There was a rush of vertigo. Kuryakin closed his eyes, concentrating on the fact that his body was centered on the couch and not in danger of slipping off, despite what his frazzled senses were telling him. His tie rested uncomfortably on his throat. The empty holster dug into his shoulder blades where he rested against it.

  The questions came then, and only a part of his consciousness even heard them. He was aware that he was in Simon Evans' D.C. office, and that there were words spoken, but what those words were about—and what his answers were to them—remained just beyond reach. It felt strange to lie there and hear the sounds and not know what they meant. As if some part of him were eavesdropping on a conversation between two strangers.

  Kuryakin opened his eyes an undetermined time later to a dimmed room. He was alone. His body would not move, would not respond to his brain's request, yet he was aware that a restraint crossed his hips, another across his chest. He could breathe, but his eyes would not track smoothly, and he dragged them from object to object in the doctor's office. His vision fogged over and he tried to blink it clear.

  Someone was there now. A white-smocked nurse stood beside him and adjusted his IV flow. The room faded again into a whirlpool of gray.

  Napoleon?

  * * * * *

  UNCLE HQ, New York

  3:00 p.m.

  Napoleon Solo shivered inadvertently, then glanced at the computer technician as the man deciphered the readout. "Where does it say it's heading?"

  "Well, a storm by the name of Betty was upgraded a few days ago to hurricane status. She went by Puerto Rico and headed up toward Florida, almost as far north as North Carolina. Says here that Hurricane Diane, back in '54, followed much the same route but about four hundred kilometers east. She ended up flooding the entire northeastern states and killed 184 people."

  Solo nodded, grimly. "I saw that one personally; I was in the Canadian Navy stationed in Halifax around that time. It was quite the sight—I remember we watched Diane's dissipation from the deck of our ship at sea off the coast of Nova Scotia. She just scooted south of us, but by then she was already downgraded to tropical storm."

  He shook his head at the memory of the thrashing sea they had battled and the fierce winds.

  "Sorry, Mr. Solo, but I can't give you any more information than that yet. The National Weather Bureau is watching her, but hurricanes are often hard to predict. At the moment, Betty's just done a turnaround and is still heading south. She could do an about face again, for all we know. As for where this Thrush base is, the hurricane warning will have gone out from Mexico all the way around the gulf to Florida and up into North Carolina at least. That Thrush message could have originated from anywhere."

  Solo sighed, rubbing at his forehead as he stared at the map the technician had been working on. "When will we have a better idea of where Betty's heading?"

  "Oh, they'll know more as she gets further south. Could be your message originates along the coast of Florida, but—who knows? Most of these ladies defy our efforts to predict where they're gonna hit. I've got a direct line into the Weather Bureau; they'll let us know the moment her course changes again."

  The CEA returned to his desk and called up the scanty information they had gleaned on the various gases Thrush was known to have been experimenting with. The most disturbing was also the most recent. At the end of June, the inhabitants of a small village in Haiti—men, women, children, animals—had been found dead, as though each had suddenly fainted. Rigor mortis had set in almost instantaneously. Several exploded canisters were found by the authorities, pointing to an unknown group as the assassins.

  Kuryakin had been among the investigating agents, his name typed at the bottom of the paper Solo was now reading. The accompanying pages of formulae were undecipherable to the Section Two Chief.

  Damn it, Illya. Get your butt back here.

  * * * * *

  UNCLE Washington, DC

  4:00 p.m.

  Illya tried to sit up, but the dizziness was overwhelming. He had to go. He had to be somewhere else. He couldn't see, though; his eyes weren't focusing. Everything was moving, shifting, moving, moving. He closed his eyes against the vertigo.

  "Rest easy," a voice said to him. It was a familiar voice, one he had heard before, but it was unfamiliar, because he could not identify it. "Don't try to fight it."

  But he had to fight it.

  He had to fight.

  He had to be somewhere else. Somewhere...

  "Ilyusha?" Another voice, close to his ear. A man's voice. A father's voice.

  Illya tried to grasp hold of the man, hold onto the sleeve of his suit jacket. He could feel the material beneath his fingers but it felt distorted, the texture wrong. His hand was taken by the other man, encased between two hands and a sudden warmth caused Illya to stop struggling.

  "Illyusha," the father's voice said again. "Try and get some sleep. The first part of the testing is over. We'll go home in a few hours, so just rest now. I'll come back and get you. I won't leave you here. Do you understand?"

  He nodded. He understood.

  The warm hands let go of his hand, and the father's voice left the room along with the other voice. It was quiet, except for a clock which ticked as the second hand moved. Click. Click. Click. Click. Click. Click. Click. Click. Click.

  Sixty in a minute. Three thousand, six hundred in an hour. Seven thousand, two hundred until the father's voice came back.

  Click. Click. Click. Click. Click. Click. Click. Click. Click.

  But there was somewhere else he should be, he thought, holding on to the sides of the bed, and counting the seconds.

  * * * * *

  Friday, August 6, 1965

  UNCLE Washington, DC

  8:15 a.m.

  The next morning, Norm Graham drove into the U.N.C.L.E. Washington building underground parking lot. The Washington office had one of the few overt buildings in the world, as in a city of agencies, there was no need to hide. It read: United Network Command for Law Enforcement above the main doors, with the U.N.C.L.E. symbol tiled into the entrance way floor. There was always the debate of whether it should read 'Law Enforcement' or 'Law and Enforcement', as early documents listed it both ways. Either way, no one used the long version in speech or in correspondence. It was always 'UNCLE' or 'U.N.C.L.E.'.

  Illya got out of the front seat and carefully pushed the lock button down and closed the car door.

  "I wish I could get my other kids to do that," Norm commented, looking across the hood of the car to the young man.

  Illya frowned. "Do what?"

  "Remember to the lock the door and then not slam it."

  "Why would they need to slam it? It is not difficult to close."

  "My point exactly."

  Illya stared back at him blankly, as though he had missed something in the conversation.

  "Let's get some coffee before we start the day. We're early."

  "I was told not to have coffee before the testing. It might interfere with the drugs."

  Norm winced inwardly, then rested his hand on Illya's back as they walked, needing Illya to feel his connection. "I wish there was some other way to handle all of this."

  "But there is not," Illya said.

  "Well, today's the last day. You'll be done by noon. Hey, how's your throat feeling? I haven't heard you coughing."

  "I'm fine, Papasha," Illya said, holding open the stairwell door for them to enter.

  "Of course you are," Norm said. They held up their security badges at the checkpoint and walked into the main building. "See you for lunch, then."

  Illya nodded. "For lunch," he repeated, then turned left and headed to the medical department as Norm entered the elevator that would take him to his top floor office.

  * * * * *

  UNCLE HQ, New York

  11:00 a.m.

  Solo stopped by the Special Tasks Unit on his way to his office. His mussed suit jacket and partly-groomed hair still showed the lingering signs of a car chase that had occurred shortly after he left his apartment heading for Headquarters. The Thrush agents he had spotted and tailed, an assortment of bodyguards and two known chemists, had ended up losing him in the garment district amid the rush hour traffic and, unfortunately for his car, a collision with an inevitable fruit truck. Illya could have helped himself to any of a thousand green apples that cascaded down on the convertible. "Any news?"

  Landry was monitoring the station. "The Weather Bureau is not being specific at this time, Mr. Solo, but they've issued a hurricane warning for Southern Florida. Betty is heading west now and I figure if she keeps on route, she'll clip the southern tip of

  Florida. She could still hit anywhere from Florida, Mississippi, and around to Texas."

  "When?"

  "For Florida? Late tonight. Further along than that? Oh, maybe even Sunday or Monday. It's hard to say. If they could be predicted with greater accuracy, we wouldn't have the disasters that we end up with every year. Or at least not the loss of human life. This message did come in to their headquarters though. I've been saving it for you."

  Solo stared at the paper in his hands, turning the card over several times.

  FROZEN INFORMATION READY TO GO AT MOMENT'S NOTICE, the message had read. SHOULD WE PREPARE FOR COMPLETE EVACUATION OR WILL REINFORCEMENTS HOLD? BETTY STILL APPROACHING. PLEASE ADVISE."

  The CEA tucked the card in his suit pocket. Frozen information again. Rigor mortis. Nerve gas relocation. Were they all tied together? The appropriate health centers had been notified, but without anything more specific, it was like saying to them, 'we might have a disaster one day somewhere in America.' They needed more information, specifics, in order to be helpful.

  But there was still more to it than that. Something he should be looking for. If the gas was the same as in Haiti... Where else had it...? How had they moved...?

  The memory hovered out of reach, not clear enough for him to pull it back. "Call me if anything changes," he said crisply. "Anything at all."

  Alone in his office, he mentally prepared for his briefing with Waverly while he repaired the damage to his person. A lint brush for his suit and a comb for his hair. And a coffee for his nerves. His mind kept traveling back to the computer message despite his attempts to finish the report on the morning run-in with Thrush. It was hard to sound competent when the car chase had seemed like something out of a Laurel and Hardy movie.

  The nerve gas had been...

  No. It was gone again.

  Sam Lawrence strolled in and handed over the weekly medical reports for section two agents. "You look like you've had some excitement already today. What's up?" he asked, leaning on the desk.

  "I caught sight of some Thrush agents on the way in. I tried to tail them, but that's rather difficult in rush hour traffic."

  "I can imagine."

  "It ended up being a waste of time. I shouldn't have bothered." Solo glanced over the medical report, his eye falling on his partner's name, still not listed as field certified. "I see Ross Young is out," he commented, instead. "Shoulder injury?"

  "In Wyoming. Car accident."

  Solo avoided the doctor's amused gaze, frowning as he saw the name of yet another New York agent out of commission for a week or so. "Lagto's in the hospital? For what?"

  "Someone took a shot at him last night. Nicked his temple. Could have been a lot worse."

  "I suppose Heather's there..." Solo said, his faint smile downplaying the sarcastic tone. Heather McNabb and John Lagto had been seen in each other's company for over a month now, and Waverly had yet to make some official comment on it. Solo had, though, as often as he could get away with it. Heather had deadly elbows, though, and knew how to use them to keep teasing at bay.

  Lawrence said nothing for a few moments, then cleared his throat. "Did you find anything more on the nerve gas and the hurricane? Do you think it's the same formula as what we had in Haiti? I don't have the details of that with me..."

  Napoleon stared at the medical report, not seeing it now. He stood motionless, dark eyes narrowed as he tried to force the memory of where exactly he had heard of the nerve gas before Haiti. Illya had been with him...

  He shivered again suddenly, his gaze darting around the room, then back to the report in his hand. Illya's presence. He almost turned around to look for Illya's opinion, to see what was going through that mind. He should be there. He should be standing by Napoleon's side, peering at the document over his shoulder, not Sam Lawrence.

  "Why don't you call him?"

  Napoleon didn't ask who he was referring to. "He's being tested still."

  "According to the schedule, that should end in an hour. You can call then."

  "Maybe. I have a meeting to attend now." Napoleon gathered his papers and left the office, striding alone down the corridor.

  * * * * *

  UNCLE Washington, D.C. Office

  12:00 p.m.

  He was in a lab, wearing a lab coat.

  An experiment was before him. His eyes were captivated by the flame of the Bunsen burner. Liquid in a beaker, set above the flame, simmered.

  He did nothing. He simply stood before the table and watched the flames and the simmering liquid. He did nothing.

  A shimmer to one side. Napoleon Solo stood by the window of the lab. Napoleon looked very serious. Napoleon was speaking, but Illya could not hear what he was saying. Napoleon was telling him something.

  Illya turned and walked to the door of the room, although he did not know why he was walking away from his partner. Napoleon was telling him something, but he couldn't hear what it was and now he was walking away.

  He stopped at the door and looked back. The liquid was bubbling now, a full roaring that splashed over the sides of the beaker and the flames ignited it. The room exploded and Napoleon was on fire. Napoleon was in the room on fire.

  And he still was trying to tell Illya something.

  And then he was gone, nothing but a pile of ashes.

  * * * * *

  12:30 p.m.

  "Carmen?"

  "Yes, Mr. Graham?" His secretary's voice crackled on the intercom.

  "Could you locate Illya Kuryakin and have him come to my office when the infirmary releases him. I was expecting him a few minutes ago. I'll take him home when I go for lunch."

  "Certainly.—Oh, and Dr. Evans is here to see you."

  "Send him in." Norm Graham smiled up at the staff psychologist. "All done?"

  Dr. Simon Evans nodded as he strolled into the room, placed a report on the desk, and took a seat across the desk from Graham. "Kuryakin is still a remarkable young man. I tested him somewhat back in '61, remember?" he drawled, his deep crackling voice holding a trace of his southern background. His legs were comfortably crossed and his hands absently fingered an engraved cigarette case. He was a longtime employee of U.N.C.L.E., nearing retirement now, but still abreast of the latest in the world of psychology—in fact, a joint paper he had recently published with Samuel Lawrence of the New York Office was fast becoming the basis of further studies on the psychology of agents.

  "I do remember that. He seemed to like the tests then, didn't he?" Graham grinned at the memory. "What's the verdict this time—or am I rushing you?"

  "Well, I don't see any problems, Norman. I haven't done the final grading of the tests but I personally encountered nothing I would consider suspicious or treasonous," he said with a confidential nod and shrug, pocketing the cigarette case and holding an unlit cigarette between two fingers, useless here in Graham's NO SMOKING office.

  The doctor continued, "Yesterday, we gave Kuryakin the IQ tests again, then a few other written and oral tests—the question and answer variety. I had him redo the Stanford-Binet tests, and the pattern-matching ones from four years ago; then, I put him under and reran several batches—there is little variation, to speak of. The kid still seems to be on the up and up. Alexander has nothing to worry about. This morning, we administered a drug that is designed to get past the initial defenses and the field prep blocks that Section Two agents have, and while we had him under, we ran him though a few tests we've set up on O'Connor's simulator."

  Graham's eyebrows rose at that. "Those are new to me. What kind of tests?"

  "Oh, reactions to different images, mainly. For example: he's defending himself from attack when the image shifts from a Thrush agent to Kosygin or Johnson. Some of the tests are designed to register his loyalties to his country of birth and/or his country of residency; others look at his response to political individuals from around the world, and to U.N.C.L.E. itself, of course. With this particular young man," Evans continued in his unhurried voice, tapping the unlit cigarette on the edge of the desk, "there's the usual divided loyalty between Russia—which he perceives as the land and people—and the Soviet Union—which he perceives as the government and political system. We have no problem with the former, of course, as long as it is within accepted limits. The latter, the political loyalties, are something we are more careful in exploring, because of U.N.C.L.E.'s position in the espionage world. How accurate are the tests? Well, we're still in the early stages of setting up the program. I'm not sure how much weight they'll carry for now. The drugs in Kuryakin's system made everything more immediate, more realistic to his visual perceptions, so now it is left to us to interpret those reactions reliably."

  "I'd like to see those simulations sometime. O'Connor's invention seems to be getting a lot of use."

  "We hope it will help in evaluating agents who are put under daily stress. It is easier to see, via a simulation, if they are ready to return to the field and when they should be pulled, whereas previously, we only had the interviews and hearsay to go on."

  Evans glanced at his watch. "I'm going to have someone waiting in my office for their one o'clock appointment soon and I want to grab my lunch first. Let's see now," he flipped open his notebook, "I'll run some comparisons between the two sets, '61 and '65, and I ran an initial report for you here, and I can have the detailed report ready for you tomorrow morning. I don't suppose you'll need it much before then." Evans glanced up, confirming his guess, then pocketed his notebook. He stood up and stuck the cigarette in his mouth, his lighter already out and ready to flick the moment he cleared Graham's office.