"Hmm..." It was comfortable, being home, the kitchen lit only by the glow from the oven.

  "Ilyusha's here," Trish said after a while, her eyes lost to him in the shadows.

  "I saw him at the office. Is he still up?"

  "I think so. He was sitting outside by the pool a short time ago. He said he was okay, just thinking."

  "About what?"

  She shook her head. "He didn't volunteer anything more. Earlier tonight, he helped Misha with his diving, and then after dinner he and Tanya sat on the dock and talked for a couple of hours. You know how he often is the first evening back, Norm, unwinding, catching up. He's smiling and everything, but he seems a little down. And..." She faded out on him, a sigh escaping her pursed lips.

  He nudged her back into the conversation. "And what?"

  "It's probably nothing. I just think he had a disagreement of some sort with Napoleon. Something he hasn't resolved yet."

  Interesting. "I came to the same conclusion."

  She turned to him. "Did he say anything to you at the office?"

  "No. He'll talk when he's ready. But if it's work related, he may not feel it's appropriate to speak with us about it, and it probably isn't."

  "Come now, Norm. He has to have someone to talk to."

  "He's a grown man. He's twenty-six years old. Let him work this out. I got the sense today that whatever is occupying those thoughts is something he's going to have to weigh out for himself, without outside help. He's had a few too many people giving him unsolicited advice, and he needs the time to sort it all out. He can do it. His way."

  Norm detangled himself and turned on the light in the range hood, dishing out his dinner while Trish still stared out the window.

  "I want to be able to help with this," she said, finally. "I want us to be there for him at times like this."

  "We are. Families grow up, though, hon. Tony's moved out; Tanya's going away to private school. They're leaving home, but that doesn't mean they're not our kids, that we don't care for them. They know that. Ilyusha knows that, too." Norm deposited his plate on the table. "I'll go tell him I'm home and see if he wants to come up for a drink before we turn in." Trish nodded, and he moved out onto the deck and leaned over the railing. "Hello, hello. Anybody there?"

  There was a shuffling sound in the darkness by the lawn chairs, then a face came around the corner, the outside lights catching the pale hair as Illya looked up at him. "I heard you come in."

  "Come on up. Keep me company while I'm eating dinner."

  "I've been swimming. Let me get changed."

  "Just grab a towel. You're not going to ruin anything by getting water on it." Norm pushed away and went back in the house before Illya could protest.

  A minute later they heard the tread on the stairs, and he joined them, a wild multicolored beach towel wrapped around his body. His hair was almost dry, so he hadn't been in the water too recently. Illya headed straight to the refrigerator and poured himself a glass of Misha's purple Kool-Aid. From there he went to the cookie jar, casting a challenging glance to Trish as he reached in and pulled out a handful. "Don't tell me I'll spoil my dinner."

  She laughed. "Go ahead. You look like you could use a few pounds."

  "I lost some weight during my last assignment." He refilled his glass and leaned against the counter, munching on the cookies contentedly.

  "Did you tell Trish about the new body?" Norm asked, mashed potatoes disappearing into his mouth.

  Standing in the middle of the kitchen, Illya shook his head, the eyes hooded, concentrating on his food.

  "What do you mean, new body?" Trish asked, looking from one to the other.

  "Show her." Norm purposefully avoided meeting the dark glare aimed at him from the young man. "According to Sam Lawrence, Ilyusha's scars are gone."

  "Your scars? What? All of them? How was it done?" Trish slid out of the bench and flicked on the bright overhead kitchen lights. "Let's see."

  Illya's eyes widened slightly and he shivered, but took a deep breath and dropped the towel. Clad only in his swimming trunks, he slowly turned for her, his arms out from his side. Trish's hands glazed over his still slightly sunburned skin, lightly touching where the bullet scars had formerly rippled the surface, where knife wounds had left their mark, and across his back, where once the white scars from his early teens had crisscrossed in a layered pattern that had always made her ill to consider their source. Now only the bruises from his last mission marred the fair skin on his back and chest.

  "That's impossible," she whispered. "They are gone." Trish touched his back again, her fingers tracing where the once jagged bullet exit wound had been. "I've never heard of such a high level of plastic surgery. I didn't know this could be done."

  Norm saw a sudden blankness about Illya that concerned him, that and the silence to his wife's questions. The muscles across Illya's stomach were tight, his skin pale, even for Illya. He was scared.

  Norm left the table and retrieved the discarded towel. "It was an experiment, Trish. Top secret. He's not allowed to talk about it." Norm drew the beach towel back over Illya's shoulders, smiling down at the unreadable face. He drew the younger man closer until he felt Illya's chin lift and settle over his shoulder, the strong body leaning into his embrace. It always amazed him that Illya would accept this from him, as though at times he needed to be touched by another human being. And he probably did.

  "I may not need to say this, but I will say it anyway. Your scars were your old life, not this one," Norm said. "You've lost nothing of value."

  After a moment of silence between them, Illya murmured, just loud enough for them to hear, "That's what Napoleon told me... about the scars... Not those exact words, but—" He sighed and pushed away, not rejecting the affectionate hug, but encouraged and calmed by it. "I'm tired. It's good to be home, both of you," he said, smiling from one to the other. "Tomorrow I must concentrate on what I am doing, so tonight I will get some sleep."

  Norm watched him disappear down the stairs to his bedroom on the lower level, then he returned to his cooling dinner.

  "I am surprised." Trish joined him at the table again.

  "I was hungry."

  She swatted at his arm. "I'm surprised at Ilyusha. Actually, I'm surprised at Napoleon. I don't think of him as being very supportive."

  Norm grinned. "Ruins his reputation, doesn't it?" He pushed his empty plate back, and settled in beside her, the lights out again. The moon reflected off the water, the contrasting blackness of the dock stretching out over the shimmering surface. The faint sound of the shower downstairs cut out, leaving the house in silence. He put his feet up on the opposite bench.

  "I wondered about them, today at the office. I'm not so concerned now. If Napoleon only knew the professional agent Kuryakin, he would never have said that to Illya. That means, whether it's deliberate or, as I strongly suspect, instinctual, Ilyusha trusts him and has let down some major barriers around him. It's obvious Napoleon's seen that other side of him, and often enough that he feels protective of that level of trust Ilyusha shows."

  "I don't see how Ilyusha could possibly trust a man like that. Napoleon Solo is so caught up with himself and what he wants—"

  "They work well together. Remember when they were here at Christmas, how Ilyusha was in a semi-coma and yet it wasn't our voices that pulled him out of it, it was Napoleon's? When they found him last summer, after he had disappeared for a couple of months, Sam insisted that Napoleon would bring him through it, and he did. They're friends, hon. And he needs a friend. I suspect they both do. Whatever they're working through, they'll find a way around it or over it."

  "You are acting like a spy and suspecting an awful lot. I wish I was so sure. He's angry with Napoleon about something."

  "It's good for him to be angry and know he's not going to be court-martialed and shot for it. And Napoleon has run the show for too long. Watch out, Nappy. We're about to experience a growth spurt."

  "So you think they're going to work it out?"

  "I'd bet on it. And without our help. Come on, Trish, he'll be fine. Give me a smile... It's not the end of the world. We did our job already and we done it good. You and I, and the kids, we gave him the tools to trust. We taught him about family and friends. He's on his own now." Norm felt her head rest against his shoulder, and turned his head to smell her hair. "Let's go up to bed. I still haven't heard about Misha's day at camp or Tanya's latest crisis."

  "And Tony called. He..."

  Norm pulled her to her feet and they wandered upstairs.

  Interlude

  Waverly reached for his bowler hat, placing it on his head as he prepared to leave for the night. It was almost midnight. Most cases were on standby, except one in Philadelphia, which had gone dormant for the night. He had no reason to stay, and his wife awaited him.

  He grasped his briefcase by the handle and moved to turn off his office light when he caught sight of his chess board. He studied it from across the room, knowing where each player stood, what the dangers were, and what his options were. To one side, lined up on the table, were the players who had already been eliminated, watching like silent specters.

  His opponent had not yet moved—might not move for several days or weeks.

  Waverly had learned not to second-guess his decisions. He'd made his move— hastily perhaps, but it had a strong chance of proving fatal to this opponent if he made the wrong choice in responding.

  Time would tell.

  Waverly flicked off the light.

  Part 4

  White Knight in the Side Pocket

  The man who goes alone can start today; but he who travels with another must wait till that other is ready.

  Henry David Thoreau

  * * * * *

  Thursday, August 5, 1965

  UNCLE New York Headquarters

  9:05 a.m.

  Before even checking in at his desk the next morning, Napoleon Solo walked into the crowded Special Task Investigations Lab #NY65-42 that had been set up to monitor the Corporate Computer that was housed in the sub-basement of Thrush's New York headquarters. It was now almost two months since the compromised telephone link to the Corporate Computer had been discovered and the decision had been made to leave it in place. "You left a message with the receptionist for me, Bill. What's up?"

  "Your Thrush computer is leaking again. Interesting stuff, I think, but we still seem to be getting only incoming reports to the main office from their sub-offices. We're attempting to broaden that, but haven't had much success. There might be enough information there for you to work with, though. Guess you Section Twoers make those decisions." Without looking up from his work table or removing his headset, Bill Landry handed over a sheet of typed nonsense, as far as Solo could tell.

  "What is this? More floor wax?" he asked after a few seconds of trying to decipher the meaningless characters.

  "Hmm?" Landry glanced over then, retrieved the paper with a sigh, "Not those," and handed Solo several sheets of transcription. "Mary's still typing up the rest, but I felt what I'd seen so far warranted your attention. I'll have her bring up the rest when she's finished. There are no extra chairs or you could look at it here."

  The hint wasn't lost. "I'll see what I can do about getting you more space. I'll be in my office if you have anything else you wish to add." Solo dropped the papers into his briefcase.

  "Add this: I need more filing cabinets!" Landry called out after him.

  It wasn't until after lunch that he had a chance to look at the papers.

  The morning had been spent meeting with John MacKinney, an U.N.C.L.E. agent from Northern Quebec, about the Far North case, comparing notes on a possible Thrush site there. Thrush's attention had been focused on the Arctic Circle in recent months, they were discovering. There was an extensive amount of sightings of known Thrush personnel arriving or departing from airports not only in Canada's north, but also from Alaska to Greenland and as far east as Iceland. They had no idea what Thrush was up to—or where exactly they were located—and all northern-based agents had been alerted to pass on any information.

  Napoleon tapped his pen on his desk as he stared blankly at the transcription sheets from the Thrush computer Landry had given him earlier, not concentrating on what was there, as his mind still wrestled with the Far North case. There were too many pieces that didn't make sense and Solo hated the emerging puzzle that was presenting itself. John MacKinney's latest intel passed on to him had been as convoluted as any they had received yet, and it didn't fit into—

  Baffin Bay.

  Solo blinked. His finger stabbed at the words on the transcription on the page before him. BAFFIN BAY... SUMMIT MEETING... HAS IT BEEN POSTPONED OR...

  What? He lifted his telephone receiver to call his partner, then stared at it in disgust and slammed it down. Illya was still in Washington.

  News of something along the lines of a summit meeting of Thrush at Baffin Bay was exactly what they had been waiting for. Unfortunately, there was no indication in any message fragment of when it had been postponed to. The rest of the papers said little else of value. The process of decoding the Thrush memorandums was difficult, as each office seemed to have a separate style and separate set of encrypting devices. It was equally difficult in determining where the individual messages were sent from. Any encoding heading information was not coming through with the scattered text of the message.

  Still, encouraged by the transmission details, Solo went through his IN basket and found the rest of the papers sent up from the Special Task office. He took a ballpoint and a highlighter pen and began to mark up the copies, indicating to whom different messages should be forwarded. Lagto: a sentence about the UN meeting next month. Garcia: a list of names the man could run through his growing database. Heather McNabb: a memo asking her to locate information on the Stock Market on February 19th.

  Another line caught his eye.

  POSSIBLE HURRICANE WATCH GOING INTO EFFECT... BETTY ON HEADING SOUTHWARD TOWARD GULF... NEW CONSIDERATION OF POSSIBLE FORCED EVACUATION... PLEASE ADVISE GAS RELOCATION IN THAT EVENT… COURIER ABLE TO DELIVER FROZEN INFORMATION FOR SAFEKEEP—

  It ended there. Frozen information? A quick call confirmed there was a hurricane called Betty several hundred miles off the coast of Florida and traveling southward parallel to it, heading back to the Caribbean that spawned her. But that was a long way from the Arctic. It could be in line with what they were searching for, but could equally be a list of ice cream dealers, or dead employees, for that matter.

  It was the 'gas relocation' that was slowly ringing bells for him. There had been something mentioned lately in a briefing on an experimental gas... where had he seen the reference...?

  Again Solo stared at the telephone. Illya would have remembered. Illya always remembered such things. But he wasn't here. His partner—

  If Kuryakin still was his partner.

  Strange the way the mind worked, bouncing from thought to thought. Illya's face, flushed with anger. Storming out the office door. Another hurricane headed south.

  Waverly had not mentioned Kuryakin during the morning briefing, nor during Solo's brief summary of his interview with MacKinney. Kuryakin's name was not on the roster. It should have been there, followed by an indicator showing he was not presently field-certified, that he was on a courier run, and that he could be reached through the D.C. office. Instead: Nothing. Not even a notation about the psych testing. The secretary who typed it said only that Waverly had crossed it off the rough draft.

  So there was another game being played.

  It would be useless to try to get through to Illya during the tests. He would be unavailable until the next day. I could phone Norm Graham. The thought presented itself, but was shoved aside, his own anger pushing its way to the foreground.

  The next time he spoke with Illya, it would be face-to-face. Alone.

  And there will be no argument.

  * * * * *

  U.N.C.L.E. Washington, D.C.

  2:00 p.m.

  Kuryakin leaned back on the sloping chair and tried to keep himself under control as the drug coursed through his system. His body wanted to panic, to fight the medication they had given him, to not answer their questions. It was difficult to go against a lifetime of experience. He was about to be interrogated, and he was not supposed to resist the questioners even though his entire training had taught him to never reveal his true feelings, his true thoughts.

  The morning's physical exam with Dr. Mercer had been quite thorough, although the only thing that the doctor had said to him throughout the entire procedure was "cough". Mercer was easier to deal with, though. They hated each other. Yet they were both members of U.N.C.L.E. and, therefore, were expected to act cordial and diplomatic when interacting with each other. Silence seemed to say it best.

  After a light lunch eaten alone in the doctor's waiting room, Kuryakin had been escorted to the psychologist's office. The trouble with Dr. Evans was that he was a congenial, educated, nonprejudicial gentleman. It was hard not to admire him. Kuryakin liked his voice, the drawled accent and scratchy voice so different from most he heard in North America. Dr. Evans had been polite and courteous thus far, but had kept himself at a safe distance, both physically and professionally.

  His patient, both men knew, was always one answer away from incarceration. It was Evans' responsibility to U.N.C.L.E. to look for a weakness in every agent sent to him, especially one as high up as Kuryakin was.

  The first series of tests had consisted of superficial questions and answers, easy enough for a seasoned professional to navigate through with little concentration. Then a nurse was brought in to prepare for the second stage. It was difficult to use hypnosis to break a field-prepared agent's preconditioned responses, but the drug Dr. Evans had just authorized, and which the nurse injected into his arm via an IV tube, would neatly sidestep the process, provided one knew how to administer it correctly.

  Kuryakin had no doubt that Evans knew how. Alexander Waverly would not allow anyone to have control of such a drug if they could not manage it effectively and confidentially.