon's headache was ebbing, replaced by a dull fatigue.

"I'm getting to that, Mr Solo."

September 1955

It had been a long summer. Waverly hurried down the busy street, several newspapers under his arm, his head bent down against the cool wind sweeping through the buildings and skyscrapers of downtown Manhattan. He gradually made his way into the older section of the city, through the nighttime crowds walking dogs, passing time, and conducting illegal and questionable business.

The poking in his side remained constant as his companion urged him into another left-hand turn. The building they entered was old and the elevator creaked to the basement. He was led down dark hallways, then down another flight of stairs into a sub-basement.

The room stank; it was the first thing he noticed. He was roughly forced into a chair, and his hands tied securely behind him. Thirty men crowded into the dark room, lit only by one feeble light bulb hanging from a low ceiling.

A strange mixture. The ten men gathered around the table in the center of the room were all middle-aged and well dressed. He caught glimpses of expensive watches and jewelry; they smiled unceasingly.

The rest were men of the street. Their ages varied from late teens to men his age, but the dress was the same - dark clothes, heavy work boots, and well-worn jackets. Angry, bitter faces all glaring at him.

A man sitting at the table spoke to Waverly. "You have been asking about us. We want to know why."

Waverly cleared his throat, his thick, busy eyebrows dancing as he frowned. "I was curious as to why a Russian Patriot group would consider merging with you."

The man laughed and called to one of the men standing apart from the others. "Vladimir, he is curious."

The dark haired man shook his head. "I have never seen him before, DeWeese." He looked around the room and asked, in Russian. "Has anyone seen him before?"'

Waverly moved his head slightly, memorizing faces as his gaze swept the room.

DeWeese tossed Waverly's U.N.C.L.E. identification on the table. "Alexander Waverly, United Network Command for Law and Enforcement. What do you want with us, Waverly? The patriots are not breaking laws . . . at least not in this country." This was followed by the man's deep chortling laugh, joined by the rest of the THRUSH members.

The other men stood silent. Vladimir ignored DeWeese and moved in front of Waverly. "I, too, wish to know why you are interested in us."

"Po-ruski." Waverly indicated he spoke Russian, then continued on in the language, "I know a member of your group and that member approached me, asking for information on these men. I now have the information."

"Who do you know? We are all gathered here and no one claims to know you."

"Nico knows me."

Vladimir turned away. "Nico is dead. I am the leader now. My name is Vladimir Ivanovich Repin. What do you know of these men?"

Waverly blinked back his surprise and looked around the room once more. "Dead? How did Nico die? When?"

"He was shot."

"Just like his father," Waverly muttered, then sat straighter in his chair. "For Nico, I will tell you what I know." There was a commotion in the open doorway behind him and the group's attention left him for a moment. Waverly twisted in his chair as Vladimir strode over to the young blond boy who entered the room.

A quiet, intense conversation followed in a Slavic language Waverly was unable to follow. From the confused, half-amused looks on the THRUSH members' faces, they couldn't understand it either.

The boy apparently won the discussion and turned to face the group. He was no higher than Vladimir's shoulder and looked as though he had been ill. He stood barefoot on the cold, cement floor, a heavy blanket draped around his thin body. The blond, almost white hair was clipped close to his head and beneath the wide brow, serious blue eyes stared coldly at the men at the table. He addressed Waverly in English. "Hello, Mr Virtanen."

The THRUSH men laughed again and Vladimir quickly explained, "This man is Alexander Waverly. He is a member of the U.N.C.L.E. group. We have discussed them before."

"I remember." The boy moved slowly around the table until he was looking directly at Waverly. "Your name is Waverly, not Virtanen?" he continued, in much-improved English. "For comrades, we showed little trust."

"I am sorry, Nico. It was necessary at that time for me to use that cover. It had nothing to do with you."

"I, too, am sorry. I am not Nico."

Waverly glanced over at the other Russian men, noting how intently they watched this boy. The THRUSH agents were getting restless, but also seemed unwilling to interrupt the dialogue. "Did you call me a few months ago?" he asked the boy.

"Yes. My name is Illya Nikolayovetch. My father was Nico - Nikolai Kuryakin." A faint smile rippled across the stony face. "I . . . borrowed . . . the name, yet it is my own. You may use it." To Vladimir, he said, "Untie him."

Waverly spoke quickly in Russian, uncertain of the limits of the boy's English. "Nico, you asked me who these men are. They are members of an organization known as THRUSH. I assume they approached your group offering financial support in return for helping your cause. That is their usual pattern. What they really want is your European Network, your contacts, your methods of smuggling people in and out of Russia."

DeWeese leaned forward. "Vladimir, while it is true that THRUSH -"

He was interrupted by the boy. "We have not asked you to talk."

It should have sounded impertinent coming from a sixteen-year-old. It didn't.

The room fell silent. Vladimir and the boy were locked in eye contact, stubbornly testing each other. When the boy spoke again, it was in Russian, and he spat out the words. "This is not what my father worked for! This is not what my father died for!" The icy eyes tore away from Vladimir and sought out the other men in the room. "Have you forgotten why we are here? Have you forgotten the dead rotting in our streets? Where is your brother, Ivan? In prison. Your father, Igor Isayevich? Banished. You have his name, but you have forgotten him."

He paced the room, the blanket clutched around him like a robe. As he peered into their faces, the men's eyes dropped. "Mikhail? Vsevolod? Ivan Stepanovich? Mischa? Sergei?" At last he returned to Vladimir and stood silently before him until Vladimir dropped his gaze as well. "I will leave with this Mr Waverly. Do what you wish. I will fight my cause elsewhere. I will not come back."

Waverly got to his feet quickly, reclaiming his hat and newspapers. The boy moved with him to the door, then stopped and turned to the THRUSH men at the table, addressing them in English.

"You have destroyed my father's work.I will find out who you are and I will kill you one day for what you have years, twenty years, or fifty years - it does not matter.I will remember.I will see you on the street and follow you to your homes and I will murder you as you sleep in your filthy beds.I will remember your mine."

continued...

Chapter Text

4:40 p.m.

A dark chill ran down Napoleon Solo's spine as the words echoed through the office. "I will remember your faces. Remember mine," he repeated. He looked across the room to Waverly standing near the window. "Someone saw him first."

"Perhaps. However, Mr Kuryakin was quite young when he said those words; it is doubtful they would have watched for ten years on account of a child's threat." Waverly returned to his desk. "Go home, gentlemen. I have other assignments for you, but they can wait until morning. I regret the delay in our conference," he said to the Dutch agents. "If you can remain a few more minutes, we will go through these papers."

Paddy Dunn flipped through his notes. "I have a few questions for you first, sir. There were some gaps in your story. In regard to-"

"Tomorrow, gentlemen." Waverly picked up a file from the Netherlands' office and opened it, pointedly ignoring them.

"It'll just take a minute, sir," Paddy persisted.

Napoleon got to his feet and tugged at Dunn's tuxedo jacket. "We've been dismissed," he whispered. "Outside."

"But-"

"Outside." Napoleon waited impatiently until Paddy joined him in the hall. "Listen, Dunn. When Waverly says wait until morning, we wait. Ask your questions later. I've got a few things to do before we go. Can I meet you outside in half an hour?"

"Sure. Whatever you say." Dunn watched him stride down the corridor and slammed shut his notebook. Hell of a day.

Erasmus stood tall above him in the sunshine, reading the same page forever.

Solo took a deep breath and entered the infirmary, walking down the corridor, not pausing until he came to his friend's room. Nurse Johnston had pushed up the oxygen tent and was taking Kuryakin's pulse when she saw him. She quickly excused herself and left.

He felt awkward. He wanted to talk, to slap this man on the shoulder and tell him how glad he was that he was alive. To tell him he had been missed. To ask him what had happened. And now to ask him about the incriminating Rotterdam photographs.

Instead, he walked to the bed and studied the chirping monitors, the clipboard with the doctor's scribbled notes, and the paraphernalia attached to the unconscious patient.

Only then could he look at Illya. The fair-haired agent lay motionless on the bed, his bandages and blond hair fading into the spotless sheets. The room was darkened, Illya's face lit by the luminous dials and equipment glowing at the head of the bed. The blue and orange lights painted a deadly hue on his pale features, for apart from the bruises, his sunken face lacked even the faintest hint of color. Both hands were taped to prevent him from escaping, an intravenous hookup on his right arm. A tube came out of his mouth.

Illya alive.

Napoleon sat down beside the bed, his legs suddenly feeling weak. He watched the I.V. fluid drip silently through the tubing and into the Russian's arm. His eyes followed a thin white scar running from Illya's wrist halfway up his arm to where it disappeared beneath the infirmary gown. Nico. Illya. Funny he'd never noticed the scar before.

Even unconscious, Illya's features were marked with pain, his brow furrowed and breathing labored. Caught in another nightmare that refused to release him.

Napoleon had lived his own nightmare for four months, waking up at night sweating and yelling, then pulling himself out of bed in the morning, exhausted. Their work brought them in contact with men who brought new meaning to the word evil, who had a debased, perverted psyche, and whose creativity at torturing their prisoners was endless. At night, his mind presented the possibilities in vivid detail. During the day, Napoleon would privately hope Illya was dead - safe - not suffering the agony he had dreamed the night before.

Illya groaned.

"What the hell happened to you?"

Solo hadn't intended to say it aloud, but Illya turned his head toward him and moaned in his sleep. For a brief second, one eye flickered open, then closed as a gasp of frustration escaped the chapped lips.

Napoleon waited a few more minutes but Illya didn't stir again. He tentatively touched his former partner's forehead, tracing the faint burn marks on his temples.

"I mentioned them before."

Solo drew his hand back quickly, his head snapping to see Dr Lawrence in the doorway.

The doctor continued, leaning against the doorframe, "The scars are worse across his chest, but they look like they were done with the same instrument. Napoleon, I was hoping to catch you before you came by here and saw him - he's asleep now, by the way. More or less in satisfactory condition. I see no need to transfer him to a hospital; we can care for him here just the same. - What I would like from you, Napoleon, is some personal information. You know this man. Can he handle the news of the Inrhysec?"

Solo shrugged. "We can't keep it from him. There are too many ramifications."

"I've asked Waverly to wait a day or two before the interrogation, but he hasn't given me a definite answer yet. I've already had Bulldog Watson in here several times checking to see if Kuryakin was awake." Watson was in charge of internal security. "I told him to try again tomorrow; I hope to have some sort of answer from Waverly by then."

"I would like to speak with Illya before Watson gets to him."

"I know. Come by first thing tomorrow. I expect Kuryakin will be awake or waking up around then." He smiled. "I'll make sure he stays under until that time."

The doctor disappeared back into the corridor, leaving Solo alone once more. He watched Illya sleeping, shaking his head in wonderment that the young Russian had survived his ordeal. Or was alive, at least.

After a time, he glanced at his watch and left the room.

He circled the statue, stepping carefully over the rubble that still lay about after four years. Erasmus didn't look at him, but kept reading the same page over and over.

5:30 p.m.

Paddy Dunn waited, double-parked, outside of Del Floria's. Napoleon had said he would be on the sidewalk by this time. Dunn had pulled the car out of the garage but as yet there was no sign of him.

A taxi moved out of a space a few lengths ahead and Dunn quickly swung into the spot. Before he could turn off the motor, he glimpsed Solo in the rear view mirror, emerging from the tailor shop. He gave a loud whistle that brought the agent's attention to the MG. "What kept you? Traffic's heavy out here."

Napoleon deposited his heavy briefcase into the narrow space behind his seat. "I wanted to check a few things first. Let's go back to my place." He said nothing more during the twenty-minute drive through rush hour traffic to his apartment.

Once inside, Dunn watched as Solo gave a quick security check to his place. It was something he would have to start doing in his own small suite, Paddy realized. Their business was dangerous; it was too easy to let your guard down at home, thinking you were isolated from the craziness. "Do you do this every day?"

Napoleon glanced up from the window he was closing. "Do what?"

"This check every time you come back?"

"Even if I'm out five minutes for a loaf of bread." Solo replaced his bug detectors and reactivated the security system. "It has to be automatic or you don't last very long. Contact our security section, and they'll set up a program for you. If someone breaks in here, the alarms go off at HQ."

"Are you sure this isn't a bit paranoid?"

"Twenty percent of agents' deaths occur in their own homes. In eight out of ten cases, a security system would have saved them." Solo sat at his dining room table and opened the bulging briefcase, setting its contents out in piles on the table. "I've got our current assignments, as well as a thick dossier on DeWeese, and a bit of information on the Russian and Dutch resistance groups Illya was affiliated with and some sketchy background on the men involved. I'll read through the resistance groups. You handle DeWeese's."

"How do you know Waverly wants us to look into this? He said to wait until morning, as you clearly pointed out."

"The files were already pulled and on my desk." Solo leafed through the folder on the groups and started scribbling in his notebook. He stopped for a moment when he realized Dunn was still staring at him. "Get this though your head now, Paddy. When Waverly gives an assignment, he expects you to already know about it. When files appear on your desk, memorize them. When he mentions a name, remember it and find out everything you can before you see the Old Man next. We already know about three assignments: the radar dish, the Moorley assassination threat, and next week's arms conference in Athens. Along with that we have these files about Illya and the results of the Inrhysec tests. Start reading."

July 7, 1964

7:00 a.m.

Napoleon Solo woke early, showered, and was dressed before his alarm clock went off. He passed through the living room on the way to this kitchen and tossed a pillow at Paddy Dunn, still snoring on the couch. Dunn woke with a gasp, clutching his head.

Yes, the day had possibilities.

No messages from the answering service, except for confirmation from the rental agency that Illya's suite, several floors below his, would be held. Illya was still alive - there had been no phone call saying otherwise - and Napoleon was more than ready to play the avenger and get some answers to the questions that had haunted him all these weeks.

There was a determination to his movements, deliberate actions to put the day in motion and get on with something positive. And if he had to crush someone to do so, so be it. And if he had to disturb someone, ruffle some feathers, so much the better.

He filled the coffee percolator with water and began grinding the coffee beans in his new electric grinder that brought Dunn staggering to the kitchen door.

"What is that racket?"

Napoleon stopped the machine and dumped its contents into the top of the percolator. "Go home, Paddy. Have a shower and get changed. I'll drive myself this morning. We're supposed to see Waverly at nine o'clock."

"Nine? What time is it?" Paddy peered at his watch, blinking.

"You better hurry; you're running out of time."

"I've got two hours," Dunn retorted. "I have plenty of time, and I'm never late, remember? I'll wash and change into something the Old Man will adore." His tuxedo was beginning to show signs of being worn for over thirty-six hours and the rose had been tossed the afternoon before. "I guess I fell asleep in the middle of a file last night. Did you find out anything?"

"I'll tell you at the meeting. Get going." The percolator starting hiccupping.

Paddy watched the coffee perking for several minutes while Napoleon buzzed around the kitchen preparing a rather large breakfast. "Why can't you tell me now?"

Napoleon pulled a single plate out of the cupboard. "Later." His bacon was ready. The toast popped from the toaster. He cracked the eggs and dropped them into the frying pan. He had woken up this morning with a yen for a simple yet satisfying breakfast like grandfather used to make. Eggs over easy, bacon, toast and preserves, and – he checked the fridge – some fresh strawberries.

Dunn was not so easily placated and was clearly not a morning person. "Okay, so I'm not Illya. But I'm still your partner, and I deserve to be let in on whatever's happening."

"Never said you weren't." Napoleon scooped the eggs from the skillet and sat down at the small kitchen table, ready to eat. He looked up at Dunn expectantly.

"Waverly's office at nine, then. I'll be there. The thought of watching you eat all that at this time of day sickens me." Dunn saw himself out.

Napoleon smiled, and dug in.

He sat beneath the statue with his textbooks, trying to read a language he only knew orally. The words slowly took on meaning as he sounded them out. Sometimes he asked Pieter what a word meant, but even though the other boy was ten, he just shrugged. Science words, he said.

Erasmus kept on reading, but the church had been bombed and he couldn't turn the page.

8:15 a.m.

"Sorry, Napoleon, you can see him if you want, but he slipped back into unconsciousness early this morning. Just as well, it keeps Watson away from him and his body will have more time to heal." Dr Lawrence - who, like Waverly, never seemed to go home or sleep - had intercepted Solo on his way through the ward.

"He's worse?" The day, which had started so well, was beginning to turn. Napoleon could feel the color draining from his face.

Lawrence frowned. "Did you expect him to be off running around the globe with you today? He was dead yesterday for a few minutes. Give him time."

"I need to talk to him." Napoleon tried to keep his voice level, but he could hear it rise in agitation.

"Go ahead, talk to him," Lawrence said, his own volume rising, "but don't expect a lot of response. I've told Watson, and I'll tell you, I will not give him any drugs to wake him up. He's got too much in his system as it is."

"Okay. Okay." Napoleon raised his hands in defeat. "I understand. I'm going." He continued down the corridor and stopped in Kuryakin's room for a few minutes, but he found his anger not ebbing, and Illya's raspy breathing only fuelled his aggravation level. "I need you on your feet and talking, kid. Don't take too long," he said finally and walked out.

The wind whistled through the dust and empty buildings. He was bored. Hyper. There was a raid that night. The men had been in the meeting all morning, inside, and his father had given him ration coupons and sent him out to buy some bread and cheese for the men.

He stopped by the statue, the sun high in the sky. He turned around and looked at the shell remaining of St. Laurence Church. No more bells. He wondered if it was midday yet, but he didn't have a watch today. Someone else had needed it.

One last look at Erasmus, holding his book, waiting. Then he turned and ran.

9:00 a.m.

The Dutch agents and Paddy Dunn were already in Waverly's office when Napoleon arrived, stepping briskly into the room fifteen seconds before the meeting and sitting down at the briefing table at the stroke of nine.

Waverly emerged from the back room shortly after and took his place at the table. "Good morning, gentlemen," he began, opening a file labelled Urgent, Top Secret. "First we will deal with Mr Kuryakin's situation. We are beginning to get a sense of where this case is heading, and unfortunately, are presently faced with more questions than answers. Mr Vandermeer, would you kindly begin filling in Mr Solo and Mr Dunn on the current situation in Rotterdam as we discussed yesterday."

"Certainly." Vandermeer stood and moved over to the slide projector, Dunn jumping up to dim the lights. "I have here a series of slides that should explain where we are at right now." There was a blank white light, replaced by the face of a young blond man, probably in his late twenties. "This is Pieter Eijkmann. Four months ago he was reported missing by his wife in Amsterdam, where he had lived for the past fourteen years. His body was identified two months ago washed up on the shores of the Maas River, several kilometers east of Rotterdam."

The picture changed to that of another man, approximately the same age. "This is Jan Hoorn, of Alkmaar, in North Holland. He is the son of a cheese merchant and was being groomed to take over the family business when he was reported missing three months ago. Last week his body was recovered from the waters at a shipbuilding yard on the south bank of the Maas River at Rotterdam."

Another slide. "This is Frans Hoffman. Born and raised in the Amsterdam area, he relocated to Montreal, Canada, in the late fifties to attend university there. He was working as a translator for a publishing company when he was also reported missing five months ago. Although no body has been found, last week a wallet bearing his identification was turned in to the Rotterdam police."

The slide changed to a group of men standing in a city square. "This was taken two weeks ago in the new financial district in Rotterdam, a few hours after the photograph we showed you yesterday with Kuryakin. We have now established the identities of most of these men. The man on the left, you have recognized as Pol DeWeese, a THRUSH leader. On the far right, Claude Voorne, age 55. Originally from the Utrecht Province in the Netherlands, Voorne emigrated to the United States in 1954. He is, according to our files, the current leader of a group affiliated with THRUSH in the Netherlands and calling themselves the Zekering, which translates Fuse Box.

"Behind them are two top leaders of THRUSH NETHERLANDS, which is based in Amsterdam, the capital city. They are well known to us.

"The two men in the center of the group are of particular interest to us at this time: Frans Hoffman, of Montreal, and Illya Kuryakin, most recently a resident of New York City. As you can see, Kuryakin is still wearing the sun glasses and is leaning against a lamppost as they are standing waiting for the traffic light.

"These six men, and the four others hovering around them - bodyguards, most likely - spent the day wandering through the streets of Rotterdam, stopping at various buildings. It appeared Hoffman and Kuryakin were asked repeated questions by the THRUSH agents but appeared unable to provide the wanted information. After discussion between DeWeese and Voorne, the group would move on."

The slides ended and Dunn turned the lights back on while Vandermeer returned to his chair. "As we have already told Mr Waverly," Vandermer continued, "the only correlation we have found between these four men – Kuryakin, Hoffman, Hoorn, and Eijkmann ‑‑ whose ages range from 25 to 28 ‑‑ is that they all worked for the same Resistance Underground group in the last year of World War II."

"When?" Napoleon blinked. "That can't be right. Illya would have only been . . . six years old then."

"Correct, Mr Solo. They were the children of Resistance workers, used by the Underground to run messages, sneak into buildings, some were trained as snipers, or taught to throw grenades into trucks, or plant bombs in German units."

"At age six?" Napoleon asked, incredulous. "That sounds a bit unreasonable. They were only little children."

"Tell that to the children murdered in the Ukraine, or gassed at Auschwitz, or starved during the later years of the war. No one said they were too young to die." Vandermeer reined in his anger and paused to glance at his notes. He took a sheet of paper from his folder, then passed copies of it to the others at the table. "I'm not sure what your files show regarding Illya Kuryakin's father. From the sketchy information we have, Nikolai Andreiovetch Kuryakin appeared in Holland in November 1943, with his son who was referred in our files only as Nico or Nickovetch. Nikolai Kuryakin was from the Kiev, Ukraine area of the Soviet Union, an area particularly devastated by the war. His wife and other child were killed in the first sweep of the German army through the area in the summer of 1941. Skilled in working with the Russian Patriots, and highly placed in ComIntern, Kuryakin trained his Dutch workers in underground strategies - liberally dosed with Communist policies - and in early 1944 was able to help them regain contact with the Dutch and British Intelligence Services. He was known at that time only by the codename Nico."

He passed around a small, badly creased photograph that looked like it had been carried around in someone's wallet for years. "Pieter Eijkmann, Jan Hoorn, Frans Hoffman, and Illya Kuryakin were four of the boys whose fathers were in the underground and who were trained as sabotage combatants. It is interesting to note that following the war, these four boys were, for various reasons, in the Rotterdam area for several years."

"Any particular reason why?" Napoleon asked, watching Waverly holding the photo.

"That's what we're looking into," De Witt responded.

"Where were the other men at that time? DeWeese? Voorne?" Dunn asked, flipping through their files.

"Claude Voorne was hidden by the underground to avoid being sent as a laborer to Germany. By the end of the war over 300,000 Dutchmen were in hiding. He spent the last two years of the war in various places in the Rotterdam area."

Solo took the small photograph from the Section One leader. Four very young boys were crouched down hiding, staring up at the sky. He studied it, trying to match up the pint-sized scruffy little blond boy with Illya. He reached over and picked up the larger picture taken in Rotterdam only two weeks previously. "So you suspect they want some information, that they think one of those boys saw or heard or somehow knew something twenty years ago."

"Exactly."

"What would they be looking for?" Dunn asked.

"We have no idea right now. It's why we came to you. You're the experts on Kuryakin." Vandermeer closed his file and leaned back. "And now Kuryakin has miraculously shown up here alive, somehow escaping the fate of his young friends."

Dunn glanced over at Vandermeer, then back at his paperwork. "According to you, Mr Waverly," Dunn said, jotting down some notes, sketching out a timeline, "Illya Kuryakin saw DeWeese in New York nine years ago."

"True." Waverly fumbled with a match, lighting the ever-present pipe. "There is no record of DeWeese in Holland during World War Two. He was based in New York at that time. Now, if THRUSH or the Zekering are looking for information regarding Rotterdam in the mid-forties, Voorne may be the one for us to investigate. He was involved then and now; he may be the link to the abduction."

"Would DeWeese have had other dealings with Kuryakin besides the one incident in '55?" Dunn asked.

"Not that I am aware of. Kuryakin was sent immediately to stay with an older cousin in Kiev." Waverly harrumphed. "Twice he was sent there and twice he ended up elsewhere."

Napoleon smiled at the older man's irritation. "Where did he go?" he prompted.

"The first time, when he was nine, he slipped away from his cousin's home hours after arriving there and joined up with an old colleague of his father's who ended up adopting the boy, I believe. The second time, he bypassed Kiev altogether and went straight to Leningrad. From his university records, he spent most of his time working his way through several degrees, changing campuses and cities frequently and forging identification papers for himself. Few of his degrees are listed under his actual name, but since the work he did was documented, we had him reevaluated by several college boards when it appeared he would begin work at the U.N.C.L.E.. We then allowed the degrees to stand on his U.N.C.L.E. resume. There are several years entirely unaccounted for on his paperwork, but it is apparent that he was employed by the KGB in Foreign Affairs, working on both sides of the law, as suited his cause. I was in occasional contact with him during that time. But I digress." Waverly paused as he gathered up the files and photographs.

"Mr Vandermeer and Mr De Witt will be returning to Holland to continue their investigation and search for Frans Hoffman, Voorne, and DeWeese. Mr Solo and Mr Dunn, you will remain here for the time being and concentrate on the case from this end: Mr Kuryakin's story and any indication as to what THRUSH or this Zekering group are looking for.

"Now, as for our other cases . . . "

Reluctantly, Napoleon closed the files before him and listened half-heartedly to their other assignments.

continued

Chapter Text

He walked out into the sunshine and felt the dust settle around him. He closed his eyes to the world and looked up at the sun, seeing the light through closed lids; then he moved into the street, trying to picture how it was before. He tripped, falling to the ground and cutting open his palms. His eyes opened, the bombed city a reality. Bombs and death were real.

Once when he was sick, they took him away and he woke up in a little house on the river. It was quiet there. When he was stronger, he walked to the edge of the river and put his toes in the water. There were trees and many bright flowers. He had sat on the edge of the river, with his feet in the water, listening to the birds, and he closed his eyes and looked up at the sun and made it all go away. He didn't want to live in the world of colors.

The church bells couldn't ring and let Erasmus turn the page.

He sat at the base of the statue and closed his eyes and looked up at the sun and wondered what it was that Erasmus read.

9:30 a.m. three days later

He heard papers. Pages turning. A phone rang once. A voice. Disconnected words whispering into his foggy mind. Light shone through his closed eyelids, but his eyes felt locked shut.

He sniffed carefully. A hospital. No, the U.N.C.L.E. infirmary - that was Nurse Johnson's dime store perfume. And to his left, he could smell Napoleon's after-shave.

So, something had happened, and he had been injured. Napoleon was okay or he wouldn't be wearing his aftershave. The smell hadn't faded much, so it was before noon; if it was evening, he'd be wearing his other bizarre cologne.

He sniffed again, trying to focus his awareness. Waverly had been there several hours before; the faint pipe smell lingered. Someone was drinking coffee.

The voice stopped. Napoleon's voice. The telephone receiver was replaced. Pages rustling. Napoleon doing paperwork in the infirmary?

The receiver was picked up again and the telephone dialled. He listened to the number of clicks. Napoleon was calling the Enforcement Agents' Office.

"Solo here. Put Lagto on . . ."

Ah, he could make out words now. Who was Lagto?

"John, it's Napoleon. Any word on the warehouse stakeout? . . . When is their next check in? . . . half an hour, hmm . . . Keep me in touch then . . . Local 528 . . . No, not yet. Lawrence says any time now . . ." Solo chuckled, "I know, he's been saying that for awhile." The telephone receiver was returned to its cradle.

Illya drifted for a few minutes, unable to focus his thoughts. Lagto? Who was that? . . . Napoleon had sounded tired. Partying too late . . . What day is it? Thursday? . . . No, maybe Friday. . . . Lagto? . . . I must check the experiment in lab four . . . tired . . . Maybe Powers already checked it. . . . What happened to me? . . . And who is Lagto? . . . Napoleon? Why are you working in the infirmary?

A chair scraped, footsteps moved across the room. Coffee being poured . . . Coffee? . . . Napoleon, I am awake.

Besides his supposedly reassuring grin, Napoleon could be counted on to have one of three greetings in these circumstances: "Hey, there, buddy. How are you feeling?" meant Illya was pretty bad off. "Well, welcome back to the land of the living!" meant he had been sick but was now on the mend. "It's about time. What did you find out about . . . ?" meant he had a minor injury, and Napoleon expected him on his feet within the hour.

With surprising difficulty, Illya opened his crusty eyes. They felt sore and weren't focusing properly. The light was blinding at first, but he blinked slowly, trying to clear them. He turned his head slightly to see a fuzzy Napoleon nearby working at a small table, bent over some papers.

After a moment, the Chief Enforcement Officer glanced over at him and dropped his pencil in surprise. "Well, welcome back to the land of the living!" Napoleon quickly came over and sat on the edge of his bed, grinning down at him like an idiot.

Illya sighed and slowly focused on him, his eyes opening and shutting as they adjusted to the light. He attempted to speak, but settled for clearing his dry throat. Napoleon poured some water for him and lifted his head so he could drink it. He felt incredibly, irritatingly weak. "Thank you," he managed.

The words were garbled, but Napoleon understood him. "You're welcome. How are you feeling?"

"Dizzy." Again, the word didn't sound quite right; he ran his tongue along the inside of his mouth and discovered the left side of his mouth swollen, his lip probably split. "So what happened this time?"

"What do you remember?" Napoleon asked, cautiously.

Just what he needed, twenty questions. He shook his head and instantly regretted it.

What did he remember? He closed his eyes. He remembered leaving for work that morning. Walking to work in the spring air. Someone must have jumped him, or he was hit by a car or something. "Coming to work in the morning. My usual route."

"Do you remember anything after leaving your apartment that morning?"

That morning? Illya opened his eyes again and painfully turned his head toward Napoleon. Not this morning then, or yesterday morning. Some time had passed. "How long have I been out?" He tried to keep his eyes open, but they closed on their own.

Silence from Napoleon. Illya could feel his partner adjust his bed sheets and clear his throat uneasily. "It's not important, Illya. We'll talk about it later. Why don't you get some rest?"

He opened his eyes a crack to catch his partner's worried look. He'd definitely been out for a while then. He tried to think about the morning he'd left for work but it all faded out to the light coming through his eyelids, and then even that disappeared.

He opened his eyes. Erasmus was there. Frowning.

1:45 p.m.

Solo poured his fifth cup of coffee. His head and neck ached. Dr Lawrence had been summoned to join them, and Waverly had called a needed break while they waited. Napoleon stood at the cadenza and absently stirred some sugar into his cup. He usually preferred his coffee with cream, no sugar, but today he needed the extra energy. Breakfast seemed a dim memory, and the sandwich Solo had hastily eaten an hour ago sat heavy on his stomach.

They had been talking in circles for three hours; the men gathered in Waverly's office simply did not have enough information. Who had abducted Kuryakin? Was that truly him in the photograph in Rotterdam and, if so, was he there on his own volition, or as a prisoner? Did the current problem in the Netherlands connect with Kuryakin's disappearance? How were THRUSH and Voorne involved with Kuryakin's disappearance? Waverly seemed to think the Zekering should be investigated.

Why had Kuryakin been returned to U.N.C.L.E. Headquarters and why had he been returned alive?

And, what other classified U.N.C.L.E. information had Kuryakin given out besides the inrhysec?

Dr Lawrence arrived, and they reconvened. "I assume you want to know about Illya Kuryakin." He tossed a file on the circular table and spun the middle section to bring it around to Waverly. "We're quite undecided at this time. His actual injuries are not that serious - he's been in far worse shape on several occasions. The mending process is progressing at an acceptable rate. He's a little weak but should be up and around in a day or so. On a physical level, I believe my greatest concern is the long term drain on his resources. Illya arrived in rather poor condition, as you recall, and, aside from the superficial beating, the injuries seem to be consistent with an interrogator trying to elicit information.

"My second area of concern revolves around his brief awakening this morning, with, according to Napoleon, no real memory of his abduction. Whether this is temporary or not remains to be seen. If Illya still has no recollections of his abduction when we speak with him later, then the question facing me as physician is precisely how much of this memory lapse has been caused by physical injury and how much is psychological. Should he be missing time, Alexander, my recommendation is that he should be sent to a hospital for more extensive tests than I am able to conduct here. We also must consider psychological trauma, emotional trauma, drugs, shock treatment, hypnosis - or maybe he is simply lying."

"He's not lying," Napoleon said, firmly.

"Your loyalty is admirable, Solo, but he was gone, under questionable circumstances, for four months." Vandermeer emphasized his point by placing the photos of Kuryakin back on the table.

"He's not lying."

"How do you know? In total, how long did you work together? A few months? How can you be so sure?"

"I know him."

Dr Lawrence was studying the photograph. "When was this taken? I haven't seen this before."

"Two, almost three, weeks ago now," De Witt answered.

"It hasn't yet been positively identified as Kuryakin." Paddy Dunn had been silent most of the meeting, but the Dutch agents insistence that Kuryakin was a double agent was grating him, too.

Lawrence pointed to Kuryakin's left hand in the photograph. "Look at this. If you examine this carefully you'll see two of his fingers are in splints. That collaborates the physical evidence of x‑rays showing his middle and small proximal phalanges on his left hand recently broken. He doesn't appear to be a prisoner, though, does he?" he murmured, deep in thought.

As both Napoleon and Vandermeer replied to the doctor's comments at the same time, Waverly stood up, interrupting them. "Gentlemen, if you please, we are not getting anywhere on this track. As Mr Dunn so aptly put it, we are indeed `chasing our tails' on several points."

Waverly puffed on his smoldering pipe, allowing them all time to calm down. "Mr Vandermeer and Mr De Witt will be returning to Rotterdam this evening. We will be in contact with your office, and I expect several of our New York operatives will be joining you in a short time, as we acquire further information."

His buzzer rang and he picked up the phone, listening for a moment, then replacing the receiver. "Mr Solo, there seems to be some sort of altercation on level two, Interrogation Room Two. A Nurse . . . ah . . . Johnson, I believe, just called for assistance. Could you see to this?"

Napoleon was already out the door, Paddy Dunn close behind him. The Irish agent paused only to call back in explanation, "She was watching Illya."

Napoleon raced from the elevator to crash into Nurse Johnson in the hallway. "What happened? Illya-?"

Paddy moved past him running down the level two corridor, trying to find the source of the problem.

Nurse Johnson was fuming. "Watson! The fool! He waited until Dr Lawrence left for Mr Waverly's office, then he went against Dr Lawrence's explicit instructions. He just went ahead and ignored it."

"What happened?" Napoleon said, firmly.

Johnson took a deep breath and focussed herself. "Watson from Interrogations came into the infirmary about half an hour ago, just after I went for lunch, and he saw Illya was waking. Casey said he had the papers from Waverly to interrogate him, so he didn't know what to do! Watson had Casey take Illya to an Interrogation Room, and then the bastard pumped him with `SpeakEasy'."

"He's allergic to that." Napoleon pushed by her down the hall to where Dunn was waving for him to join him. "Where is he?"

"Watson's got him locked in Room 4G with him. Take a look at this. The guy's crazy." Paddy's freckles stood out on his ashen skin as he steered Solo ahead of him.

They were in a small room with a viewing window looking down onto the scene below. Illya was on his hands and knees on the floor, wearing only a pair of thin infirmary pajamas. He had been sick - an initial reaction to the "truth serum" drug - and Watson was making him clean it up with a cloth. The Russian was dazed, in shock, plainly disoriented and terrorized by what was going on around him, his taped hands shaking as he struggled to wipe the floor.

Napoleon spun, pulled out his U.N.C.L.E. special, and shot his way through the lock on the door.

Watson looked up as he kicked in the door. "Butt out, Solo! This is my department. I handled it according to procedure! If your little commie friend can't handle his own foul-ups, that's not my concern. I'm after information about this traitor."

Napoleon smashed him between the eyes with his fist, not looking back as he bent down to where Illya cowered near a US Postal mail bag.

Paddy stepped in to block the ex-Army sergeant's subsequent attack on Napoleon, holding him flat against the wall.

Watson was livid at being interrupted and even though pinned, continued his verbal rampage. "I'll get you for this, Solo! Waverly's gonna hear about this, all right! The Ruskie's withholding information, Solo! He's sold out. I know it. Two days after he disappears, a massive stakeout is fouled up because the other side is tipped off. One month later, our Jersey office is raided, and we lose two men. Two months ago, our communication system had to be revamped because THRUSH had discovered our frequency. Last week, as you well know, the radar system is sabotaged. And the Inrhysec formula. Who knew about those things? You. Waverly. Me. O'Brien. Powers. Garcia. Two or three other researchers. And Kuryakin. Every single one of them."

Watson continued, "I was trying to get some indication as to the extent of his betrayal but the traitor stares at me blankly and then he makes himself sick. He says he remembers nothing of what happened. When I ask him what the word zwerver has to do with anything, he goes into convulsions. He says he's working only on the Winthrop case. When I mention Voorne, he doubles over. Your friend is useless, Solo! They've screwed up his mind. He's crazy! I've already got him down to be memory-wiped and reeducated. Waverly's gonna hear about this!"

Paddy waited until Napoleon had left the room carrying Illya before releasing Watson and adding his own left punch into the man's abdomen. As Bulldog Watson doubled over, Dunn pulled the Interrogation Room door shut after him and locked it. "You bet Waverly's gonna hear about this."

Thirty minutes later, Dr Lawrence took his patient's pulse, then silently removed the oxygen mask. "Make sure he gets some rest soon," he said as he left the room. "Any sign of shock, call me immediately."

"I will." Napoleon was still sitting on the edge of the bed where he'd been for half an hour.

Illya had been waiting for this moment and yet dreading it. And now that he was alone with his partner, he wasn't sure what to say.

"Feeling a little better?" Napoleon asked.

Illya nodded, his eyes narrowing in pain, his nerves frayed. "Yeah. Napoleon, I'm sorry."

"For what? I should apologize to you. I wanted to talk with you first, before Watson."

Illya swallowed, feeling his hands beginning to tremble as they lay on top of the blankets. His weakness irritated him. Lawrence had elected to cut the tape off them and rehooked the I.V. into his arm. But his physical condition was not his primary concern at the moment. "Napoleon," he asked urgently, "what did Watson mean? How long have I been . . . been . . ." He floundered, at a loss to complete his sentence.

"You disappeared on March 20."

That sounded right.

But Napoleon continued, "Today is July 9."

"What?" Illya's eyes widened and he grabbed at Solo's sleeve. "July-?" His breathing quickened as his partner related his arrival at U.N.C.L.E. Headquarters three days previous. "No," he said, shaking his head. "I left my apartment and walked here. I-" He broke off as he saw Napoleon's grim face. "Damn."

He walked by Goldstein's Deli and saw him sitting in the window. The man smiled at him as though he was waiting for him to come by.

"Illya?" Napoleon's voice. "Illya?"

He blinked. "It all happened? The mailbag? The bomb? The formula?"

Napoleon nodded reluctantly.

Erasmus whispered not to tell them anything.

"Napoleon?" He was getting tired. "Napoleon, I don't understand. I don't know the Inrhysec formula. Not in my head. It was all on paper in my lab. I never memorized it. How could I have told them?" His voice was fading and Napoleon had to lean forward to catch the last words. "They must have lifted it from my subconscious. My God, Napoleon. If they can do that . . . what have I told them?"

Illya's eyes fluttered once more and then closed, the day's stress taking its toll.

In the days that followed, Watson was ordered away from Kuryakin but was not reprimanded for his actions. Neither were Solo and Dunn for hitting him.

Illya Kuryakin was sent for tests, but there was no physical reason for his memory loss. There were still traces of chemicals in his blood but not of sufficient number to determine their purpose. He was returned to the U.N.C.L.E. infirmary, and Dr Lawrence refused to release him. Waverly also declined Watson's attempts to prosecute him.

Napoleon slowly walked down the hall, Illya leaning on his arm. Sam Lawrence wasn't thrilled about his patient being ambulatory yet, but Illya was determined not to be bedridden needlessly, and Napoleon was more than willing to get him back in shape and on the trail of whatever was going on.

"Napoleon, that picture troubles me," Illya muttered as they walked down the corridor away from the infirmary. He spoke in a hushed voice, as though unwilling for anyone else to hear him voice a weakness.

"The one of you and the other boys?"

"That is the one. Why would I not remember them? I was in the picture – I admit that it is very likely that is me."

"How do you know that? Do you have other photos of you at that age?"

"No."

"Then how do you know? I mean, I know what I looked like when I was six years old, but I had two sets of grandparents who took a lot of photos. I know what I looked like, because I have looked at those photos over the years and retain an image."

"The picture feels right, Napoleon. I remember being there, being that young, feeling afraid at the bombs falling."

"Who would have taken that photo?"

"A reporter," Illya murmured. "There was a reporter who . . . " He made a hissing noise, angry at himself for not remembering.

"Good guy? Bad guy?"

"How was I to know?" Illya groused. "I was a child. Children often misconstrue the actions of adults," he said, ruefully.

"Gut feeling?"

"Why should I put aside any reason and go with a gut, as you call it, feeling?"

"Because we're not going to solve this by reason. This case is emotion. It's feeling. It's you possibly seeing something as a child you didn't know by your reasoning abilities meant something."

"So you believe you can draw it out of me like a –" Again that frustrated hiss. "I cannot form a complete sentence. My brain is obviously impaired."

"Don't let Sam hear you say that," Napoleon cautioned as they rounded the far corner and began their journey back to the infirmary.

"I'm not crazy, Napoleon. I have no intent on giving the doctor any further reason to keep me confided to that place."

"Then let's get some dinner ordered in and get some meat on those bones of yours so we can get you out of there. Roast beef, potatoes, gravy, even some vegetables if you insist. And two pieces of apple pie for dessert."

"I'll pass. There must be some sort of vile soup in the commissary for me to endure."

"At least try something more," Napoleon tried, but Illya simply shrugged and they kept walking.

July went by. Rotterdam reported no progress. THRUSH Netherlands was growing. Two more bodies had been found that could be traced to the same 1947-48 group in Rotterdam, but these were men in their fifties. Both had been tortured. Illya Kuryakin did not remember them, but neither did he remember the other boys in the photo or truly recognize himself at age six.

The pictures of him in Rotterdam taken a few weeks before haunted Illya, and Napoleon often found him sitting in his room in the infirmary, clutching the photograph, staring at it. Illya's outer wounds had healed but he had gained little weight back and, therefore, was still weak. To compound things, Illya had begun having violent nightmares that left him moody and depressed. He ate sparingly; his stomach was often unable to keep anything down. He rarely slept at night.

A month went by, and they fell into an uneasy pattern.

Napoleon would meet with Paddy Dunn early in the morning at U.N.C.L.E. Headquarters. They would compare notes, meet with Waverly, send out junior agents on multi-track assignments - mostly routine legwork checking warehouses, tracking down leads, researching library, civil, and federal documents - and then correlating the incoming information.

Illya would begin his days with physical therapy or counselling. Following that, he was allowed out of the infirmary under Dan Powers' supervision in the late morning to visit his lab and work on some minor projects permitted by Waverly. At Dr Lawrence's encouragement, Illya was also allowed out most afternoons on day leave, providing he was back in one piece by evening, so Napoleon would pack up his briefcase and head down to the infirmary just before noon each day, sign out Illya, and they would head out for food. Following lunch, they would go to Napoleon's apartment and spend the afternoon pouring over papers and picking the Russian's scattered memories.

By three, Illya would be exhausted and sleep until six, leaving Napoleon to write up the report of their progress and plan the next day's work.

Napoleon found himself sitting alone at his dining table, day after sweltering day, his shirt sleeves rolled up in the August heat, the room silent except for the whir of fan, the constant rustle of pages, and the scrape of his pen on paper.

Paddy Dunn joined them for dinner most evenings, the three men sitting at a restaurant table intent on their assignment. Paddy had come to an uneasy truce with Illya's presence. Regardless of the Russian being `off-duty' as an agent, there was no denying that Kuryakin and his tangled memories were the case. To insist on his absence at their conferences would be defeating their assignment.

There was a sense of urgency in the New York and Rotterdam U.N.C.L.E. offices but no one knew exactly what it was they were looking for.

On the last Thursday of August, Paddy Dunn slowly walked the stairs to Solo's apartment. It had been a long day already, full of oppressive heat and dead ends. Voorne had a Dutch Import business whose offices disappeared without a trace the previous Tuesday; overnight the entire floor of the office building had moved, without warning and without a forwarding address. Two days of searching had brought them nothing.

Napoleon let him in, taking the load of files from him and motioning that Illya was still asleep in the bedroom down the hall. Paddy tossed his jacket on the couch, relishing the cooler air in the apartment. His shirt lay damp against his skin and he removed his gun holster, stretching in the apartment's welcome comfort.

"Anything?" Napoleon asked from the dining area, not bothering to look up from the reports he had returned to.

"Nothing."

"What about the telephone-"

"Nothing."

"Did Holtz find anything at-"

"Nothing."

Napoleon looked up then. "Nothing?" He sighed and reached for another report. "Tea's brewed and waiting for you. Help yourself."

Paddy walked into the kitchen and poured a steaming cup of tea. Even on a day as hot as this one, the drink was refreshing. Calming. He moved aimlessly through the apartment, past Solo buried in documents at the dining table, past the leather couches and new color television, past the alcove office laden with files. The once spotless rooms now looked cluttered and the plants needed watering, he noted absently.

He paused at the door to the bedroom, looking in at Illya sleeping, sprawled across the width of the large bed. The Russian was making progress; when he first was allowed out of the infirmary, he slept curled up tightly, fists clenched, as though trying to shut out the world. It was just in the last week that he had unwound, stretching out full length on the bed like a cat. Lawrence was still worried about his lack of sleep at night, though; the main reason he had allowed him to leave the infirmary was Napoleon's promise that he would see to it that Illya rested.

Paddy leaned against the doorframe, sipping the tea, his mind darting from detail to detail in the reports he had examined that day. It would be so easy to miss an important clue in the vast amount of paperwork, to pass over a name or an address, to discount a rumor or shaky source.

He was halfway back to the dining table when he heard a low moan from the bedroom. Napoleon's head shot up; the dark eyes met his. The sound came again, and Paddy automatically reached for the small tape recorder in his pocket, then realized he'd taken his sports jacket off and dove for the couch where his jacket and holster lay.

Napoleon beat him to the room, already on the edge of the bed. They had been waiting for a nightmare, hoping to catch Illya in the middle of one, record it, talk to him during it, and question him immediately following.

Illya had curled around a pillow now, clenching it with a murderous grip, his head snapping back and forth as he tossed in the dream. The guttural words he muttered were Slavic sounding to Paddy's ear. Illya cried out in defiance at some unseen assailant.

Napoleon's harsh voice rose above Illya's, taunting him, trying to take on the role of antagonist, to draw out the scene playing in the Russian's mind. "Tell us what we want to know," Napoleon demanded as Illya struggled on the bed. "At least tell us what we already know. What can be the harm in that? Where are you? What is it we are asking you for? Where did you see us? What do we want?"

Paddy felt his own hand tremble. He hated this. The interrogation of the innocent. They had attacked Watson for doing the same thing.

Illya sat up suddenly, gasping, eyes wide as he fought his way out of the nightmare, drenched in sweat, half sobbing. Napoleon cursed and dropped the act, offering a shoulder for him to collapse against. Illya fought him for a moment until he understood he was safe. Chest heaving, fighting for oxygen, he began shivering uncontrollably as the room's fan cooled the perspiration covering his body and chilled him. With his free arm, Napoleon pulled the bedspread loose and draped it around his friend, still questioning him but getting no answers from the dazed man.

"Illya?" Napoleon whispered, finally.

"Nothing," was the response. "It's gone. Nothing."

"The dream's gone?"

Illya nodded, his eyes closing.

Paddy flicked off the recorder and helped Napoleon settle Illya back on the bed where he drifted back into an unrestful sleep. Napoleon radiated anger as he returned to the dining table, silently flipping open a new file and stabbing his pen against the paper. Paddy retrieved his teacup and joined him, pulling a folder from the top of the pile.

Thirty minutes later, Illya walked unsteadily into the room, barefoot, moving past them into the kitchen without a word. He was too thin, the white sleeveless undershirt hanging from bony shoulders over worn Levi's. (Dismayed that the agent's clothes no longer fit, one of the nurses had brought in a pair of her brother's jeans for him to wear. Napoleon had remarked that it was amazing Illya slept at all with the number of female nurses and office personnel that were always stopping by `checking in on him'.)

Paddy glanced at Napoleon, but the Chief Enforcement Officer had not bothered to look up, still writing, his face an emotionless hard mask. Paddy studied him for a few minutes, noticing how tired the other man looked, wasted here among the books and reports and silence. A dark lock of hair had fallen forward on his forehead as he wrote. The ever present gun lay on the table, within easy reach, serving double-duty holding down the loose sheets of paper from blowing away in the fan's path.

Sounds from the kitchen. A plate dropped, spun loudly, then stopped. A soft curse. Silence.

Illya reentered the room and Paddy saw Napoleon pause for a moment without looking up, catching the movement out of the corner of his eye, then resume writing while the Russian sat alone in the living room, cradling a cup of coffee between his hands.

There was no verbal communication between the former partners, but Paddy felt like an outsider in the middle of a private conversation.

After a few minutes, Illya placed his cup on the coffee table before him and sat with his face buried in his hands. Napoleon finished the line he was writing and looked across at him, then met Paddy's questioning eyes.

Fill me in, Napoleon, Paddy wanted to ask. What's happening? Instead, he tossed the cold tea remaining in his cup into a nearby plant and went to boil another pot.

When he returned, Napoleon was sitting across from Illya in one of the wingback chairs facing the couch. The U.N.C.L.E. Special now rested next to the tape recorder on the coffee table. Illya hadn't moved.

Napoleon motioned for Paddy to take the chair beside him. "What's wrong?" he asked Illya softly. "Did you remember something now?"

Illya nodded, then shrugged. "But it is of no importance. It is an old memory, not a recent one. I don't know why it comes. Several times now I have . . . remembered it."

Napoleon leaned forward, switching on the recorder. "Then it could be important. Tell me."

Illya eyed the slowly spinning tape. "Is this necessary?"

It was Napoleon's turn to shrug. "We can always erase it later. You said it was an old memory?"

"A childhood memory. I remember a statue near where I once lived. Of Erasmus."

"A statue? Where?"

Illya stood up quickly. "Excuse me." He half-ran to the bathroom, slamming the door behind him. They could hear him retching, sick.

Napoleon leaned forward and switched off the recorder. Paddy watched wordlessly as Napoleon returned to the table and his paperwork, then joined him, choosing the next report on the pile and flipping it open.

A warehouse connected with Claude Voorne and another Dutch import company had been investigated. It appeared legitimate, the two agents submitting the report felt. They had gone in as customs investigators and spent two days checking invoices to goods, and everything appeared in order.

Paddy closed the report and initialled the cover. Another dead end.

Across from him, Napoleon sighed, shut the report he had been scanning, scribbled his initials on it, and tossed it on the pile of reports.

Still Illya had not returned. Paddy glanced at the clock. Twenty minutes had gone by. He stood up. "I'll check on him."

"I will." Napoleon crossed to the bathroom door and knocked quietly, then opened the door.

From where Paddy sat, he could see Illya sitting on the floor in a corner, his face resting against the wall's cool tiled surface, his legs drawn up to his chest.

"You look terrible," Napoleon said with a smile.

"It's passed for now. But I will stay here for a while longer, thank you."

"Want to continue your report?" Napoleon asked, then motioned for Paddy to go get the small reel-to-reel.

When he returned, Napoleon was crouched down talking to Illya, his back to the door, partly blocking Illya from Dunn's sight. Paddy could hear snatches of their conversation, in a quiet shorthand speech common to people who worked together for years, not just the short time these men had.

A flash of jealousy crept over Paddy. There was a strange bond between these two men that had been cemented firmly in the few months they had worked together. He had actually worked with Napoleon Solo for a longer period of time than Illya Kuryakin had, and though they worked well together, they did not have that extraordinary link of some partners.

Napoleon was concerned. Illya insisted he would be fine and added something in another language. Solo understood and nodded. Illya went on sipping water from a glass. Solo asked him why he had been sick. Kuryakin didn't know. Solo asked something about the dream about the statue and the nightmares. Illya said nothing for a while, then nodded and said, yes, he usually got sick after a dream about the statue. He seemed embarrassed, speaking in a whisper that he was becoming (becoming something, another word unfamiliar to Dunn) about his lost memories. Worried? Nervous? Dunn wondered, then Solo shifted slightly and he saw Kuryakin's face. Terrified.

Napoleon turned. "Oh, you're back. Okay. To the point now, Illya. The rest we can get later. Tell me about the statue. Every dream you can remember. Every other memory you have connected to it."

For half an hour Illya spoke crisply, fluently, his voice a sharp contrast to the pale speaker sitting half-dressed on a bathroom floor clutching a towel and a glass of water.

Finally Napoleon shut off the recorder and slipped the tape off the spool. Handing it to Paddy, he said, "Get this to Waverly." He glanced at his watch. "It's almost 7:30. Tell him we'll be in his office by 8:15, 8:30 at the latest."

As Paddy slipped his jacket on and left the apartment he could hear Kuryakin sick again. "Get it out of your system, Illya. Tonight's gonna be hell."

continued

Chapter Text

10:00 p.m.

His stomach growled, but he ignored it. A waste of time. Instead, he sipped at the cup of tea Alexander Waverly had made for him and listened absently as they discussed his life. Occasionally they stopped and asked him a question, but he was tired now and they let him drift. It became more and more difficult to follow the conversation.

Alexander Waverly leaned over and whispered to him. He felt unfocused.

"Illya?" Napoleon's voice. A tap on his arm.

"Ja . . . Napoleon, ik voel me duizelig."

Napoleon looked at him strangely. "What?"

He started to repeat it, but Paddy Dunn interrupted him. "He said he feels dizzy."

"I understood what he said," Napoleon snapped. "I just don't know why he said it in Dutch." Napoleon stared at him, his image gradually blurring in Illya's eyes.

Alexander Waverly said something to them and when Napoleon replied he sounded irritated. The other man tugged on Napoleon's jacket, and they both got to their feet and headed for the door.

Illya was having trouble following what was happening. When Napoleon stood to leave, he got to his feet to follow them, but Alexander Waverly told him to wait where he was. Reluctantly, he watched them leave the room and then turned to face Alexander Waverly as the outer door hissed shut behind him.

"Sit down, Nico," he was told, in Dutch.

His knees trembling, Illya slid into the chair, his dizziness getting worse. He was surprised how anxious he felt. His teacup was empty and Alexander Waverly refilled it, motioning for him to drink it. It was the first time he had been alone with him since . . . coming back. He wondered what the older man wanted, because he just filled his pipe slowly, methodically, as though the younger man wasn't in the room.

Illya shivered. A faint memory of interrogation and sweat and singed flesh. His hands left a moist imprint on the slick table surface and he stared at his reflection. Wispy blond hair growing back. He pushed the uneven fringe from his eyes. His eyes scared him in the reflection, dark rimmed and empty. He looked like a Holocaust survivor. He remembered them coming back to Rotterdam. He felt sick.

Rotterdam. Nico.

The pipe was full and Waverly/Virtanen was looking at him carefully. Scrutinizing. Weighing. When the first question came, it was not what he had been expecting.

"Tell me about the scar on your right arm."

Illya glanced down at the still pink scars on his wrists. He didn't remember how he got them. He remembered the smell, though. They were asking questions. Constantly. But he couldn't remember who they were or what questions they asked.

Virtanen cleared his throat as though hearing his thoughts. "Not your wrist, Nico. Your arm. How did you get it? Tell me."

His vision clouded.

I am running. I am late now and they do not like for me to be late.

Why are they yelling? I run into the room. They are fighting. They see me and yell. Frans says I took it. Took what? I didn't! No!

A big man I don't know comes up to me. Give it to me, he says. I don't know what he means. What do you want? He is angry and picks me up by my coat. Shakes me. I don't want to cry but the tears come anyway. I kick him. Hard. He drops me and I pull out my knife, holding it in front of me. Now he is very angry. He pulls a big knife from his boot.

Ooch . . . My arm . . . I throw my knife at him and it hits his throat. He falls and the knife slices across and there is much blood. He flops around like a fish on the floor and the blood squirts out of him.

The room is quiet now. One Eye picks me up and says it is time for me to go to my father. He says I am too wild for them, and a boy needs his father.

He closed his eyes, his head swimming. Alexis Virtanen waited patiently across the table from him.

"What did they think you had taken?"

"An important paper. But I didn't."

"Why did Frans say you took it?"

"Because he and I were in the room before the meeting, and I took a piece of paper from De Groot's pocket. He always told me I could have paper from his pocket. Sometimes I needed to figure things out, so he always had paper and a pencil in his pocket for me. His jacket was hung by the lunch table, and he was having his pipe, so I took the paper. It was in the left pocket where he always left me pieces of paper." Nico wanted to be sure Virtanen understood.

"Was there writing on the paper, Nico?"

"I don't know. There was usually something already on the paper, or it would be too good to waste on a boy like me."

"What did you do with the paper?"

The question was repeated several times until he found the memory.

Hey, Nico. Where are you going? The meeting is going to start soon.

I will be back quick. I have to do something. I know they want to send me to my father soon.

I run into the street and run and run to Erasmus. He is very tall, so I will be careful. I put the pencil and paper into my mouth and climb the statue. I have done this before, but not carrying things. I put my paper down over the strange words on the book he is reading and scribble my pencil until the words come through. Father will tell me what they mean.

Virtanen smiled and puffed on his pipe. "Did you show them the paper?"

Nico shook his head. "No, they would laugh at me."

"If you had showed them the rubbing you had made, then they would not have suspected you of taking the important paper."

Nico was quiet. He was very tired and his head hurt. The questions were difficult to answer. The words twisted around and went sideways in his head. He put his head down on the table. Virtanen was talking but it was too hard to listen any more. He wanted to sleep.

The dark-haired man came back into the room and stared at him. He was displeased. He talked with Virtanen for a while and then came over and put a hand on his shoulder.

Virtanen called out quietly, "Nico? Look at me. Go with this man. He is a friend. He will take care of you, take you somewhere to sleep. Do you understand?"

"Ja. Bent u amerikaan?" he asked the man, lifting his head from the table. The room was swimming in and out of focus.

The man did not answer him, but Nico could feel his anger and it frightened him. The man helped him stand up. His touch was not anger. The man asked Virtanen something and Virtanen answered.

"Hoe heet u?" Nico asked, leaning against the man.

Virtanen said something softly and the man replied, in a perturbed voice, "I am Napoleon Solo."

11:30 p.m.

Napoleon paused outside the office, pulling himself together and running a comb through his hair and patting it down.

He had just spent half an hour in the infirmary observing as the physician on duty took some blood samples from Illya, checked the results, then stuck two more needles in Illya's arm, trying to nullify the drugs Waverly had slipped to him. The young Russian had dozed through most of it, his face finally clear of pain and tension lines, and vulnerable in sleep.

Only when Waverly's call came through for him to rejoin them did Napoleon tear himself away from the ward's bustle and hurry up to the upper-floor conference.

Paddy was already there waiting, and the three men listened to the tape recording of the previous conversation between Waverly and the drug-induced 'Nico'. The recording presented possible explanations as to why Illya Kuryakin had been abducted, but offered no solutions.

Waverly stopped abruptly in mid-sentence, his hand raised as though to make a point. "Hmpf." He flipped through the files on his desk, then called down to safekeeping and requested a box by number. Without explanation, he made a few additional cryptic phone calls while they waited. Apparently some travel plans had been considered and were standing by, and he was giving a go-ahead on them.

The guard who brought the box up from safekeeping must have ran the whole way since he arrived within four minutes, breathless and smiling at the opportunity to visit the office of the Head of U.N.C.L.E. North America.

Waverly glanced up and ended his telephone call as Napoleon took the box from the guard and deposited it on the round conference table. "Oh, it's here. Good. Now, Mr Solo, Mr Dunn, I have made arrangements for you to fly to Rotterdam tomorrow morning. I want you to assist our office there in tracking down who is responsible for these murders, one of which was the mayor of a large local city. See if you can determine why THRUSH is massing in the Netherlands at this time. In our experience, they can be up to no good."

Before Napoleon could say anything, Waverly added, "Mr Kuryakin will be accompanying you." Waverly opened the box from Safekeeping and pulled out a child's heavy quilted winter jacket, one sleeve mended. "You might pass this on to Mr Kuryakin when he awakens. When we had first encountered each other, I had taken the boy's jacket to have it cleaned and repaired, but in the confusion of the subsequent events, it was left with my luggage. Tell him it is a souvenir from his past."

Napoleon took the small jacket, curious as to why Waverly had kept it for sixteen years but reluctant to ask him. It was not wise to accuse Waverly of sentimentality.

AMSTERDAM, THRUSH Headquarters

5:30 a.m.

The Head of THRUSH BENELUX Satrap (Belgium, Netherlands, and Luxenburg) sat at his modern-lined teakwood desk staring at the telegram before him and lightly tapping it with his gold THRUSH-engraved pen. His office was expensive and minimalist. The massive room held only his desk and chair, plus two arm chairs set at angles before it. Floor to ceiling windows graced two of the four walls. The other two walls were panelled and unadorned. He hate clutter.

Before him, the Amsterdam Satrap leader waited patiently for instructions, seemingly content to tarry for the other's verdict on the telegram he had brought before him, but the man's foot bobbed incessantly, which irritated him.

"The U.N.C.L.E. agents are coming here," he said at last, resting the paper on his desk. "They are bringing Kuryakin with them."

There was another long pause while the Amsterdam leader waited.

"Contact Claude Voorne and his little Zekering group. Inform him that Kuryakin is beginning to remember the paper Voorne is looking for, and he will be brought to Rotterdam by U.N.C.L.E. to see if they can help him retrieve his memory. If they require our assistance in abducting him, we will be happy to comply."

The Amsterdam Satrap Chief smiled. "It certainly solves some of our problems, doesn't it? We can just pick up from where we left off. He must have all kinds of new things to tell us."

The sun rose to their indulgent laughter.

Two Rotterdam U.N.C.L.E. agents met the New York agents at the airport and taxied them to their hotel. It was dusk by the time the ancient cab pulled up to the front doors of the newly renovated building, allowing Napoleon and Paddy Dunn to stretch their legs in the cooling evening air while the Dutch agents checked them in. New York had been hot and muggy when they departed that morning, so the refreshing westerly breeze was welcomed.

Agent Hans De Jong, dressed as a cab driver, returned to the car, his handsome face still bearing the casual smile he had worn since greeting them at the airport. "We've made arrangements to bring the luggage up the service entrance," he said without preamble. "Here are the keys to your suite. Agent Dykstra is waiting for you in the lobby and will see you to your room. When he signals all is well, then Agent Van Horne and I will come up shortly with the luggage," he said, indicating the back seat.

De Jong turned to shut the cab door, but Napoleon stopped him, a wry, rather sarcastic, smile tugging at one side of the American's mouth. "Uh . . . If you don't mind, Hans, I'll stay with the . . . uh . . . luggage, and my partner, Agent Dunn, will check the rooms with your man."

The smile never wavered. "As you wish, Mr Solo, but it is unnecessary. We are well trained in handling baggage."

Paddy Dunn stepped in then, his six-three frame towering over the other man. "Our travel agent, Mr Waverly, tells us our insurance policy will be void if our 'luggage' is lost or damaged, so you see, we prefer to deal with it ourselves."

"Of course." De Jong slid into the front passenger seat. "We'll meet you upstairs then, Mr Dunn."

Paddy winked at Napoleon, then disappeared into the hotel.

De Jong swivelled in his seat as Napoleon got back into the cab. "The Russian sleeps soundly."

Napoleon stifled a glare, turning instead to check on the 'luggage'. "The Russian was drugged. He should sleep for a few more hours."

De Jong's smile slipped for a moment. "I did not mean to offend you, Agent Solo. To be honest, I have no great love for Russians. But he is an U.N.C.L.E. agent, so I can only assume he is safe." He paused. "May I ask why he was drugged?"

"No."

Fifteen minutes later, alone in their suite, Napoleon and Paddy eased Illya out of the wheelchair he had been brought upstairs in and helped him onto one of the twin beds, both agents made aware again how thin he still was.

Waverly had insisted that Illya accompany them on the trans-Atlantic assignment, overruling Dr Lawrence's recommendations. "U.N.C.L.E. agents do not always have the luxury of recuperation," he had said, dismissing the angry doctor from his office.

The forced sleep would not go well with Illya, Napoleon knew. It was one thing to go under in the line of duty. But to be drugged by Waverly unawares and wake up in the Rotterdam Ritz was altogether different.

Just before the two agents retired for the evening, a call came through from Waverly informing them that the key witness they had in the Winthrop case had been assassinated just days before the trial. It was the witness Illya had found and had secreted away just prior to his disappearance.

That made six pieces of information probably supplied by Illya Kuryakin to THRUSH. They were faced with no other way to look at it.

2:30 a.m.

Illya Kuryakin woke in the dark to the smell of burning flesh. Eyes wide open, he waited, scarcely breathing, hoping for a sound to betray where he was. He was on a mattress, a comfortable mattress. He could feel a bedsheet resting lightly on his bare arms. His wrists hurt, but as he carefully rubbed them, the pain faded to a throbbing memory, as did the smell.

He looked around in the faint light coming in from under a door. Not the infirmary. Not any place he knew. He tried to sit up, struggling for a moment to free himself from the bedding.

His movement triggered a startled reaction near him, and someone leaned over to turn on a bed lamp, shielding his eyes from the light. "You okay?"

Napoleon. The tightness in his stomach began to lessen at Napoleon's concerned, yet casual, question.

"What's happening?" Illya asked when he found his voice. He glanced around the room, still bewildered as to his location. Paddy Dunn, on a cot at the foot of the beds, raised himself to lean on one elbow, peering sleepily at him.

"We're at a hotel in Rotterdam." Napoleon untangled the sheets for him and helped him sit up.

It took a few seconds for Illya to digest the information. "Rotterdam? I was in Alexander Waverly's office . . ."

"That was more than twenty‑four hours ago."

There was no reason for Napoleon to lie about such a thing, but the absurdity of it . . . How could he have lost that much time? "I slept for a whole day?"

"You were drugged."

"By Alexander Waverly?"

"Yes."

"Why?" Illya swung his feet to the floor, trying to stand, but feeling weak-kneed. "Why?" he hissed through clenched teeth. He felt frustrated and tired to the core of being out of control of his world. He was not accustomed to being treated in this manner, not by one of the few men in the world he'd come to trust. "Why was I drugged? What did I do?"

"He didn't ask my approval. We're here to investigate the murders of some Dutchmen, and Waverly wanted you to come along with us." Napoleon glanced at his watch. "It's 2:30 in the morning here, Illya, and it's been a long day for us. We'll talk about it later." He got out of bed, grabbed a dinner roll from the table, and tossed it to Illya.

Illya grabbed it, immediately biting off a piece.

Napoleon appeared gratified. "Hungry? Good. I don't expect you have a lot in your stomach, and you'll need your strength."

Illya nodded, taking another bite of the dinner roll. It was dry but was already easing the hunger.

Napoleon gave a grim smile. "There's more food on the table if you want it. We ordered for you just before room service closed." He crawled back into his bed. "Turn off the light and get to sleep as soon as you can. We've got a lot to do tomorrow." Napoleon rolled on his side and turned away from the light.

Chewing on the crispy roll and trying to make sense of the Chief Enforcement Agent's words, Illya glanced around at his surroundings. Dunn had gone back to sleep, snoring softly. Napoleon shifted on the bed, then settled down.

Illya crossed to the window and looked out but could not get his bearings. The buildings were not familiar, but it had been many years since he'd been here, and they'd rebuilt the city after the war. It didn't look like Rotterdam, but he saw no reason for Napoleon to lie to him. He took a second piece of bread and some cheese from the table and went back to the window, eating slowly and staring out at the city lights.

The food seemed to fill him and before long he fumbled with the light switch and fell back asleep.

The small clock on the night table showed it to be 3:14 a.m. when there was a series of beeps from the U.N.C.L.E. radio transceiver. Napoleon had his gun out while Paddy Dunn stumbled in the dark and turned on the light, grabbing for his cigarette case, flipping it open, and activating the channel.

Another Dutch U.N.C.L.E. agent's voice crackled into their suite. "Agent Brekker here. Twelve THRUSH agents have been identified in the area. They may be after you. Be advised. Out." Brekker closed the signal.

Paddy reached over and clicked the safety off his U.N.C.L.E. automatic pistol. "I'll go check the hall," he said to Napoleon, pulling on some clothes and tucking the weapon out of sight in its holster.

Napoleon nodded. He dressed and quickly crossed the room to the window, carefully studying the street below as inconspicuously as he could but from their tenth-floor room he could make out little detail. He checked his pistol, tucking an extra clip of ammunition in his jacket pocket. A quick tug on Illya's eyelid showed his former partner was once more fast asleep.

The building trembled. A moment later, the muffled shock blast sounded through the suite.

Paddy slipped back into the room. "Bomb?" he queried, his gun pulled out.

As Napoleon went to open a channel to the Dutch agents, De Jong's voice came over the transceiver, his voice registering anger. "Our cab was blown up, Solo. A good agent went with it. Your luggage better damn be worth it. Van Horne overheard two THRUSH agents talking, and they said the suite you are in was all 'prepared.' We don't know what that means, but it's best to move you. Pack your luggage. We'll put you in the sub-basement for now until we flush out the rest of these guys. Out."

"I'll deal with Illya. Check the elevator." Napoleon moved around the suite, gathering supplies as Dunn exited the room.

Paddy stalked down the hallway, checking the stairwell at the east end, then moving to check the west stairs. Unfortunately, the elevator indicator did not show which floor the elevator was currently on, so there was no way of monitoring it.

Paddy ducked out of sight when the doors to the service elevator at the west end slid open. He peered around the corner to see Agent Van Horne fall lifelessly out, his gun impotent in his hand.

Dunn flattened himself against a suite doorway, then pulled out and shot down the first THRUSH agent as he exited the elevator. Another quick shot and the man was still. Too late Dunn saw the second man emerge and he felt the blinding jolt clip his left shoulder. He spun, dropped to his knees, and kept firing. When all was silent, he got up painfully and stepped over the second man, moving into the elevator cage only to find the terrified operator. He quietly asked the man, in English, then in Dutch, to hold the elevator for a moment.

The old man bobbed his head in answer, eyes widening further as Dunn pulled out what appeared to be a cigarette case and began speaking into it. "We're clear. Bring him."

From where he rested against the elevator door, he could see Napoleon emerge from the suite, eye the long hallway, and pull Illya out after him. The young Russian moved awkwardly, still half asleep, holding a few blankets, a box of ammunition, and a leather bag of supplies. Napoleon had the special U.N.C.L.E. arsenal and weapons they had brought with them. As he got close enough to see Dunn's blood-stained fingers clamped over his left shoulder, Napoleon cursed and sprinted back to their room for the first aid case.

The elderly elevator operator watched them wordlessly as they descended. Napoleon rapidly checked the flesh wound on Paddy's shoulder and bandaged it. They were both ready for action by the time the elevator reached the basement.

They spilled out of the elevator, one high, one low, freezing when two more Rotterdam U.N.C.L.E. agents met them, flashing their identification. The Dutch agents quickly took charge of Kuryakin, one scooping up the blankets and supplies while another herded Illya down the narrow flight of stairs leading to the sub-basement, Paddy bringing up the rear.

Sudden gunfire behind them forced the two New York U.N.C.L.E. agents to turn around and return the fire. Several minutes went by before they had driven off their attackers and could quickly join the others.

The room they were supposed to be hiding in was empty, though. Another door led out from it into an underground parking lot and as Paddy and Napoleon ran out among the cars they could hear a car screeching up to the upper levels and then disappear from their hearing.

The blankets, ammunition, and leather bag lay abandoned on the grey concrete, but the two other men, and Illya, were gone.

continued

Chapter Text

Within minutes the streets surrounding the hotel were filled with emergency and police vehicles and Napoleon Solo was called upon, as the senior U.N.C.L.E. representative on site, to offer explanations along with Dirk Vandermeer, who was in charge of the local Rotterdam U.N.C.L.E. office. As U.N.C.L.E. was relatively new to Rotterdam, the police were uncertain of which procedures to follow, or whether charges should be laid. Three THRUSH agents and four U.N.C.L.E. agents were dead, as well as the front desk clerk from the hotel who had tried to telephone for help. Ambulances were dealing with injured agents from both sides, including Paddy Dunn who was reluctantly taken to a nearby hospital to have the bullet wound in his arm properly cleaned and bandaged.

Napoleon stood in the middle of the road as the last emergency vehicle cleared out, staring off into the darkness of the empty street.

Halfway across town, Illya Kuryakin turned and stumbled down another narrow alley. He glanced back over his shoulder, wincing as his muscles protested the movement. No pursuit in sight, but he could hear them, the car taking corners on two wheels as they tried to trace him. He wedged his thin body into a space between two buildings and tried to bring his breathing under control as he wiggled through to a stonework wall hiding the passage from the front street. Pressing his back against the cool bricks, he easily wormed his way up between the two buildings, gradually moving forward to the street.

When he was even with the second floor, he took a deep breath and hooked one arm over a ledge protruding from one of the buildings, following that with a leg, and then drew himself up until he could look down over the dark street. He crouched on the ledge, waiting.

It didn't take long. The dark sedan chasing him crawled around the corner, headlights out, searching for him.

To his relief, they did not think to look up and he watched as they slowly moved out of his sight and into the next neighborhood.

He slid down the awning and dropped to the sidewalk, scraping one bare foot on the cobblestone. Why aren't I wearing shoes? A clock struck the half hour. Four thirty in the morning. Why am I dressed, but not wearing shoes? What happened?

Faint memories of hallways and elevators and running. Paddy was bleeding. A dead man in the elevator. Napoleon pushing him toward two men.

He was light-headed, but alert. His senses tingled with a life he hadn't felt for months.

He walked down the street trying to figure out where he was. And where he had been.

The car had left the hotel - which hotel? - and had been moving for ten minutes before he slowly realized that he was being kidnapped again. He had then suddenly exploded into action, chopping the driver's shoulder with his right hand, then letting the arm continue, his elbow smashing into the face of the man on his right. He fell against the handle and dropped to the street, rolling to clear the door and the car, then running full blast down the street.

It had taken him an hour to lose them in the maze of streets. They were persistent but not professionals. He spent some time analyzing that fact. From what he could remember of the hotel assault, and the weapon of the dead man he had seen in the elevator, THRUSH was involved. But the men in the car were not THRUSH or he would not have escaped so easily. Maybe working for THRUSH? Or was THRUSH merely allowing them to fulfill some purpose for its own agenda?

He ran their faces through his mind but could not remember having seen them before. But then the four months of his abduction were still blank.

Meanwhile, he walked down the dark streets of Rotterdam. It had been a long time. He stopped to figure it out - sixteen years. He had been four or five when they arrived to a city of rubble, largely destroyed by the blitz in the early years of the war. It had been his playground for four years. He hardly remembered it.

Memories darted at his consciousness, vague faces and disjointed shapes, jumping from one event to the next in no sequential order. One face emerged and smiled at him from the sea of frowns.

One Eye laughed and tossed him in the air.

He would close his eyes and fly until the big hands caught him again. The big hands never dropped him.

Erasmus believed in peace.

One Eye taught him to wink at the gun.

He walked absently, warmed by the memory, trusting his instincts and keeping to the shadows, but the streets were empty. Down two streets, turn left. Nothing looked familiar, but . . . it was.

He could hear guitar music up ahead. Another block and on a back street, an open door cast flickering lights into the night, the music louder now. Hungry and tired, he walked into the all night coffeehouse, his eyes narrowing as he scanned the small occupied tables, with their flickering candles and calico tablecloths. He glanced down at his clothes, noticing they were not entirely suitable for a restaurant. Black turtleneck and jeans. No shoes. He checked his pockets. No money, either.

They didn't seem to care. They fed him and gave him hot chocolate. They asked his name and without thinking, he said Nico. They talked about love and peace, and sang songs about brotherhood. It was a piece of Greenwich Village.

The hot chocolate made him sleepy. Part of his mind told him to get out and find Napoleon. Another part reminded him he had no idea where he was, where Napoleon Solo was, or where U.N.C.L.E. was in this city. His body took over and shut down and the peaceniks carried him to a cot at the back of the coffeehouse and the guitars continued to play.

When dawn finally came, Dirk Vandermeer picked Paddy up at the hospital and they headed for the small U.N.C.L.E. office.

Napoleon was already there, situated at a desk, looking over a file. He glanced up as Paddy entered, nodded once, then looked back to what he was doing. Paddy could see Napoleon rubbing his forehead, knowing the man probably had a throbbing headache that matched his own.

"I'd like to see your investigation reports," Napoleon said to Vandermeer. "Have you interviewed anyone else involved with the Resistance group Nikolai Kuryakin headed? Why was he in New York when the group broke up? What about the other men that formed the group - are any of them still in the city?"

"You're welcome to whatever we have." Vandermeer waved for one of the clerks to get the additional files. He stood at the window and looked to the street below, then turned back to Napoleon. "Please do not take this the wrong way, but I must ask it. He may be your friend, but to us, he is a suspect in murder."

"Say it," Napoleon said tightly.

Vandermeer sat down and pulled out a cigarette. "Okay, then. Are you sure about Illya Kuryakin? They didn't grab him too easily? It was almost as though he was expecting it, waiting for them. Witnesses said he was not putting up a fight in the car."

Paddy glanced to Napoleon who appeared to be counting to ten under his breath.

"Yes, I am sure," Napoleon said, tightly. "Why should he have fought them? I told him to go with them to safety. He was still half-drugged, disoriented. He trusted me. And I might have been the one to sign his death warrant."

Vandermeer studied the other agent. "Okay. I'll drop it. I had to ask." Vandermeer left the room.

Paddy sighed and stared out the window at the wakening city. The case stunk.

"You okay?" Napoleon asked, eyeing the bandage and sling.

The tall Irishman nodded. "It was a clean wound. I was just clipped. They anesthetized it and rewrapped it." He changed the topic. "Did you call Waverly?"

Napoleon nodded, but did not relay the conversation.

He didn't have to. Paddy knew that Waverly would not have been pleased with their performance and he couldn't blame him.

They spent the rest of the day in a small, windowless office, stopping only briefly to eat the food placed before them. The Rotterdam U.N.C.L.E. agency was new and unorganized. Vandermeer was an excellent agent and investigator, but neither he nor his partner De Jong were desk men. Napoleon relentlessly drove the secretaries and clerks to catch up with the backlog of filing.

The New York agents worked in silence for hours, only speaking to each other when it directly related to the information they were looking for.

At one point during the day, it occurred to Paddy that he was angry. Furious.

Why?

Because he was shot? Because four U.N.C.L.E. agents and one innocent were killed in a battle that didn't make sense? Because they had not prevented Kuryakin from being abducted again? Because the Dutch agents accused Kuryakin of betrayal? Of incompetence?

He wasn't sure, until several hours later when he realized he was angry with Illya Kuryakin for disappearing again, for from the moment Paddy had punched Watson, he had somehow added Kuryakin to his own small list of individuals he would fight for.

And he wasn't sure the man deserved it.

By Saturday's end, they had unearthed several points of interest.

First, since the beginning of August, there had been three other murders of ex-Resistance workers, besides the mayor of a large town in the east. All tortured, then shot in the head, bodies dumped. Someone was looking for information.

Second, there were no known THRUSH operatives in the city prior to six months ago. And there were no possible locations for such an office at this time.

Third, there was no complete list of names of those who had been Resistance Workers during the final years of the war. That information only seemed available through the Obituary Column of the newspapers, the details provided by family members.

In the end, they came up with three leads. Mr Anton Appel, a leader within the Resistance, seventy-two years old and living in a retirement home outside Rotterdam.

Mr Willem De Groot, the man who had kept an eye on the young Nico and provided him with writing paper, now in his sixties and living in a small flat in Rotterdam.

And Miss Miep Van Daan. Nikolai Kuryakin's lover.

Illya woke late in the afternoon and staggered out of the storeroom into the coffeehouse, blinking at the sea of faces.

"Over here! Come over here."

He turned to see a young woman gesturing to him and gratefully collapsed into the offered chair. "What time is it?" he asked, in Dutch.

"Does it matter, love? It was a beautiful sunny day, and you slept it away. Hey, Johan, bring a coffee and pastry!" she called out, closing the paperback novel she had been reading. "He looks wasted."

He felt wasted. His shoulder still hurt from where he had hit the pavement, ached fiercely if he moved it wrong. He was hungry and he consumed the pastry in seconds when it arrived, licking his fingers unabashed. They placed another one before him, and he ate it more slowly, sipping on the hot coffee.

"Where are you from, Nico? Around here?" she asked, curiously.

He was startled that she knew his name, but on studying her face, he remembered her from the night before. She was smaller than he was by no more than an inch and had beautiful blonde hair presently caught back from her face with some sort of leather hair ornament. She had been singing on the minuscule stage with the guitar players, Dutch versions of popular American folk protest tunes. The throaty rendition of Dylan's "Blowin' in the Wind" the night before had been memorable. Why had he stayed so long, though? . . . Because it had been comfortable. Familiar.

Her question registered on his brain finally and he shook his head. "I once lived here, but that was many years ago." He drained the coffee mug. "Excuse me, miss, but I need to use a telephone. I must call my uncle."

"Are you visiting him?"

"No." He glanced around the coffeehouse, searching for a telephone. He shivered. The ceiling. The exposed rafters in the entrance. The high windows. The stairs to an upper mezzanine office. Something wasn't right. His senses were reeling and he looked around again, seeing it for the first time. "What is this place?"

"It used to be a deli that my uncle Willy ran but he retired a year ago and we turned it into a happening place." She used the English word happening. "It used to be a hangout for old-timers."

His heart was beating rapidly. He knew this place. He knew this place. His mind raced, trying to sort out the tangled memories. There had been a barrel over there.

"Nico . . . stay away from there."

He had scampered away with a swiped cracker in his hand, retreating to the stairs leading up to De Groot's office. He would sit there and watch them through the smoke down below, listening to their arguments and plans.

They had been fighting. About money again. Some of the men said that the war had ended over two years ago, and it was time to stop fighting and get on with rebuilding lives.

But some men had nothing left. No family or business. They wanted to find another way to earn money. Nico has deserted us, they said.

"Hush," De Groot had said. "The little one is listening." They all looked up at him.

But the men were angry. They said his father had sold them out. He had gone to New York to be with the Russian group and had forgotten about them. Deserted his kid and his girl.

Another man came in the room and they got all quiet. He said he had a lot of money for them if they would join his group. They used the codename Zekering, the Fuse Box.

Some of the men wanted to wait for Nikolai Kuryakin to return. He had brought them through the war and helped them bring back the men from Germany. He would know what to do. The rest of the men said why wait? Kuryakin had his own agenda now. He was Russian and not Dutch. Let him take care of himself. Get rid of the kid; send him to America.

The Zekering man scared him. He said they had to decide that night. He waved a piece of paper at them and said the paper had the location of a lot of money. He would give it to them if they would join the Zekering and help them.

De Groot was angry now and said they all had to get out. There would be a meeting that night. In the old place. They would decide then. Get out. Get out!

"De Groot?" Illya opened his eyes, then blinked rapidly. He was no longer in the coffeehouse but back on the cot in the storeroom.

"Hmm?" She was sitting on a stool near him, reading her book, but she put it down and smiled at him. "Are you okay? You faded out on us for awhile. You having drug flashbacks or something?" She reached over and took a cloth off his forehead. "And my last name's De Groot, but most people call me by my first name, Hennie. How did you know my last name?"

He stared at her, unable to make the connections.

"Why don't you go back to sleep? You look like you could use it," she said, softly.

"Hennie?" He sat up and shook his head, trying to shake the cobwebs from his brain. His stomach was beginning to feel queasy. "Hennie, is your uncle around? Your Uncle Willem? I have to talk to him. It's important."

"Do you know him? Yes? He's out of town visiting my parents tonight but he'll be back tomorrow morning. We can visit him then. Are you okay?" she added, as he began to glance around the room anxiously. "There's a toilet in that little room there."

Damn.

He barely made it on time.

Saturday afternoon, a lead came in from De Witt in the U.N.C.L.E. Amsterdam office on Miss Van Daan, a diamond merchant in that city, so Napoleon Solo and Dirk Vandermeer left after dinner to pursue that possibility.

Paddy stayed behind to check on the other two leads. He discovered Willem De Groot was away for the weekend and was expected back in town the next day, according to his landlady.

That left Appel.

Dunn arrived at the retirement home in the late afternoon, as the visiting hours began. Appel was in a wheelchair but still exuded a robust health that made Dunn feel tired in comparison.

"Sir? May I speak with you?" Paddy asked, in near flawless Dutch.

"Eh? And who are you?"

Dunn produced the U.N.C.L.E. identification.

Appel nodded, apparently aware of what U.N.C.L.E. stood for. "Make it quick, though. I've got cards at five o'clock."

He showed him the pictures and Appel nodded again. "Oh, yes. Yes, I remember Nikolai Kuryakin and his son. A good man, Nico. Helped us during the war. A good, fair leader, he was. His death broke up our group completely, though. We were already splitting up because of this . . . this Zekering group that wanted control."

"Do you remember a man named Voorne?"

"That was the man from the Zekering group, as I recall. Little Nico ended up killing him. Just as well, the man was nothing but trouble."

The U.N.C.L.E. agent added that to his notes. This was a new connection—that the man Illya had killed was also named Voorne. Claude Voorne's brother? Paddy chose his next questions carefully. "Do you remember the fight when Voorne was killed?"

"Yes. If you're after the boy, Little Nico killed him in self defense, clear self defense. He was a nice enough little soldier, and Voorne had no right to push him like that." Appel paused in thought, then glanced up at him. "You must understand, we made little soldiers out of the children. It was not a good way to grow up. They grew cold. Sometimes they scared the men, because human life had so little meaning for them. Some would calmly shoot a man before breakfast and then skip off to play. But they helped us win a war and won the right to grow up and crawl out from the sewers."

"What happened that day?"

"Voorne tried to attack Little Nico, because the boys had accused Nico of stealing a piece of paper belonging to Voorne, and the kid responded just as we had drilled into him."

"What was on the paper, sir?" Dunn asked.

"Supposedly the location of a large sum of money. I never saw it, but Voorne was absolutely livid that it was gone."

"Did this Voorne have a brother?"

"He could have . . . yes, I think there was a young man around. He had been in hiding in the north and came to Rotterdam after the war."

"Sir, Illya Kuryakin - Little Nico, you called him - is missing and we think this other brother may have taken him to some familiar locations to spark his memory and find out what was on the paper."

"Familiar locations . . . Hmm. . . You should talk to De Groot. He may be able to take you to some of the old places. I can't get around much anymore."

Illya had been sick on and off most of Saturday night. Memories that made no sense had marched through his awareness, repeating themselves in odd variations. The deli figured in most of them. Playing, hiding, stealing bits and pieces of food from its empty shelves. Eating potatoes. Stuffing boiled potatoes into his mouth when De Groot would feed them sometimes. Hunger. Watching the men and knowing they were hungry, too. Faces of the men from long ago replaced the faces of the peaceniks looking after him.

The doctors at the U.N.C.L.E. infirmary in New York had said his weak stomach and vomiting was simply a psychogenic or psychoneurotic reaction; his blocked memories were seeking expression in this particular response or symptom. It could have started from the hypnotic drugs his kidnappers had injected him with. Or his allergic reaction to the drugs. Or electric shock. Or maybe because of their continuous questioning.

The doctors had said that they were confident that when he sorted out what his subconscious was trying to say, it would stop.

After a few hours of facing a toilet, he didn't care any more. He couldn't think straight. It hadn't lasted this long before. Was that good? Was he closer now?

Faces from past and present continued to entwine, and finally he let himself be cleaned up and bedded down on the cot by Hennie and her friends.

He woke mid-morning Sunday feeling dizzy but willing to sip the tea Hennie handed him.

She brushed the hair out of his face, gazing at him with worried eyes. "You sure had a bad case of the flu. Should we take you to a doctor or something? There are a lot of strange viruses going around right now," she added.

"When will your uncle be home?" he asked, sitting up.

"He should be home by now. I'll call him and tell him to come here. You can't go anywhere."

He surprised her by getting off the cot and weaving toward the rest room. "Let me wash up, and I will go. It is urgent that I talk with him."

Twenty minutes later, Illya followed Hennie up the narrow stairwell to her uncle's apartment. She went to knock on the door but it was unlatched and opened at her touch. She seemed surprised and immediately alarms went off for Illya. A second later, he heard men arguing inside, and he grabbed Hennie's arm, swung her around, and pushed her down the stairs ahead of him. "Run!" he hissed.

He froze on the step as a shot rang inside the apartment, waving at her to keep going. As he went to turn, a gun butt hit him behind the ear, and he folded, crumpling against the stairwell.

In the Amsterdam U.N.C.L.E. office, Napoleon looked up from the documents he was reading. "Yes?"

"Telephone call for you, sir," the petite secretary said in heavily accented English. She smiled at him, glancing away in embarrassment. "You can take it at the desk there."

"Thank you." He nodded for her to leave, then grabbed the phone off the hook. "Solo here."

"It's Paddy. They got De Groot, probably ten minutes before we arrived. Shot in the head."

Napoleon groaned. "We're running out of leads."

"There's more, Napoleon . . ." Paddy's tone changed, and Napoleon's blood ran cold. "It's Illya. From what we have put together over the past two hours, Illya escaped shortly after those goons grabbed him Saturday morning. He showed up at a coffeehouse run by De Groot's niece, Hennie, at approximately five o'clock yesterday morning. The regular patrons of the coffeehouse said he was there at the coffeehouse all day yesterday until he left with her at about 10:30 this morning."

"Where are you? Where is Illya now?"

"I'm still at De Groot's apartment. They have just taken the body away. Neighbors here confirm that after hearing a series of gunshots, a blond hippie-type couple were apprehended leaving the premises. The witnesses thought they were taken away by unmarked police cars."

Napoleon swallowed. "Define 'apprehended'."

"Both were already handcuffed when seen by the neighbors. It sounds as though Illya was having difficulty walking and was escorted by two young men and helped into the vehicle."

"Then they still want him alive."

"Yes . . . What do you want us to do?"

Napoleon looked across the table to Vandermeer and De Witt, who had appeared from another office when Dunn's call came through. "Keep looking. I'll check out Nikolai's girlfriend, and then I'll head back to Rotterdam. We haven't found out much so far, other than she owns a 'small but lucrative' diamond jewelry store in the tourist area here in Amsterdam. Maybe she can tell us something. We don't have a home address for her, but the office here was able to find out where she works. I'll check it out first thing tomorrow. Just do what you can. Call me-"

"The moment I find anything new," Paddy promised.

First thing Monday morning, Solo adjusted his tie as he approached the Amsterdam jewelry store. Sunday had unearthed no sign of Illya or the young woman abducted with him in Rotterdam. It had proven equally dismal at providing any solid information on Miep Van Daan.

He opened the door to the store and stepped in. The display in the window had been impressive, but the woman approaching him was more so. He knew she was in her early forties but she appeared years younger. Her impeccable Chanel suit and regal bearing spoke of wealth. Her blonde hair was swept back into an elegant French roll and her bronzed skin was smooth beneath the costly diamond necklace she wore.

"Goede morgen," she said, smiling.

"Goede morgen. Ik ben Heer Napoleon Solo. Ik heb een afspraak met Mejuffrouw Miep Van Daan." His meager Dutch allowed him to introduce himself and say he had an appointment with the owner.

"Ik ben Mej Van Daan," she replied, graciously holding out her hand to him. "Bent u amerikaan?"

"Yes. Ja. Do you speak English?" he asked, hopefully, as he shook her hand.

"Of course, Heer Solo. How can I help you?"

"I have some questions, if you don't mind. And not about your jewelry."

"Oh? Is something wrong?" She led him to her desk and indicated for him to sit opposite her.

A glance around the store confirmed it was empty. Napoleon held out a copy of the photograph taken almost twenty years previously of the four very young Resistance fighters hiding during a bombing.

She took it from him carefully and stared, suddenly lost in half-forgotten memories. "My little boys," she whispered softly. "Oh, my. How could this exist?" She brought the photo closer, studying it almost reverently. "Where on earth did you find this? Look at them. May I keep it?" Her fingers lightly touched her lips as though to keep them from trembling. Warm blue eyes darted back to Napoleon as he remained silent. "Where did you get this?" she repeated, in awe.

"Do you remember their names?" he asked.

She held his eyes, questioning for a moment, then dropped her gaze back to the picture. "Jan," she pointed, "Pieter, Nico, and the dark haired one . . ." She closed her eyes trying to remember. "Frans," she added, smiling, looking down at the picture again.

"Jan Hoorn and Pieter Eijkmann were murdered in the last few months in separate incidents, but both shot in the head at close range. Illya Kuryakin and Frans Hoffman are now missing."

"Pardon?" Her eyes widened in disbelief. "Why were they killed?"

"I don't know. I was hoping you could help me with some information about their activities at the end of the war. It seems that they are somehow linked together."

"And how are you involved?" she asked, carefully, eyeing him suspiciously. "What is it you want?"

"Illya Kuryakin is my friend," he said simply. "I was responsible for him and someone kidnapped him two days ago from a hotel in Rotterdam."

Her eyes lingered on the picture and she touched the faces as he spoke. "I've wondered sometimes whatever happened to them . . . Illya?" She repeated the name and frowned slightly. "We didn't call him that. His father sometimes referred to him by Ilyusha but usually the patronymic name held. The little one wanted so much to be like his father, so we all called him 'Little Nico.' He would get a hold of black dye and make his hair black so it was like Nikolai's. What a mess he would make! He was a miniature Nikolai, all serious and somber and so focused."

She dabbed at the corner of her eye as a tear threatened her mascara. "His father knew how to smile though; he had a . . . " she paused as she searched for a word, "contagious laugh. Little Nico never seemed to master it." She looked back at Solo. "I would like to help you, but please remember, Herr Solo, I have not seen them since a few years after the war. I do not know what help I can be."

Napoleon placed a second photo on top of the one still in her hand. "This was taken about two months ago, in Rotterdam. Do you know any of these men?"

Miep Van Daan studied the photograph carefully, then reached into her desk for a magnifying glass and looked again. "This one," she said pointing to Claude Voorne, "yes, he was there then. Younger, of course. He was from an area southeast of Amsterdam. I do not remember his name. His brother was killed during a fight. I don't know all the details, but it was during the time when the resistance group broke up."

"Why did the group disband?"

"Hmm?" She was still staring at the second picture. "Money. Nikolai's murder in New York City. Many things. Is this your friend?" she asked, pointing to Illya.

"Yes."

She nodded, "I can see his father in him, though Nikolai was much darker." Her voice tightened. "We had planned to be married after the war."

"Why didn't you?"

"We had planned to, when he returned from New York. But they killed him."

"The Zekering?"

"Yes."

"Was Claude Voorne with the Zekering, then?"

"His brother was, I believe. They were trying to get the group here to join. I think perhaps this Claude was, as well."

"Do you know Pol DeWeese, the man on the left?"

She shook her head, no.

"Where can I find Claude Voorne?"

"I don't know, Heer Solo. I wish I could help you."

"Anything you could tell me would be helpful. The name of anyone else involved then? Where they had their meetings?"

She looked at the picture for a long time. "I don't know if it is still there, but during the war, we hid men in an underground room in a warehouse near the waterfront. Afterwards, they used it for their meetings sometimes. Perhaps it is a start?" she said, with a shrug. She took out a sheet of paper from her desk drawer and sketched a rough map of the area. "I'm not sure of the landmarks now. There are always new buildings and I have not been there in many years."

Napoleon had her clarify a few things on the map, nearby streets, the waterfront, and the size of the underground room.

"I'm sorry. I wish I knew more," she said, finally. "If I think of anything else, please tell me how to get in touch with you." Her eyes lingered on his face, a fraction longer than business allowed.

Usually, the interest of a beautiful woman was not something to ignore, but now was not the time. Napoleon wrote down the U.N.C.L.E. telephone number in Amsterdam. "Leave a message for me here and it will be put through. Thank you very much for your time," he said, standing.

"Just find your friend, Heer Solo.I would like to meet him was almost my son," she added wistfully.

continued

Chapter Text

Rotterdam waterfront, 10:00 p.m.

Once full darkness had settled in on the city, Napoleon Solo and Paddy Dunn circled the warehouse. It was in desperate need of repair, hastily constructed in 1940 from substandard materials to meet the demand after the aerial bombardment of Rotterdam. The entire area had now been slated for rezoning and reconstruction as the work on the expanding new harbor continued.

Several cars were parked outside, and as the two dark-clothed New York agents joined the other Dutch agents already in place, a call came through on the U.N.C.L.E. radio transceiver giving the identity of three of the car owners. Two were known THRUSH agents from Amsterdam. The third belonged to a suspected Rotterdam THRUSH agent. The remaining vehicle was rented and that information was slower coming but they still managed to get a name within five minutes. It was signed out to one Frans Hoffman.

"Hoffman? So he's more involved than we thought." Paddy took his U.N.C.L.E. shotgun out and fed two rounds into the bottom. He took his time, scarcely glancing up as two men exited the warehouse and left in their cars.

Napoleon's own automatic was ready for action, the safety on, and crammed into his belt. His U.N.C.L.E. special lay tucked in its customary holster waiting, the rifle attachment in his back pack. He concentrated on blanking his mind to everything but the coming attack. He'd had no confirmation yet that Illya was actually in the warehouse, but he had every intention of taking his partner – his former partner – out of there alive and in one piece.

Hans De Jong had already checked his weapons and was talking quietly over his radio transceiver to his section head Dirk Vandermeer, who was monitoring the raid from the local U.N.C.L.E. office and coordinating the other agents they had in place in vehicles surrounding the area. Vandermeer had set up an impressive surveillance network over the city. The cars, with the tracers Jakob Brekker had attached to their bumpers, could be tracked anywhere in the Rotterdam city limits and a few kilometers outside of it. Several U.N.C.L.E. vehicles had already discretely pulled out, tailing the two suspect cars.

Brekker emerged from the shadows surrounding the warehouse and came toward them. He had a vast amount of equipment hanging around him, including a camera and high powered binoculars. Although Napoleon had known he had been there in the dark observing the proceedings in the warehouse, it had been virtually impossible to see him.

A man of few words, he waited patiently for them to get comfortable before speaking. "Here's how it is," Brekker said, his voice barely audible. "The inside is basically empty. A desk and filing cabinet are along the south wall, by the main door. The only light source is a hanging fluorescent panel above where your man Kuryakin is lying on an old sorting table in the middle of the warehouse. He's not tied down but is offering no resistance."

"Alive?" Paddy asked, so Napoleon wouldn't have to.

"He's moving a bit; probably drugged."

"How many others inside?" De Jong had already sketched the layout as Brekker spoke.

Brekker took the pencil and added additional details. "Three men: here, here, and here. One female against the east wall, rope tied wrists only, conscious, appears tired and, quite frankly, terrified. Claude Voorne is no longer here; he left with the Amsterdam THRUSH leader shortly before you arrived. The other Amsterdam THRUSH agents appeared to get a call on their transceivers and left a few minutes ago. At that point, two of the men who were in the background before began to question your man."

"Threatening?"

"No, just persistent. Trying to wear him down probably."

"Where did Voorne go?"

"According to our tail, Voorne and the Amsterdam THRUSH boss met Pol DeWeese and a woman at a local restaurant for dinner."

"DeWeese? So he's popped up again?" Solo processed the report slowly, trying to get a grasp of the situation. "What weapons are inside?"

"The man by the south door has an automatic rifle, but he's holding it stiffly. He's not comfortable with it. The two men at the table have their jackets off and their shoulder holsters are visible, but they are concentrating on what they are doing right now."

"How do you suggest we go in?" De Jong asked him, deferring to the younger agent.

Brekker didn't pause. "There are four of us and three of them. Good odds right now. I suggest walking up to the front door and knocking. The roof skylight is slightly ajar to let some air in; I could get up there and as soon as the door opens, take out the gunman at the door and one of the interrogators. The third man would probably give up, or one of us could take him down."

De Jong looked across the circle to Solo. "Well, Napoleon. You call it. Do we go in now or wait until Voorne returns and take him at the same time?"

Napoleon looked over to his current partner who seemed deep in thought. "Paddy? Suggestions?"

Paddy Dunn fingered the safety on his gun, crouching and leaning back against the neighboring warehouse. He exhaled slowly before speaking. "First someone snatches Kuryakin, they drag him around Rotterdam, then they give him back to us via the post. Why? We've figured it's because they were looking for information and couldn't find it. Send him home and let us try and find out what they are looking for. It didn't seem like a THRUSH operation, so we wonder who these guys are.

"We come to Rotterdam and the bad guys steal him again. This time we know it was a THRUSH operation. They come in with big guns and worked professionally. And we have bodies of their known agents. So what do they want? If they're after the same information, why attack us before we're even settled? Why not just follow us while we're here in town and see what we're after? But no, they make a strike for him. Kuryakin gets away from them again and is caught again. Both abductions are sloppy, with too many witnesses. Not like THRUSH. And Claude Voorne's involved again, so we know it's the Zekering group."

Dunn glanced up at them to see if they were following what he was trying to say. Napoleon gestured with his gun for him to continue.

"Brekker says that they've been questioning Kuryakin ever since he started watching them, for hours now. These guys have had him for almost thirty-six hours, this round. What do they want? I keep asking myself that. What do they want? Voorne takes the THRUSH bigwig away, the other Rotterdam THRUSH agents leave, and the questioning starts again, but with new questioners and new procedures. Two local guys - one of them Frans Hoffman. Now what does he want?"

Dunn looked across at the warehouse. "I think we have two groups operating here. Possibly after two pieces of information. We assume Voorne and his guys want the mysterious piece of paper Illya stole when he was a kid. But THRUSH? More of the Inrhysec formula? I don't know. They seem to have gotten a lot out of him the last time . . . I haven't figured that out yet."

"Did Kuryakin ever recall their questions?" Vandermeer's voice asked over the transceiver link.

"Just that he thought someone wanted to know about something that happened when he was a child." Napoleon stared across the empty lot to the warehouse beyond. "Two different groups?"

"Right."

"What do you suggest, then?"

"I say we move in there now quietly, then wait for Voorne and company to return and get them as well."

Pinpoints of pain rippled over his skin and sent fire tendrils through his eyelids. Concentrate on the pain. Concentrate. The faces hovering above him now were burnt into his memory. Concentrate on the pain.

Time passed slowly. Pain. Question. Pain. Don't answer them. Concentrate on the pain.

But an explosion collided against his senses.

Thunder crashed and lightning swept his world. He held his breath, clinging to the shifting raft beneath him.

Erasmus appeared suddenly, bending over him, talking in Latin. He felt himself floating among the lightning and clouds and knew he was safe.

"I didn't tell them, Erasmus," he told the statue. "I didn't tell them about it."

The statue touched his face, staring into his soul, then picked him up and carried him away from the storm into the darkness. For a moment there was peace and he sighed, relaxing into the quiescent shelter. The murmur of voices lulled him, and he knew he was lifted and carried, then other hands reached for him, pulling him down in a black sea, and he screamed for Erasmus not to leave him. The world was spinning as he was passed lower and lower into the moonlit darkness and the flowering snakes of fluorescent blue.

Then Erasmus came again and held him until the shaking stopped and the colors stopped whirling and the moon stopped shining in his face and the light went out.

10:33 p.m.

He woke slowly in inky darkness, eyes fluttering, trying to open. At the motion of his eye lashes, a hand that had been resting lightly over his forehead and eyes moved down to his lips, one finger placed vertically over them in the universal gesture of silence.

He nodded and the hand left his face. He could see nothing. Other senses slowly kicked in, and he could hear footsteps creaking above him. Through the floor came the sounds of angry voices talking, but the words were blurred.

He had been in this place before. The faint septic-tank, earthy smell. The floor boards above his head. As more awareness returned, he could feel a pounding heart against his back and an arm circling his chest. Below him, cool dampness. He was half-sitting, half-lying on the dirt floor, caught securely by the unseen person behind him.

More noise from above, and beside his ear the safety catch coming off an automatic. He shivered and the body behind him felt it and the arm squeezed reassuringly. A faint, "Lie still, Illya" came to his ear, and with a ragged sigh of relief he realized it was Napoleon. Now what had happened?

The question released another flood of memories that set him trembling, and the arm tightened across his chest again. The warehouse. They were in the hidden room of the warehouse. Where his father had lived. They had brought him here and . . . they had brought Hennie with him. He tried to lift his head to look around him but the room had no light.

Questions. They had asked him questions. First about the paper they said he had stolen. Stupid little piece of nothing paper that made his head hurt to think about. Why were they so convinced he knew about it? The questions had lasted a long time, several hours at least. Over and over. The same stupid questions. Frans had been there. And Claude Voorne. And someone else he knew but the face wouldn't focus now.

His body involuntarily shuddered, reliving the souvenirs they had left on his upper chest. His right hand shakily moved to touch the burns, but they had already been bandaged. Napoleon.

Then after the burns, the other men had come. THRUSH. None of the other drugs this time, they had said. It has been over six months; his U.N.C.L.E. conditioning is gone. With a flood of dread he realized they were right. Six months of his life.

They started to inject him with Pentothal, but someone reminded them he reacted to that and couldn't be questioned properly. They had argued about a new drug called Pentothal Plus, but had given up the idea since it was a moot point - it was not available to them yet. So they had given him a pill and made him swallow it or they threatened to hurt the girl.

Then the questions had begun again but they had been different. Intense. Specific. The formula. Inrhysec. Inrhysec. Inrhysec. He was fairly sure he had told them nothing.

But the pill had made his world tumble out of order.

A woman's voice from above now. Hennie? he thought at first, fear for her clutching at his heart, but this was an older voice. Authoritative. This female had asked him questions before. Hssss. Question. Question. Hssss.

Where was Hennie? He tried to remember if she had been upstairs when they had been questioning him. Sometimes they put her down here.

Promise not to tell, Nico.

He tried to sit up, but Napoleon's arm held him firmly in place. It took a moment to figure out why. Yes, if there was shooting in the dark, Solo wanted to know exactly where he was.

Promise not to tell, Nico.

Gunfire. Footsteps running. People yelling. The door slamming. More gunfire.

He felt his body jerk in response to the noise, his right hand reaching for his holster, but there was nothing there. The arm about his chest tightened again and he tried to relax and not distract Solo. A car pulled away. Then they could hear the table being pushed aside and he froze. He could feel Solo's silent growl behind him. Napoleon shifted him, pushing him back behind him out of the way; his gun would be trained on the trapdoor.

A light came into the room and a woman peered down at them. "Hello? Heer Solo?"

Napoleon caught his breath and took his finger off the trigger.

"It's okay," the woman said, peering down into the darkness. "It's safe now. They've gone. I shot two of them, and the others ran."

Dunn moved to the center of the small carved-out room and pulled the light cord. A dull bulb bathed the room in yellow light. Hennie was over by Dunn and another man. She looked pale and deathlike in the unnatural glow. Haunted.

They brought him upstairs. There had been a battle here. Dead men. Five dead men, Napoleon said. He said he recognized Frans, but not the others.

Illya leaned heavily against Napoleon's arm, dizzy. Something was wrong here.

Promise not to tell, Nico.

Napoleon steered him to a chair and had him sit down, then turned to the Dutch woman. "Miss Van Daan, thank you. Your timing was perfect. You shouldn't have gotten involved though. It's too dangerous."

She smiled ruefully at Napoleon, gesturing at the two new bodies. "I'm a good shot. And I was saving my own neck. I wasn't even sure you were here." She looked over at Illya. "Is this-?"

Napoleon clapped a hand on Illya's shoulder. "This is Nikolai Kuryakin's son, Illya. Illya, this is Miss Miep Van Daan. Do you remember her? Your father's fiancée?"

Her face swam unrecognized before his eyes. As she approached him, still smiling, Illya felt the uneasiness spread swiftly throughout his body. His hands trembled, and he closed his eyes to stop the reeling, one hand over his mouth as the retching sensation threatened.

Napoleon noticed instantly and stepped between them, motioning Miep to stay back. "Uh, I guess this is all a bit much for him. He's only been awake for a few minutes, so we better give him a chance to get his bearings. They drugged him with some sort of hallucinogenic," he added, in way of explanation for Miep, but also directed at Illya for his benefit. It explained the color swirls as he tried to look around.

Paddy Dunn came over quickly, also blocking Miep's view. In a low voice he said to Napoleon, "Are we still waiting for Voorne and the THRUSH leader? If so, why don't we put the two women and Illya back downstairs out of the line of fire. I want to go outside. I can't raise De Jong on the U.N.C.L.E. transceiver."

Illya looked up, trying to see Napoleon through the foggy haze. "No."

Solo bent over. "No? You'll be safer down there, my sleepy friend." He tried to smile reassuringly, then stopped, alerted. Napoleon knew him well enough to see past the drugged stupor. "What's wrong, Illya? Someone here?" he asked, quietly.

Promise not to tell, Nico.

Illya blocked one hand over his mouth again, trying to stop the growing nauseous feeling. He could feel himself being lifted again. He didn't want to be downstairs in the little room, yet he couldn't find the words to tell Napoleon that.

His former partner seemed to know and they carried him to a corner of the warehouse, placing him on some discarded cardboard on the floor. Napoleon slipped the leather bag off his shoulder and withdrew a small jacket, making a pillow out of it. "I'm listening to you, buddy. I need to talk with you, so as soon as you can manage, let me know." Napoleon checked his small handgun and made sure the safety was on, then put it out of sight beneath the makeshift pillow.

Illya twisted onto his side and stared at the jacket, eyes traveling back to Solo. "Mine?"

Napoleon nodded. "Waverly gave it to me to bring along. Do you remember it?"

He pushed himself up and took the jacket, fingering the cloth, then smiled his first smile in many weeks. "Want a cigarette?" he asked, pulling a crumpled cigarette from the cord lining. "Hid them from father." He sat a moment longer, his hands feeling icy. He handed the jacket to Napoleon and lay back, curled up on his side as his stomach cramped. "Look . . . in lining. More . . . stuff . . . maybe."

Napoleon took the jacket and wiggled out another cigarette and then a third. He stopped, glancing back at the white roll realizing that it wasn't a cigarette, but a tightly rolled piece of paper. "What is this, Illya?"

"My paper . . . Erasmus . . ." he said, then groaned softly, feeling worse.

Napoleon unrolled it and looked at the creased, wrinkled paper, then held it out so Illya could see it, too. It could have been a pencil rubbing, but it wasn't done well and the letters had smudged beyond reading.

What he could see was that there was no other writing on the paper, on the front or on the back. No reason to try to kill a little boy. He folded the paper again. "We're expecting the rest of the bad guys soon," Napoleon told him. "I'm going to go talk to Miep and Hennie to see if I can get some more information out of them."

Promise not to tell, Nico.

"I didn't tell anyone, Erasmus," Illya whispered.

Napoleon heard him and bent over, frowning. "I know. You told me already," he said quietly to him.

"Erasmus . . . ? Napoleon . . . ?" The face wavered in and out of focus. "I don't like her," he said, gripping Napoleon's arm.

"Who don't you like ‑‑ Illya?"

Paddy Dunn joined Solo, shrugging. "There is still no answer on the transceiver." He glanced down at Kuryakin, but the Russian had slid out of consciousness.

Napoleon removed his arm from Illya's firm grasp. "I don't like this, Paddy." The American glanced to the center of the room where the two women were awkwardly talking at the table. "Illya just said he didn't like her."

Paddy looked over at the women. "Which one?"

"I don't know." Napoleon paused for a moment. "Yes, I do. It has to be Miep. He was starting to feel sick when she came near. Think of it as a sort of Geiger counter."

Paddy grimaced, crossing his arms. "He was also very sick at the coffeehouse with Hennie."

Napoleon shot a glance at him, then down at Illya, and then over to the women. "The location was familiar there."

"He lived here, too."

"I still think it's Miep. Her appearance here is too convenient. Look at those two THRUSH men she killed. Do they look like professional agents?"

The dead men were both in their late fifties and needed a shave, a haircut, and a proper suit of clothes.

"I see what you mean. Not the clean-cut mindless young agents THRUSH favors. What about De Jong?"

"I don't know. Last we heard from him, he had reported that the stakeout at the restaurant said the diners were just ordering desert and coffee. That was half an hour ago. Allowing for travel time, they could be here in as little as fifteen minutes. I want to know what is going on before they get here." Napoleon showed him the pencil rubbing.

Dunn looked at it front and back, shrugged, and handed it back to Solo. "Mysteriouser and mysteriouser."

Napoleon slipped his wallet out of his back pocket and pulled out a thin card with four wafer-like, tiny pills taped to it. "Wait five minutes, then give one of these to Illya. It'll jolt him out of this stupor."

Paddy glanced at the U.N.C.L.E. stamina pills, his eyebrows raising. "These'll bounce him off the roof."

"I only need him rational for a few minutes. He can sleep it off later."

Napoleon turned and walked thoughtfully over to the two women. "Miep, thank you so much for your help, but we've got to get you both out of here before they come back. It's too dangerous. Take your car and get out. If you could call this number," he handed them an U.N.C.L.E. Rotterdam card with the telephone number listed, "and tell them we need backup, I would appreciate it."

Hennie looked over to where Illya lay. "Is he okay?"

"Yes, he'll be fine. Hennie, what exactly were they asking him?"

She swallowed hard and stared at the table. "I wasn't up here all the time. Sometimes they made me stay down in the underground room so I couldn't hear what they were saying, or maybe so I couldn't see what they were doing. I remember Voorne wanted to know about a map he said Kuryakin stole. Where it was, what was on it, stuff like that. The other men from Amsterdam, they were asking about a chemical formula."

"The Inrhysec."

"Yes, they said that name at first. They wanted him to correct it or something. But there was another thing they wanted to know about more: entry codes to his lab. Combinations to safes in your New York office." She glanced again to where Paddy crouched by Illya. "They had him hooked up to some sort of electrical thing that made him talk. When I was talking to your friend Paddy, he said they probably used it on Illya before, and that's why his memory was affected." She sounded the word out carefully, "Electroconvulsive shock, Paddy called it."

Napoleon's mind was trying to put the pieces together, but there were still some gaps he couldn't leap. Why would THRUSH be interested in the entry code to Illya's research lab in New York? They would not be able to access it without breaking into the U.N.C.L.E. headquarters. And safe combinations? The same problem applied, unless . . .

Illya jerked and sat up with a startled yelp. Wide-eyed, he got to his feet and staggered over to Napoleon. Paddy replaced the rest of the pills in his pocket and joined them at the table.

"Illya, do you know this woman?" Napoleon directed his focusing eyes on Hennie De Groot.

Kuryakin nodded, shaking his head to clear it. He had to gasp for air to keep up with his pounding heart. "From the coffeehouse . . . And she's De Groot's niece . . . Oh . . . They shot him, didn't they? . . . I am very sorry, Hennie," he added, as the memory caught up with him. "I'm sorry . . ."

Hennie blanched as the recollection resurfaced, tears falling down her cheeks. Dunn moved in beside her and pulled her into his arms, letting her cry.

As Napoleon had suspected, Hennie didn't seem to be whom Illya was warning him about . Napoleon directed Illya's attention to Miep. "Do you know this woman?" he asked carefully, watching the Russian's face.

He stared at her for a moment, still breathing heavily, pulling air into his lungs. Then, with an unexpected roar, he flew at her, knocking the gun she hadn't had a moment before out of her hand, his fingers around her throat.

Napoleon tried to pull him off while kicking the gun out of her reach. They still needed answers from her, despite whatever had happened between the two. "Illya! Stop it! She's on our side. She told me how to find you." From the corner of his eye, he saw Jakob Brekker had her gun safely out of the way.

Illya couldn't answer him, couldn't talk. Because of the U.N.C.L.E. stamina pill, the rage that flooded him was overwhelming. He yelled in fury as he felt himself being torn away from her.

Napoleon grabbed him from behind, one arm circling his chest and trapping his arms, the other across his forehead, pulling his head back to rest against his shoulder. "Easy, Illya. Easy."

"Let me go, Napoleon." He choked out the words, struggling to get free. "You don't know her."

Brekker had Miep, half protecting her, half immobilizing her, clearly uncertain of what to do but taking no chances. "Speak, Kuryakin," Brekker snapped at him. "What's your beef with Miep?" he asked in English.

Napoleon eased his grip to test the waters, and Illya wriggled out away from him and came at Miep again. Napoleon once again knocked him away and he fell to the floor, rolling and trying to stand.

Solo blocked him. "Talk to me. Tell me why you're angry."

Illya looked up at him wildly, probably trying to see something beyond the red fury clouding his vision. "I want to kill her," he said. He shook his head, trying to clear out the webs, then glared up at her. "I remember everything, Miep," he snarled.

"Everything?" Miep asked cautiously. "What do you mean?"

Illya got to his feet and walked closer to her, Napoleon shadowing him. "Everything. Don't tell anyone, Nico," he said in a singsong falsetto, circling her. "It's our secret. Promise not to tell. Promise not to tell anyone." His voice changed to that of a young boy. "I won't tell. Why should I tell? It's just a piece of paper we're trading. Will you please give me the one with no writing on it?" Again the falsetto voice. "Promise you won't tell - you'll go to hell and burn in the pit and not even Erasmus could save you if you tell." The boy's voice: "I won't tell. Can I have the other paper, now?" Falsetto voice: "Remember the pit, Nico. Here's your paper."

Illya jumped at her suddenly, but Napoleon was ready and caught him mid-air, dragging him back, twisting him around to face him. "Calm yourself," he demanded in a voice that made Kuryakin shudder involuntarily. "Don't look at her. She won't get away; Brekker's watching her. Tell me what happened." He clapped his hands on each side of Kuryakin's face, not letting him turn his head. "Talk to me, friend," he said in a quieter voice, trying to focus Illya's attention on what he was saying.

"She- she-" Illya stuttered, then swallowed and caught his breath, following Napoleon's instructions to breathe in and out slowly. After thirty seconds he tried again. "Miep has the paper. The one I took. She made me give it to her right after I took it. She's known all along where it was, and she was there a few months ago in Rotterdam drawing pictures on my chest with cigarette butts trying to get me to tell where it was. Why, Napoleon?" He spoke with pain, and somewhere in the confusion was the pain of a young child trying to understand why their world had been dismantled.

Napoleon allowed him to turn then, but Jakob Brekker had already twisted one of her arms behind her back. "Good question, Kuryakin. Do you have an answer for him, Miss Van Daan?"

There was a noise from the doorway. Claude Voorne opened the door all the way and followed his automatic rifle into the warehouse. With him were several of his own agents, several THRUSH agents, including Pol DeWeese from New York, and the head of THRUSH Amsterdam.

"I'm interested in hearing it as well, Miep. Is what this young man says true? You have the paper?" Voorne asked, his face flushed with anger.

Beside him, the THRUSH satrap leader chuckled. "Where do you think our diamond store came from, Voorne? Where do you think THRUSH Netherlands got the money for such elaborate facilities? Release her," he demanded of Brekker, and two THRUSH agents pushed Voorne aside contemptuously and trained their guns on Brekker, speaking to him. "And don't wait for your man outside to help you. He's quite dead."

Reluctantly, Brekker released Van Daan, and she started to move past Solo and Kuryakin to the open doorway. Illya struggled to reach her again, but Napoleon held him tight, aware of the weapons trained on them. "Settle down," he hissed into Kuryakin's ear.

Illya sagged abruptly and Napoleon almost dropped him. "Why did you do all this?" Illya whispered to her in a dry, raspy voice. "I thought you loved my father. He trusted you."

She was halfway out the door, but stopped to laugh at him. "Your father deserted us, you little fool. The war was over, and there was nothing left for him to do here so he took off to America with his Russian friends to find another cause to fight for. He wasn't coming back for either of us. So I made sure he wasn't going to live in New York either."

"He said he would send for us," Illya whispered again. "He trusted you. Why did you kill him?"

"I didn't pull the trigger. THRUSH had been looking for Nikolai for some time. I made a deal with THRUSH and told them they could find him when your ship arrived in harbor. With him out of the way, it was no trouble in recruiting most of the younger men into the Zekering."

Illya was having a hard time keeping up with her words. "You made me the bait for my father's murder?" He stood straighter and pulled away from Napoleon's support. "What did I ever do to you? I was a little boy; I tried so hard to make you like me because father loved you. I don't understand. If you had the paper already, why did you let them do everything to me?"

"I thought you knew everything, Kuryakin." She turned from him, smiling, and walked out the door. "You figure it out."

continued

Chapter Text

Claude Voorne had two of his men collect the U.N.C.L.E. agents' miniature radio transceivers and weapons while others brought inside several bodies of U.N.C.L.E. agents, including those of De Jong and Vandermeer. "Don't bother coming outside. We have the place surrounded," Voorne said, backing out of the warehouse.

Four of the Zekering men stayed, while the rest followed Voorne out. As the warehouse light spilled into the parking area, Napoleon could see numerous dark cars and vans massed around the building.

He turned to see Brekker's eyes narrow as he stared down at the bodies of his supervisors, icing over as he realized that with the top four local agents dead, he was now the senior U.N.C.L.E. Rotterdam agent. Brekker knelt down beside them, silent for a moment, watching as the Zekering men rapidly went through their pockets and clothing looking for hidden weapons that had been left behind. Paddy Dunn left Hennie and moved to Brekker's side, waiting next to him, his hand companionably on the other's back. When the Zekering men had finished, Dunn and Brekker returned to the center table where the others had gathered.

Napoleon sat quietly as they talked, his hands over his eyes, half listening to them. His thoughts felt like tennis balls bouncing against a net, unable to leap across the divide and ricocheting back without getting anywhere. He knew that, outside, Claude Voorne was probably desperately trying to sort things out himself and that brought a fleeting smile to his face. Miep, it seemed had double-crossed a lot of people.

The men guarding them stood a distance from them, weapons aimed in their direction, but not approaching them.

Illya paced behind him, a caged white leopard, still panting from the adrenaline surge of the U.N.C.L.E. stamina pill racing through his system, the pent-up anger fuelled by Miep's double-cross and betrayal.

Napoleon leaned back finally and caught Illya's arm as he passed, but he pulled away from him, and continued pacing. "Illya, come sit down. We have to talk."

"No." Illya's face was emotionless, but his eyes and his body betrayed his feelings. Bitterness on top of fury, on top of rage, on top of abandonment. Miep's betrayal had been a cruel blow.

Solo cleared his throat. "That's an order, Kuryakin."

Illya halted with his back to them, his body twitching in its desire to rebel, but training and discipline took over and he slipped silently into the chair next to Napoleon, cold haunted eyes staring at a fixed spot on the wall opposite them. His breath came in small bursts forced from his lungs; he sat like a fighter in between rounds waiting for the bell to signal action.

"Are you listening?" Napoleon asked.

"Yes," Illya answered, still not looking at them, his body swaying in beat to his thudding heartbeat.

Napoleon glanced to Paddy Dunn and Jakob Brekker. They had no choice but to continue trying to sort this out and bide their time. "Illya, the stamina pill only gives us another hour - at the most - and we need answers from you before that."

"Why did she do that to me?" The question tore from a throat already raw. "Why?"

"I don't know," Napoleon admitted. "She seemed to take a lot of pleasure from it. She wasn't like that before?"

Illya looked at him then, the eyes hard and intense. "How the hell should I know? I was a little kid. How much do you remember about being nine? Or seven? Or five?"

The memories hit him even as he denied it. It was when they first arrived in Rotterdam in late 1943.

Erasmus is very tall and he has a kind face.

Father smiled sometimes and lifted him in the air.

De Groot had a kind face and gave him a piece of gum.

One Eye winked at him.

But Erasmus was tall and his father lifted him to see the book but he couldn't read it. He hung in the air with his arm around the statue's neck looking down at the big blank pages of the book. His father gripped his legs and held him high so he could see.

De Groot gave him a piece of gum.

One Eye winked and held the gun steady for him and he looked through the scope and pulled the trigger. It was always dusty in the rubble and the dust made him cough.

Don't cough, Nico. One Eye put a gray scarf over his face so the dust wouldn't go in his nose or mouth. It itched.

Don't come back until you've used all the ammunition. And don't waste any of it. Stay hidden. They won't see you. Come back when it gets light. You know the way. De Groot has some gum for you then.

De Groot fed them. He told them about before-the-war. He said that before-the-war, children would gather at noon and wait for the church bells to chime and if they had been good, they might see Erasmus turn the page at the stroke of noon. De Groot gave him a piece of gum because he was crying. Because he would never see the page turn. Because the church was destroyed and there would be no more bells. Erasmus would never turn the page again.

It was dusty and the dust made him cough.

And she would hit him on the back if he coughed. Hard.

Illya could feel the fear ache into his bones. They were talking around him, not looking at him. He felt invisible.

He didn't like her. Father liked her. Father didn't know about her.

Napoleon and Dunn were talking about the formula again. What did these others want from him? He didn't know the formula. Why did they want it from him? Why did they think he knew it? Why did they know its name?

"Napoleon?" he interrupted them. "How did they know its name?" He felt Solo turn and look at him but he couldn't pull his gaze from the spot on the wall to look back. A new rush of adrenaline swept him as he felt his mind fighting through the tangled events.

Napoleon felt it, too. "What name?" he asked, quickly.

"The Inrhysec. They asked me for the formula by the little name. How? I did not know the little name. Only the proper name. How did they know the little name? We did not call it that when I worked on it."

Napoleon caught his thread and pulled. "Illya, when you were in the infirmary after Watson talked to you, you told me you did not know the Inrhysec formula by heart."

"But they took it from me. They took it from my subconscious." The swaying continued; he felt blind and drunk.

"Did they?" Napoleon asked quickly. "Are you sure?"

"I worked on the formula. I was in charge."

"What about the radar dish?"

"I worked on the radar dish. I told them where it was."

"Do you remember telling them?"

"No. But they destroyed it. So I must have told them."

"What about the Winthrop case, Illya? What about Newman? Where is Newman?"

"Who?"

"Your witness from the Winthrop Case. Where was he hiding?"

"Winthrop . . . Bob Newman . . ." He shook his head, lost. "I don't know. It was in my file. And Waverly knew."

"He's dead now, Illya. THRUSH killed Newman."

"I told them."

"Are you sure?"

"NO, I'M NOT SURE!" he screamed back, swearing at them. "But if he's dead, I MUST HAVE TOLD THEM!"

"THRUSH found out our communications' frequency right after you left. We had to change it."

Illya said nothing, his face sweating, his eyes fixed on the wall ahead.

Napoleon turned to De Groot's niece, sitting at the far end of the table next to Paddy. "Hennie, you were here part of the time when THRUSH was questioning him. Tell me what they asked him about again." Napoleon's voice was calm now, almost soothing.

"I don't know. Something about special bullet-proof glass."

"I told them."

"Did he, Hennie?" Napoleon asked, ignoring what Illya had just said. "Did you actually hear Illya telling about that formula?"

"No . . . he was hooked up to that electric machine and was mumbling and they repeated back loudly what he was saying."

Dunn's voice. "What if they already knew it?"

Hennie's voice, tentative. "I remember thinking it was like a movie. Rehearsed, you know? When they asked Illya about it, the questions seemed more for show than anything. The men would look at me to see if I was listening. They would ask him about it, he would mumble something, then they would thank him for the information. It was strange. It made no sense."

Illya found Napoleon's arm and his fingers tightened around his friend's wrist. "It made no sense, Napoleon." He could hear the hiss of the cigarette on his skin, see her face smiling at him.

She would hit him hard. Sometimes it wouldn't stop.

Dunn's voice again, insistent. "Napoleon, what if they already knew the formula?"

"Explain."

"What if they already knew and it WAS all for show?" Paddy turned to Hennie, his arm around her protectively, firmly turning her face to look directly at his composed eyes. "Think carefully, Hennie. What else did they ask him? Were there any specific words said that they may have wanted you to remember?"

Silence. "A peace conference. A bullet-proof glass at a peace conference. The guest list."

He felt the hiss of the cigarette and tore at the bandages on his chest. Napoleon and Brekker, on either side of him, grabbed his hands and held them immobile.

"The code to his data box-"

He gasped, sagging, the memory-pain and the fading drugs nullifying each other. His chest stung.

"-in the main lab. The entry code to his private lab. I heard them repeating numbers loudly and I saw them write the numbers down, but, Paddy, I'm sure he didn't say anything. His mouth was shut tight." Hennie's eyes were wide with confusion, staring across at Illya expecting him to have an answer. "And they would burn him even though it sounded like he was answering their questions, and the men said they were happy with what he told them."

"Napoleon," Dunn said, his voice tight, "it sounds like they already had all the information-"

"-and were using him as a scapegoat-"

"-to protect someone else on the inside?-"

"-But who?" Napoleon pounded his fist down on the table. "A double-agent at U.N.C.L.E.? WHO?" He swung back to Illya, ignoring as the Russian cringed involuntarily at the sudden movement. "Illya, who else would know all this? There are only a few possibilities. Think, man," he threatened through clenched teeth.

"I CAN'T! I CAN'T THINK ANYMORE!" He shut his eyes tight, hands clutching his hair, pulling.

"ANSWER ME, KURYAKIN!" Solo yelled back.

Erasmus holding the book in the rubble.

Someone else showing him a book, turning pages. Look at this idea . . . What do you think? . . . Take a look at this . . . Can you look at this? . . . I have Waverly's okay for you to come to the lab and give me some help . . . It will be good for you to help . . . Just sign here . . . Just add your name here . . . No, don't get up, you don't look well. What's your combination and I'll get it for you . . . I'll get it for you . . . What's your combination and I'll get it for you . . .

Promise you won't tell, Nico. Promise or you'll go to hell and burn in the pit and not even Erasmus can save you . . .

Erasmus turned the book around and held it down for him to see the name written across the page.

"Powers." Illya opened his eyes and looked at Napoleon wearily. "It's Dan Powers. It has to be. He has my entry code. It's not me, Napoleon. It's not me," he whispered.

"I know it's not you," Napoleon smiled back at him, then his smile dropped. "Powers. They wanted us to believe that you were the leak, so they could keep on getting information from Powers. How convenient . . . THRUSH must have found out that Voorne had abducted you and took over, pretending to help the Zekering group get the information from you that Voorne wanted."

Paddy Dunn looked like he wanted to kill someone. "So they return Illya wrapped in an Inrhysec sheet so it would appear he had given the secret away, then waited until Powers could get Illya's name and signature on more documents and dig out Illya's lab codes from him so they could kidnap him again and supposedly extract the secrets Powers had already given. And they walked away now, hoping we would break out and do it all again."

"Miep is THRUSH," Illya spat out, his voice harsh. Dutch, Russian, and English curses streamed from his lips.

A noise at the doorway and Claude Voorne came in, looked over at him, and aimed the gun at his head. No one moved; five guns were trained on the small group.

"THRUSH wouldn't let me kill you, because they needed you alive. They aren't here right now, and I need you dead. You destroyed my plans. Besides, if I can't use you, you might as well die so they can't use you any more. Oh, the bitch will die, too, Nico Kuryakin, I promise you that. But you killed my brother and you threatened me -"

His speech broke off suddenly.

The air-raid sirens were wailing.

Trained to react to the sirens since childhood, Brekker, Illya, Hennie, and two of the guards dropped to the ground automatically as the piercing sound cut through the neighborhood. Voorne spun around, waving his gun at the roof, eyes round with remembered fear. From outside the warehouse came the sounds of guns, men yelling, and explosions. The building next to them blew up, shaking the ground beneath them and the warehouse walls, and sending a rainfall of dust and dirt from the rafters. Two guards ran outside leaving the door open to let in the smoke and ashes from the burning building beside them. A car exploded as a grenade took it apart.

Illya was on his feet and running, leaping to a chair, onto the table and then flying through the air to land on Claude Voorne, his hands locked on the man's throat. They rolled, snarling and shrieking like two male cats fighting. The other three U.N.C.L.E. men disarmed the remaining Zekering agents and tied them up as Hennie collected their guns.

Another explosion from outside. The sirens kept up their blood chilling wail. Kuryakin and Voorne were still locked in battle, and even with the gun in his hand, Solo could see no way of separating them to take out Voorne.

More sirens. Fire engines this time. Police.

As Napoleon turned, he saw the doorway was filled with what appeared to be a giant male aiming an automatic rifle at Voorne and Kuryakin. Illya still had Voorne by the throat and the man was weakening as Kuryakin bashed his head against the wooden flooring. Suddenly, the body beneath his fingers spasmed as the left side of the man's head shattered beneath his fingers.

Illya stared at the blood covering his hands, not knowing whose it was or how it had happened. He rolled off the body, pulling Voorne's pistol from his belt as he went, flicking the safety off and the hammer back and landing on his feet in one easy movement.

The sirens stopped.

The giant bald man in the doorway came in, walking awkwardly on heavy braces, his automatic weapon lowered. "WHERE ARE MY BOYS?" his voice thundered through the warehouse.

Jakob Brekker dropped his weapon and took a leap at the man who caught him in a one-armed embrace.

It took Dunn a moment longer to realize this was Anton Appel, out of his wheelchair, and he batted Solo's weapon down.

Appel's eyes never left Kuryakin, standing alone in the middle of the warehouse over Voorne's very dead body, the pistol ready to fire, blood dripping from his hands.

Appel passed his massive rifle to Brekker's care. He opened his arms wide and slowly winked at Kuryakin. "HEY, LITTLE NICO," the voice boomed again. "YOU DID WELL, ILLYA. COME OVER TO ONE EYE."

Illya's weapon slid out of nerveless hands, and he staggered toward Appel, collapsing into the old man's arms. His towering frame propped against the wall, Appel whispered to Kuryakin and they saw his head nod yes or no to the questions. Illya's face was buried against the old man's chest, clinging to him. Appel continued to talk to him, and suddenly the dam broke and immense sobs racked the Russian still securely enfolded in his old mentor's arms. Appel smiled across at them, nodding his satisfaction, tightening his grip.

Old men, all ex-Resistance fighters, flooded the warehouse, carting off bodies, and removing their hats to pay homage to the downed U.N.C.L.E. agents. Solo moved to the doorway, watching as the pandemonium created outside by the fighters slowly dissolved into order as fires were put out and the Zekering agents - and even a few THRUSH agents who had hung around too long - were rounded up by the police and taken away. Ambulances carted off the few remaining injured, including one old-timer who had thrown a grenade and then found his legs didn't run as fast as they had twenty years before.

Hennie approached Appel, her face radiating a smile of relief and the old man found room in his wide arm-span for her, too. "Hi, dearie. Still reading your paperbacks? I heard about your uncle. I'm so sorry."

"Who the hell is this guy?" Napoleon asked. "Everyone appears to know him but me."

Paddy plopped into a chair, his bandaged arm throbbing. "That crazy old man is Anton Appel."

"The guy in the wheelchair at the seniors' home you talked to?"

"Yup."

Jakob Brekker joined them, his eyes glistening with pride. "He was in charge of several units during the war. He trained us kids to fire guns and use telescopic sights on rifles. How to lob a grenade into the back of a Germany truck and skip out the way. How to lie quietly for hours, hidden, waiting for a German soldier to walk by.

"After the war, in the late forties and early fifties, he set up a foundation for the little soldiers, as he called us, making sure we had proper counselling, homes, and an education. I was in a different city than Illya during the war, but he had still trained us and in later years would come to our town to speak, and we found we could talk with him. He understood us. He was always looking for the little soldiers who hadn't had proper counselling to deal with the horror of what we lived. Some of my friends committed suicide. Some are even now killing themselves with alcohol or drugs."

Brekker gestured to Appel and Kuryakin. "He found another one, now. It's uncanny; he knows exactly what to say to release that hurt that has built up inside. He says that 'je krijgt de wind van voren', we all have to face the wind. It's a Dutch saying that just means that one day we have to pay the consequences of what we did. And most of us were too young to understand what it was we were doing, so our memories of the events are rather disjointed."

Napoleon went over to collect the small jacket that had belonged to Illya as a child, and then reclaimed his weapons from the stack placed on the table. He beckoned to Brekker who came over to him. Illya and Hennie were still enfolded in the older man's arms. "Why did Illya call him One Eye? He has two perfectly good eyes."

Brekker closed one eye, holding up an imaginary rifle. "Snipers only use one eye."

Only the fire department was left, hosing down the smoldering shell of the empty building that the ex-Resistance workers had blown up. The U.N.C.L.E. agents and Anton Appel sat around the table in the center of the warehouse, the transceiver frequency open to Waverly in New York. Illya lay curled on a mattress that had been brought upstairs from the underground room, sleeping soundly. Leaning against Dunn's shoulder, Hennie was dozing, almost asleep herself.

"And Miss Van Daan? What is her situation, Anton?" Waverly's voice crackled across the ocean.

Appel chuckled, his barrel chest echoing the sound. "We apprehended her leaving here, Alexander. She is sitting in the police lockup as we speak." The chuckle died. "We arrived too late to save young Vandermeer, though. He had headed over with backups, but they ran into the THRUSH leaders arriving here and were gunned down in the battle."

"Our office there has greatly appreciated your help and experience, Anton. Would you consider staying on as an advisor to the new office, helping them reestablish themselves? They've had a terrible blow and are extremely short handed."

"Yes!" Brekker exclaimed. "Would you, sir?"

"It depends, Jakob."

"On what, sir?"

"Are you going to pay attention to what I say?" Appel's rolling laughter burst out again.

"Mr Solo, how is Mr Kuryakin?" Waverly asked.

"Sleeping, sir. I gave him a stamina pill two hours ago, and it knocked him off his feet about fifteen minutes ago. He'll sleep for twenty-four hours. We are just waiting for a car to come to take us to the hospital, so I can have him admitted. I think they'll want to check his heart - you know how rough the stamina pills can be. He's got assorted burns and injuries, mostly minor, and he's probably dehydrated again, but I'd say his nightmares are over now. While we're there, I'll have Miss De Groot checked and Paddy's arm looked at again."

Appel leaned over, speaking quietly into the miniature transceiver. "I've talked to your boy already, Alexander, but we'll have a much longer chat before I send him back to you. He seems to have found a place for himself with you and U.N.C.L.E."

"It's appreciated, Anton. And I understand it is you we have to thank for his superb marksmanship. Well, gentlemen, I have other matters to attend. I will speak with you tomorrow."

"Mr Waverly? Sir? I have a request." Dunn took the transceiver/cigarette case from Solo's hand. "I would like to be reassigned to Rotterdam U.N.C.L.E. They need me here."

Napoleon's eyes met his. "You don't have to, Paddy. We are partners. We can work something out with Illya."

"Thanks, Napoleon. But I've seen you two together. I know worked with you longer than he ever did and we never had the kind of rapport you two do. We are too much alike, you and I. We think along the same lines. We don't balance each other out. He trusts you."

"And you don't?"

"That's not what I mean. I have other reasons, too. Personal reasons." He indicated Hennie, sleeping with her head comfortably on his shoulder.

From New York, Waverly understood already. "A woman, of course, Mr Dunn. You are too much like Mr Solo," Waverly said, dryly. "Well, Mr Brekker. According to my files, you have never worked with a partner. Are you willing to give it a try?" He sounded rather amused.

"Yes, sir." Brekker looked relieved at not having the entire weight of responsibility resting on his shoulders.

"I will see to the paperwork, then, Mr Dunn. You may begin there later this month. However, you are all three requested to report back here at the beginning of next week. I expect seven days is ample to conclude the business there?"

"Yes, sir." Napoleon flicked the case shut. The U.N.C.L.E. car arrived and he herded them all out of the building, firmly shutting the door behind them.

continued

Chapter Text

11:59 a.m.

Napoleon Solo paid the cab driver and walked across the square. "I thought I'd find you here. So this is Erasmus." He stared up at the centuries-old bronze statue. "Quite impressive." He sat down on the bench next to Kuryakin. "You shouldn't have left the hospital without telling them where you were going."

The bells of the church behind them began to count off the hours. One. Two.

Illya said nothing but stared intently at the statue.

Three. Four.

"The hospital had scheduled some tests for you and were upset because you had disappeared. They called me in."

Illya glanced at him, returning his attention to the statue. "I don't want any more tests."

Seven. Eight. Nine.

"Illya, the pages aren't going to turn."

Eleven. Twelve.

Silence.

Kuryakin sighed, his eyes dropping to the sidewalk in front of him. "I know."

Beside them, a brightly dressed child jumped up and down. "I saw it, Mamma! I saw it turn."

The mother swept him up with a joyous laugh, cuddling the youngster and bringing out additional squeals of joy. They wandered down the street, still laughing in the sunshine.

"The world has changed, Napoleon." Illya watched the mother and child until they disappeared from view.

"Yes, it has. And Waverly has reassigned us. We leave for New York tomorrow, then down to Rio the next day for the peace conference," Napoleon said, trying to gauge the effect his words were having on his partner.

Illya said nothing, but continued staring down the street.

"Talk to me. Tell me what you're thinking."

"I'm tired, Napoleon. I feel very tired. I don't know what happened to me for six months. I feel like I'm floating in time, and I can't find my place. I can't go back and do it all again. I don't trust anyone. I don't trust myself."

"You trust that statue."

"I didn't see the pages move."

"Perhaps not . . . Do you remember when Paddy, Jakob Brekker, and I broke into the warehouse and took you down into the underground room to hide? You were drugged, and you thought I was Erasmus."

Illya's face reddened, and he looked away. "I had hoped that was a dream."

"Why?"

He shrugged. "It wasn't very professional."

"Not true. You communicated to me very well. You trusted me. Your hallucinogenic awareness perceived me as Erasmus, someone to trust. You let me bandage you up and stayed quiet when I told you to. You would scream if anyone else came near you. You listened to me. And on one level, you also knew it was me, not the statue."

Illya glanced over to him, then looked away again uncomfortably. "I don't want to hear this. Can we talk about something else?"

"No."

Several heartbeats. Kuryakin turned back to him and pointed to the bronze Erasmus. "That statue isn't real. It is stupid to trust a statue."

"Why? What does the statue represent to you?" Napoleon studied it. "Let's see, it was still standing when everything around it was destroyed. You are the only surviving member of your family. It was all alone in the rubble. You were all alone. It was unable to turn a page. Same as you, stuck in a war you couldn't get out of. But it had lasted all those years. I think you wanted to survive, too. You wanted to know the statue's secret. Illya, we all drag around with us our childhoods, our pain, the death and disease in our lives. When you thought I was Erasmus, you let me share that with you."

"Is this a pep talk? I hate pep talks." Illya was on his feet and walking. He went down the block, turned right, and right, and right again, and kept walking until he had done a square and was back in front of Napoleon, still sitting on the bench waiting. "You don't think I'm crazy?"

"Of course I do. That's why we will work together so well. As Paddy says, we balance each other out. You're crazy. I'm not."

Illya fumed. "You are the most conceited-"

"I'm self assured."

"-bossy,-"

" A born leader."

"-sarcastic,-"

"Witty."

"-pompous,-"

"Sophisticated."

"-frustrating,-"

"Complex."

Illya screamed silently, throwing himself onto the bench, his face buried in his hands.

"On the other hand, Illya, you are obsessed-" Napoleon paused, waiting.

After a moment, Illya mumbled, "Persistent."

"-neurotic-"

Pause. "Sensitive?"

"-compulsive-"

"Dedicated."

"-stubborn-"

"Tenacious."

"-bookworm-"

"Smarter than you'll ever be," Illya said, with a smile.

Napoleon laughed, standing. "Maybe so. Come on, I'm hungry."

"Wait," Illya grabbed his arm and hauled him back down. "This is important. Am I the brains or brawn?"

"Neither at the moment, you skinny fool. Now let's get some lunch."

end