"Of course. It was my home. My family. My friends."

  "And what do you believe in now, Mr. Kuryakin?"

  "I believe in the aims of the U.N.C.L.E. Their mandate is for the good of the world, not necessarily just one country."

  "You are well indoctrinated, I see."

  Kuryakin felt his jaw tighten, and strove to relax it. He was reacting, becoming too defensive. The CIA agent did not appear to be attacking him, only bantering words. This was, perhaps, not a good time for verbal battles, although Kuryakin had come to appreciate their use. Today, however, he was still too tired to watch every phrase, every nuance of the other's words. He wanted to end this charade and go home to the Grahams and sleep for a week. "I have delivered the packet. If there is nothing further, I think I should leave."

  The office door opened. Kuryakin glanced back to the newcomer, his jaw tightening. Of course, the other half of the interview team. Donald Johnson, the Russian-speaking operative from the Soviet-Russia Division had not been involved in the Oslo situation as far as Kuryakin knew, but now he swaggered into the office, his crew cut and ill-fitting jacket making him appear like countless counterparts in the KGB. "Ah, he is here. I just heard that Mr. Kuryakin here was in the building, so I thought I'd drop by."

  "Mr. Kuryakin was just leaving." Baker's words were short; he seemed irritated at Johnson's presence, Illya noted with interest.

  "I think for the money we paid U.N.C.L.E. for his injuries, that we are entitled to a few questions and answers from him. If he could stop by our area, it won't take long." Johnson smiled, nodding at Kuryakin pleasantly.

  The U.N.C.L.E. agent stood up, his back purposefully to Johnson. "I have another appointment that I must attend to, Mr. Baker. Perhaps another time." Kuryakin began to move, but Johnson was standing between him and the door, so he looked back to Baker calmly. "I should be leaving."

  Baker was quite clearly working through his own anger, but at what, Kuryakin couldn't decipher. The man came around his desk to steer the Russian past Johnson to the open doorway. "May I offer our thanks again, for everything that you did in Norway, Mr. Kuryakin."

  Kuryakin looked back, then nodded. If he wasn't mistaken, there was guilt again on Baker's face. Beyond Baker, Johnson stood, his face still holding the same falsely pleasant smile. Kuryakin ignored him and shook Baker's hand. "If you have any further questions, you may go through the correct channels and I will be happy to comply."

  He tucked the briefcase firmly beneath his arm and followed the guard back through the maze to the front entrance and his waiting cab.

  * * * * *

  U.N.C.L.E. Washington, D.C.

  4:00 p.m.

  "Well, look what the tide washed up! Ilyusha, it's good to see you." Norman Graham, the head of U.N.C.L.E.'s Washington Operation, came around the corner of his desk, arms open wide, and engulfed the young man in a warm bear hug. Illya looked a little washed out, a little bruised, but there was a grin on his face and he had returned, alive, from a potentially dangerous mission.

  "Alexander phoned and said you'd be doing the courier run. Trish will be happy to have you home for a few days, son."

  "It will be good to be home. It has been quite awhile." Illya dropped to the familiar leather chair, sinking into the comfort with a happy sigh. He irreverently tossed the U.N.C.L.E. packet from his briefcase onto Norm Graham's paper-strewn desk. "I was at Langley before I came here."

  "I bet that was fun. Were they falling all over themselves to make nice to you? Or were they trying to not-so-subtly show that they still wouldn't trust you to help an old lady across the street?"

  Illya laughed, his head leaning back against the padded stuffing of the chair. "Both, I think. Baker apologized to me and Johnson wanted to interview me." His eyes widened maniacally, the eyebrows rising.

  Norm shook his head, a knowing smile creasing his tanned face. "Ah. Life in Langley." It was good to see Illya smiling and laughing. The last time he had seen him was in New York several days before upon his return from Norway.

  It was actually quite rare for Graham to see the "at work" side of his adopted son, the cold efficient professional so at odds with the mischievous prankster that he also knew to be Illya Kuryakin. The transplanted Russian could be a baffling mixture of opposites, dependent yet totally independent; impervious, yet still vulnerable. From the time Illya had been absorbed into Graham's family, one Fourth of July evening a few weeks after his arrival in the United States, Illya had been his son, as completely as if he had been his natural father. That was their primary relationship; the fact that they both worked for the same organization was a bonus but not important in the long run. They rarely discussed work. There were more important things.

  "Help yourself to a drink, and make one for me while you're at it." Norm watched the younger man move across the room, the faintest hint of a limp betraying the frostbite to one foot. Soon even that would be gone, disappearing along with the rest of his scars. Sam Lawrence still remained skeptical that it was brought about by an angelic being, believing instead that the chemical reaction Illya had been exposed to in Oslo had somehow rejuvenated Illya's skin. "You're looking good."

  "And I am feeling well. Sam checked me over this morning and says I must continue to take my antibiotics, but there are no lasting effects from the explosion or the bronchial pneumonia. He also questioned me several times on whether I had seen more 'spectral beings'. I think it has made him very nervous. He checked me for brain injuries."

  "I bet. There's a reason why that portion of your report has not been officially recorded. If that got out..." Norm shrugged.

  "They already think I'm mad; this only reinforces it, I fear. But overall, I am pleased. We have a lot of work to do in the next few weeks."

  "It sounds like Thrush's leaking computer has been providing you with some valuable leads. How long before they figure it out?"

  "Thrush?" Illya turned from the bar, looking over his shoulder, his eyebrows raised in humor. "You're asking me to anticipate Thrush? If I could do that I would have Alexander Waverly's job."

  "Keep working, 'Lusha," Norm snorted. "As Misha says, 'In America every little boy can be president.'"

  "No, thank you. I am not a leader. I like to tipsy-toe along after the big guys. Let them do all the work. But what about you? You would be good as Section One, Number One." Illya's arm swept an invisible banner across the ceiling. "Norman Michael Graham. Number One, Section One. North America. Da boss."

  "I'm quite happy with my Section One, Number Eight, North America ranking, thank you. Besides, Trish would never agree to the hours." They both chuckled knowingly at the imagined response of Norm's wife to the long hours, long days, few vacations, and high pressure stakes that went along with the job of Head of U.N.C.L.E.

  "I wouldn't have the strength to tell her. No, your partner will probably end up with that title eventually, if he lives so long.—Where is Napoleon, anyway?"

  "In New York." Illya stood mixing Graham's drink, the plastic straw pushing ice cubes around noisily.

  Norm waited but there was no further response. His eyes rose from the papers on his desk and, over the rim of his reading glasses, he studied Illya's muscles, tight across the narrow shoulders. Uh, oh. He let the topic go, and Illya relaxed immediately. This was not the place to speak of such things.

  Graham turned back to the packet and slid out a multi-page copy of the agreement between CIA and U.N.C.L.E. "Alexander sends me all the good stuff, I see. This should help me get to sleep this week." He accepted the drink from Illya and put it down before him as he glanced through the rest of the incoming mail. "Not much this run. Mercer. Evans. Hmm... something for you here. Now why couldn't he have given it to you in person?" He handed a sealed envelope to Kuryakin. "And a letter to me from Alexander." He ripped the edge of the envelope and dragged out the letter, shaking it open, while Illya was still carefully slitting the side of his, trying not to spill his vodka clutched in one hand. "Uh... Illya, wait on that for a minute." Norm read through the rest of his brief letter, a frown forming on his face. He got up and gently retrieved the envelope from Illya. "Uh, beat it for a few minutes, okay? I need to make a few phone calls."

  "I can deliver the other letters for you." Illya stood and reached for the envelopes, but Norm's hand came down on them.

  "Thanks, but I have to see them anyway. Why don't you visit O'Connor? He's having a bit of trouble with the new simulation and would love to talk technical with you."

  "There's a new simulation?" The blue eyes brightened. "Why didn't you say so?"

  With considerably more energy than he had executed entering the room, Illya downed his drink, straightened his tie, and shot out the door.

  Graham smiled. If nothing else, they had learned to tap into the child within the agent. He turned his attention back to the letter and reached for the telephone, not certain yet how he would broach this with Waverly. Perhaps directly to the point would be best.

  The New York office put his call through immediately. "Alexander. It's Norm. What's this about psych testing for Illya? When did that come up? I thought he was supposed to have a few days off?"

  Waverly was ready for him. "PSYCHOLOGICAL EVALUATIONS ARE STANDARD PROCEDURE WHEN AN AGENT HAS BEEN THROUGH A DIFFICULT MISSION. I DO NOT UNDERSTAND YOUR CONCERN, NORMAN."

  "I'm just surprised at this cropping up now. Illya seems fine to me. He's in good spirits. Why do this now and not after the other three hundred stressful cases he has been on over the last few years?"

  Again there was the feeling that the conversation had been anticipated. But then, how could Alexander have not expected him to query it? "THERE HAVE BEEN SOME MINOR INDICATIONS THAT HIS LAST TWO ASSIGNMENTS HAD REPERCUSSIONS THAT COULD POSSIBLY COMPROMISE HIM AT A LATER DATE. I HAVE CHOSEN TO HAVE THE EVALUATIONS DONE."

  "You can't believe Illya would—"

  "I'VE DONE IT TO PROTECT HIM, NORMAN." The voice on the other end of the secured phone line was without inflection, but there was enough force behind the words to keep Graham silent while Waverly continued. "THERE ARE THOSE WITHIN OUR ORGANIZATION WHO WOULD POUNCE ON THE INFORMATION OF WHERE MR. KURYAKIN RECEIVED HIS INTEL ON THE THRUSH CORPORATE COMPUTER. PLUS, THE AGENCY HAS A SCORE TO SETTLE WITH US, MANY STILL BELIEVING KURYAKIN TO HAVE MIXED LOYALTIES, AND I AM RELUCTANT FOR MR. KURYAKIN TO BE USED AS THE SCAPEGOAT. IT INTERFERES WITH THE RUNNING OF THIS ORGANIZATION, AND HIS PLACE WITHIN IT."

  "Okay, I can accept that. But why have the testing here? Why not with Sam Lawrence in New York? You know as well as I do that Jack Mercer has not been sympathetic to Illya's position with the Network. Surely there are better doctors to—"

  "DR. MERCER IS AN EMPLOYEE OF THE UNITED NETWORK COMMAND, AND HAS BEEN FOR MANY YEARS. I SEE NO REASON FOR HIM TO FALSIFY ANY TEST RESULTS. IF YOU HAVE CONCERNS IN THIS AREA THAT HAVE NOT BEEN BROUGHT TO MY ATTENTION—"

  "But why not have Sam do them? Illya feels comfortable with him, more than he could ever be with Jack Mercer."

  Graham could hear that Waverly was losing patience now, his attention already being claimed by other issues. "DR. LAWRENCE IS THE ONE WHO BROUGHT THE MATTER TO MY ATTENTION."

  "Sam? What could—"

  "YOU WILL PROCEED WITH THE INSTRUCTIONS AS LAID OUT, NORMAN. DR. MERCER WILL SUPERVISE THE TESTS THAT THE PSYCHOLOGIST THERE, UH—"

  "Dr. Evans."

  "—DR. EVANS GIVES TO MR. KURYAKIN. DR. MERCER WILL THEN PASS ON HIS FINDINGS DIRECTLY TO MY ATTENTION, AND I WILL FILE THE REPORT."

  Norm stared across the room, his anger rising. If he knew Jack Mercer, the former CIA doctor would also be certain to produce a duplicate report to pass on his findings to his ex-colleagues at the Agency... Ah. And when the evaluation showed that Illya was clear, not only would U.N.C.L.E. be satisfied, but it would ease the pressure the Central Intelligence Agency had on their defector. "I see. How much can I tell Illya then?"

  "HE HAS HIS INSTRUCTIONS. THAT IS ENOUGH."

  "Alexander, I can't send him in cold. He'll feel that we no longer trust him—"

  "MR. KURYAKIN UNDERSTANDS QUITE WELL HOW THE ESPIONAGE BUSINESS WORKS. I'M SURE HE WILL HAVE NO DIFFICULTY IN PERFORMING THE TESTS. NOW I MUST TAKE ANOTHER LINE. GOOD DAY."

  Norm listened to the abrupt dial tone and put down the receiver, his initial shock at the contents of the letter passed. Yes, Illya was sure to understand the reason for the testing. The CIA, up until last December at least, had interrogated Kuryakin quite thoroughly each time U.N.C.L.E. had him sent him to a Soviet Bloc country unescorted. Procedures must be followed. And defectors must be followed.

  His own hypocrisy stared him in the face. I spend most of my days watching this city, guarding it from the enemy, from foreign interest, listening to tapes made in secret, the whispers of ordinary men speaking of their families and dreams and concerns. I read stolen notes and governmental statements, trying to anticipate future actions only because they are not from this country and therefore not 'safe'. From U.N.C.L.E.'s viewpoint, I watch them all, my own country and all the rest, like children playing with Washington as their common playground as they fight and quarrel and party and choose sides.

  He resisted the urge to crumple the paper, instead putting it to one side. "Carmen," he said into his intercom, "please have Dr. Mercer and Dr. Evans join me in my office in five minutes for a quick meeting. Tell them that I promise not to keep them long."

  And it didn't take long. Mercer and Evans opened their letters, a few words were exchanged, and the two doctors left. If Mercer had been surprised at Alexander's choice of physicians to supervise the testing, he had not shown it. Perhaps the only one it was not obvious to was himself, Norm thought.

  He sent for Illya and smiled in spite of himself when the young man returned, breathless with repressed excitement about O'Connor's program. Kuryakin stood silently before his desk, almost patiently, eyes barely containing the wonder he had just witnessed, his long fingers moving of their own volition, tapping against the chair back.

  "So, did you see where he was having trouble, Illya?"

  The words tumbled out then, Kuryakin only stopping himself to reword something as Graham's blank looks showed he had lost him. Finally, he tossed his hands in the air and dropped into the high-backed armchair. "Let's just say Mr. O'Connor is a genius. He is far ahead of the current studies in the field. U.N.C.L.E. is fortunate to have him."

  "Well said. But don't say that to his face or he'll want another raise. Or worse, to expand his budget."

  Illya laughed. "Is all you are concerned about? Budgets? Genius must flourish," he whispered conspiratorially, leaning to rest an elbow on Norm's desk, "or Thrush will scoop him up, and then where will I go to play if he takes the toys with him?"

  Norm grinned back at him, even while the thought crossed his mind what some would do with that last statement. What a business. He picked up the envelope from Waverly and passed it back to Illya, who accepted it with mock-horror.

  "Oh, I can open it now? You have defused the bomb?"

  "Don't be a smart aleck, kid."

  That stopped him. Illya frowned, his eyes narrowing. "I hate American expressions. Tony called me that once, but would not explain. What is smart aleck?"

  Norm flipped open his dictionary and pretended to find the spot. "Smart aleck: Illya Kuryakin. A species soon to become extinct for being disrespectful to his elders."

  Kuryakin shrugged to himself, and shifted the conversation back to where it had been. "You seem worried about this letter, Norm." The blue eyes peered up from beneath the blond fringed bangs, the touch of scamp again begging a smile from the older man.

  "Be serious. Just read it. We can talk about it after." Strange mood you're in, Lusha. And if all goes to pattern, we'll get the reverse tonight. I know you can get through this okay, if you can keep your sense of humor, however warped that may be.

  Illya shook the single sheet open and glanced at the three sentences outlining his assignment for the next two days. "More tests. Goodie."

  Norm's eyes widened. "Goodie? Where did you get that from?" Not exactly what he had expected to hear.

  Illya looked up, acting shocked. "I used the expression incorrectly?"

  "Let's just say it should be closer to Misha's vocabulary than yours."

  "Oh. Yippee? No? Hurrah, then, or whatever the appropriate sarcastic expression is."

  "You're taking this rather lightly."

  "That I'm being tested for the thousandth time? It is standard for me, don't you know, Norm? I go out on assignment, I do the paperwork, I get a physical, I get tests, and then the cycle begins again. Like the four seasons: Early Winter, Middle of Winter, Late Winter, and hot blistery Summer."

  Norm ignored him, gesturing to the letter again. "But you've never had these psych evaluations before."

  Illya crumpled the paper and tossed it at him, slouched back in the armchair, disconcertingly relaxed. "What's your concern, Norm? Are you afraid I won't pass them? Maybe you can help me—what is that word Tony uses?—maybe you can help me cram for my psych tests?"

  Again, the ridiculous, usually-irresistible, pout, but this time it made the Washington Chief angry. His fist pounded the desk as he spoke, his voice demanding to be heard. "Be serious, Illya! This isn't a game we're playing. The results of these tests could determine whether or not you are allowed to stay in this country."

  The imp disappeared and the cold professional was back, sitting up straight, as intense as Graham had ever seen him. His words were clipped, nostrils flared. "Of course, I know that. But that goes for everything I do in this country, or wherever I go. If I were to live always in fear of being kicked out, I would have nothing left. I would be too crippled to move a step. It would compromise my every action. I must consider this my home now. And I cannot be afraid of my home, of being in this country, or they will recognize that fear and will use it against me. Oh, believe me, I know the stakes only too well. But I am no longer afraid of them, Norm. You always speak of what I lost when I came to this country. But have you considered that when everything was taken from me, I was free then? Don't you see?" Wide eyes implored him to understand. "Alexander Waverly made me free. My heart is here, in America, with you and your family. With my job. My soul is elsewhere perhaps. But— it is not in Russia. I could not find it there."