"I don't think that's what Mr. Waverly intended by sending Illya to Washington."

  "I disagree." She held her ground, not the least bit afraid of him, he noticed. "So is Mr. Waverly going to ship me off because I don't see eye-to-eye with his Number One Section Two? Whatever happened to the philosophy that we are a pack of lone wolves here at the Network? That we have the right to our own opinions, as long as we keep them in line with U.N.C.L.E.'s aims? Does that apply to everyone but you and your partner? You two live in this frantic whirlwind—this madness—every day. Don't start dragging the garbage from out there into your partnership. If John had had a partner working with him on that assignment, maybe he wouldn't be flat on his back in a hospital bed tonight." She straightened her skirt as she hopped down from his desk, tossing her hair back and walking out of the room.

  Solo felt himself sweating in the air-conditioned coolness and pushed back from the desk. He envied Waverly his office; here there was no window to stare out of and that's what he needed right now. He hated staying inside, being bottled up in the building when he ached to be moving, doing something besides listening to weather broadcasts.

  It was only Friday night. Hard to believe, he thought with a heartless laugh, that I canceled a date voluntarily for all this. To work on this project. Yes, Napoleon Solo, your life has really been exciting lately. You're talking out loud to your partner who is absent and the lady you're waiting around for is a hurricane.

  Was there some possible way to blame the CIA for this?

  Well, he could blame it for the first part, if not for the second. If they hadn't tried to knock off his partner...

  He glanced at the phone for the umpteenth time that day, and shook his head in answer. Illya would be enjoying an evening with the Grahams after the grueling two-day testing session. Why ruin it with talk of a case he was not even assigned to, one that Napoleon was not really at liberty to discuss with him until he was field-certified again?

  Because I want to talk to him about this? Because I need him to remember whatever this nonsense is at the corner of my memory?

  With a sigh, he headed out of the building, hands in his pockets, leaving his car behind and walking the long blocks back to his apartment in the growing darkness. The restlessness was growing, eating at him. Hours of work for very little progress. Added to that, the possibility that they wouldn't find anything, that the time spent scurrying around looking for pieces would have to be written off as a total loss.

  Napoleon waited at a corner for the light to change. Illya was out of the city, and was on a not-field-certified list. Several good reasons not to call. But not the real reason. I haven't called him because I don't want to talk to him about all the rest of it. Waverly and the money. I don't want to see that look on his face again.

  He stalked across the street, brushing shoulders with strangers, not looking into their faces. I'm not going to apologize for how I feel about blood money that bordered on extortion. Regardless of how he chooses to view it, that's how I see the transaction.

  He walked another few blocks, one foot pounding the pavement after the other until his apartment building came into sight and he disappeared inside the air-conditioned lobby and let the elevator door close him away from the rest of the world.

  I need you on this case, damn it, Illya.

  * * * * *

  Saturday, August 7, 1965

  U.N.C.L.E. Washington, D.C., Safe House

  2:00 a.m.

  Sleep wouldn't come. Hour after hour he tossed, half-awake, half-asleep, in the pre-dream limbo, trying to get comfortable in his bed.

  Napoleon is troubled about something.

  His eyes opened and he stared at the wall in front of him. Three-quarters of his brain argued that the drugs Mercer and Evans had given him were putting strange thoughts in his mind, that he was just feeling guilty about the argument, and that he needed a good night's sleep.

  The rest of him knew something was wrong.

  He turned over. Well, if he needs me, he knows where I am. I'm not about to cater to him.

  He turned over again, punching his pillow and dropping his head down into it. What would Dr Evans or Dr Mercer have made of that thought if he had voiced it aloud? That he was putting his personal agenda before U.N.C.L.E. by not calling Napoleon? I have nothing to apologize for. I will work with Napoleon, but I will never agree to what he has said about Alexander Waverly.

  And if the Head of U.N.C.L.E. had made a less-than-honorable move—

  No! He would not even entertain the thought. For where would the next thought lead? Or the next? Or the next? Where would it all stop? He would always be looking for fault, examining each word or statement or order on some checklist of his own making. Either Alexander Waverly was correct or... or...

  He had no alternatives. Alexander Waverly had to know what he was doing or U.N.C.L.E. would not survive. Not with the world the way it was. Alexander Waverly knew how to play the field, how to attack their opponents and garnish the spoil when he had to. Napoleon would simply have to learn the way of war. And how to claim a battle. For if one did not demand recompense when it was owed, history would rewrite itself, and the winner would become the loser.

  At three in the morning, waking from yet another nightmare, he got up and showered. Better to be awake than to endure another round of that. On top of the dreams—the aftereffects of the simulation room—there was also an edginess that was familiar. There was a case somewhere. He should be elsewhere, not here. U.N.C.L.E. needed him and he should be there, in New York, not here recuperating from something he no longer needed to recuperate from. He should be in New York because U.N.C.L.E. needed him, he thought. That is why I feel like this.

  U.N.C.L.E. always needed him, though. That would not be why he felt as he did now.

  The edginess was because Napoleon needed him.

  * * * * *

  UNCLE HQ, New York

  9:30 a.m.

  A transcribed sheet of paper landed on Solo's desk the next morning while he was listening to the radio reports of Betty's attack on the Florida Keys as she continued her race westward.

  "From your Thrush computer, ten minutes ago," Heather McNabb said. "Look at page five."

  Circled was another message. NERVE GAS SECURED, AS PER YOUR INSTRUCTIONS PROJECT FREEZE PROGRESSING ON SCHEDULE. WE ARE RELUCTANT TO LEAVE UNLESS SITUATION ABSOLUTELY DICTATES. FORMULA EN ROUTE NORTH TO STATE HEADQUARTERS AT FIRST WARNING.

  "Nerve gas again? Wait a minute—" He held his breath, tugging on the memory. "Heather, before you go, can you get me the report on the Thrush shipment sighted, oh—I don't know—try six weeks ago, out of southern state airport. Canisters being loaded onto a Thrush-owned plane. There was something on it being speculated as a nerve gas that Thrush was testing, but the case was dropped for lack of evidence. The report was from a town on the coast—Gulfport, Mississippi, if I'm not mistaken. Where is the nearest Thrush center to Gulfport?"

  Heather closed her eyes for a moment, trying to picture the large map in Waverly's office.

  "That would be New Orleans, or possibly Mobile, Alabama."

  "And that area is right where Betty is heading!" Solo cleared his desk off and started jotting notes.

  "Napoleon, slow down. We don't know that's where it's heading. It could end up anywhere!"

  "It's not the hurricane I'm looking for, Heather. I'm looking for the Thrush office that's worried about it. Remember, my dear, as long as we don't know where Betty's heading, they don't know either. And that's what I'm counting on, that they're going to keep on sending messages to their New York office asking what to do. If ever I needed a fickle female, I need one now—Come on, Betty. Don't let them know where you're headed. Keep them sweating, girl." He looked up at McNabb's exasperated huff. "I'm going to New Orleans. Can you book a flight for me? I'll need to leave immediately." He smiled thoughtfully. "I've been wanting some Cajun seafood—Now's my chance. A shrimp dinner and a nerve gas laboratory. In the middle of a pending hurricane, I don't know which will be easier to find."

  He stared at the phone for a long moment, then back up at McNabb, his voice a little calmer. "And get a hold of our office in New Orleans and see if they have any suggestions on where we can start looking for the courier. If they have any further information on that nerve gas, I want it ready for me when we arrive."

  "We? You better not mean me," she said with a grin.

  Napoleon shook his head, but there was no answering smile. "I don't. Book me by way of Washington, D.C. Two tickets from there to New Orleans."

  * * * * *

  U.N.C.L.E. Safe House, Washington

  2:00 p.m.

  Ignoring the cavorting wind that attempted to take off the heat's edge, the afternoon sun was relentless in its desire to bake the nation's capital city. Nastasha Antonovna Graham stood for a moment at the deck railing of her home and let the brisk breeze whip her thin skirt against her bare legs. There was often a breeze from this height, kicked off the river's swiftly moving water, and today it offered what little refreshment it could.

  Trish stretched, enjoying the moment. There was a dinner party scheduled for the evening, the second that week, and she was not enjoying the thought of the close-fitting gown she would be wearing, or the nylons sticking to her legs, or the stuffiness of the ballroom and the conversations. She sighed. If her husband didn't look so drop-dead gorgeous in a tuxedo, there was no way she would go to such a gathering willingly, regardless of whether it was her duty to do so or not. Certainly Norm did not order her to accompany him on these gala affairs, but this was Washington, after all.

  Besides, it was fun to accidentally speak in Russian and scare half the group present, reminding them only too clearly that U.N.C.L.E. was not as mono-national as they were, but truly international in makeup. She and Norm had taken Ilyusha with them to an embassy party once; for a lark, she had told them he could not speak English, affording her the job of translating everything that everyone said into a crude Russian that kept him frantically holding on to a straight face while trying to get back at her and break her own class act.

  A speedboat, honking as it passed, brought her attention to the river and the two sun-blond heads at the edge of their property. Ilyusha was with Tanya, sitting on the edge of the dock, their feet dangling in the water, talking. There was always a serious sense of urgency when they sequestered themselves from the family and held their private conferences. This time the topic was probably Tanya's departure for Switzerland and what it would be like living in a new country. There were questions that she wanted to ask and she had been overjoyed to hear that Illya had been in Switzerland before. He knew all about moving from one country to another, and what was involved. And no question would be treated as unimportant by him.

  Time was growing short. In three weeks, Tanya would be leaving for the boarding school outside of Geneva and only Misha would be left at home. The children were growing, as Norm had said, and they were leaving. Tony and Ilyusha, then Tanya, and then one day, Misha would smile down at her from whatever height he finally peaked and would tell her he had decided to go to college at the other side of the world. And it would just be Norm and her.

  On the dock, Illya shrugged out of his shirt and let the sun beat down on his fair skin. She could see where his hands and face were still reddened from the explosion, but that was fading each day. Trish watched him, wondering if she should tell him to put on some sunscreen when she saw her ever-practical daughter reach into her beach bag hand him a tube of cream. Even from a distance, she could see the feigned helpless pout he put on and she saw Tanya laugh, not fooled for an instant. But the seventeen-year-old moved to assist him, her long legs pushing her up with a grace that was formed from years of dance and practice. Her present height, at five foot ten, too tall by some ballet company standards, had only cemented her decision to pursue languages rather than dance, and she had applied on her own, written the exams, and gotten accepted at the exclusive Swiss college.

  And would you have done so if Ilyusha had not had the soles of his feet half-whipped off earlier this year?

  Maybe even Tanya did not know the answer to that. But it had been a few weeks later that she had applied to the college, only informing her parents when she received the initial acceptance letter.

  Illya could not dance again. First it had been taken from him by necessity and form. Then by lack of use of muscles and discipline. But the possibility had always existed. That if he wanted to, his supremely conditioned body could be reshaped again—even if not to perform for a company, he could dance for himself, for his own enjoyment.

  That hope had ended three months before. Illya had been held captive and the skin of the bottom of his feet had been cut and torn. The nerves had healed, the scarring miraculous gone by some method that Illya and Norm would not discuss—something that embarrassed Illya, but left Norm amused, for some reason—but they were not the same, even with the mild frostbite he suffered on several toes. Illya could walk, he could run in a few days, he could climb ladders. But to cram his feet in slippers and face the pain of dance, he would risk injury to the muscles of his feet. While not fatal to a dancer, of course, it could possibly be fatal to an agent on assignment.

  And whether Trish liked it or not, Illya was an U.N.C.L.E. agent first.

  Tanya was scolding him now about something, her long blond hair tossed by the wind, and Ilyusha raised his hands, as if in defeat, and put his shirt back on. Trish looked down at them, enjoying seeing them together and the friendship that had cemented itself through the years. She had no idea what it was they talked about, but, as if their words paralleled her own thoughts, the two young people moved from the dock, up the short slope, and onto the shaded grass. A song had come on the radio, the wind carrying the tune across the yard, and Trish watched, smiling, as Tanya tried to teach her student the latest moves. He was a good pupil, especially when not aware of being observed, but he ended up turning the modern steps into classical ones, then into a wild waltz that sent them racing across the grass, their sounds of their laughter making her laugh with them.

  Oh, to be that full of life again.

  It was good to see him laugh. Norm had said that the other day, but after seeing the withdrawn shell of the previous afternoon, this was indeed a blessing. The half-open empty eyes that had stared out at her from his blank face had been terrifying. Norm had walked him around the grounds, talking to him, coaxing him back to the present, holding him as Ilyusha had made the final hurdle from where he had barricaded himself within to where Norm patiently waited. She had stood here on the deck and had seen the moment when Norm had kept him from falling and braced him from something. She had seen the horror on his face for that brief span of time.

  Ilyusha had been fine after that. He'd slept for at least a while during the night and had eaten a big breakfast and lunch. There was no trace of the previous day about him, as though it had never happened. Except in her memories. What she had witnessed.

  And in the dark lines under his eyes.

  It was all in the name of protection. Well, Norm could no longer convince her that Alexander Waverly knew how to protect someone. If that was protection, if that was caring about someone, then U.N.C.L.E. was heading in a different direction than they had thought all these years. And it wasn't the CIA. Or Thrush. U.N.C.L.E. doctors had done that to him, and she did not remotely understand how both Norm and Ilyusha could rationalize it away.

  A wave of fury clenched her fingers on the rails, locking them while her body trembled at the injustice. How can you do this? she silently screamed at Illya, twirling around on the grass, his arms stretched out with abandon. How can you let them do this to you? This is who you are, Ilyusha. You are not—You aren't one of them.

  Damn.

  She had gone through this with Norm years before and they had compromised on his taking over the Washington office. With Ilyusha, she had no rights. He made the decisions he wanted to, and all she could do was smile and hope he came back from each mission alive, if not in one piece. She knew all the reasons he felt he had to do this, but she didn't have to like them, or agree with them.

  Trish took a deep breath and closed her eyes, steadying herself. She'd had the same battle with herself for four years now, and it was unlikely it would resolve itself in the next few minutes. Meanwhile, there was a show to be watched, unfolding before her, and she didn't want to miss a moment of it.

  "He looks happy."

  She spun at the intrusion. Of all people to appear unannounced on her balcony, this was not whom she would have chosen. "This is a surprise, Napoleon. What brings you to D.C.?"

  Solo moved beside her, leaning on the railing as he studied Illya and Tanya waltzing through a new tune, their feet bare on the carpet of cool grass. The dark eyes softened as a smile slowly took over the sensual mouth. "Just in the neighborhood."

  "He's had a bad few days." It came out as an accusation, but she had no intention of lightening it.

  Solo glanced over to her for a moment before turning his attention back to the dancers below. "I heard."

  "From where?"

  He smiled without looking at her. "Sources."

  "Illya needs some time to recuperate from the tests. They were hard on him." She turned sideways to command his attention, but he seemed intent on what he was watching.

  "There's an assignment I need him on," he said finally. She could hear the reluctance in his words—and the determination. "I need his help."

  "You're in charge of Section Two. Take someone else."

  "I need his help," Solo repeated. "Don't worry. I won't send him out to be slain."

  "You've already done that."

  "Touché," he acknowledged. He stood, as captivated as she had been, following the two cavorting blonds on the grass. "He is so different like this."

  "He is alive." She turned away, back to the dancers below.

  A frown marred the wide brow. "Yes. He's alive, but he is merely remembering. Enjoying the moment. But playtime ends and work begins." Solo stood straight, the pale gray suit giving him an air of coolness that she no longer felt. "It's good for me to be reminded that this is a part of him, Trish, but I have never forgotten it." He caught her eye, acknowledging her anger at him with a crisp nod. "Just before Christmas, at the performance, I, too, watched him dance with the Bolshoi. There is part of me that would give anything to let that dream happen for him again. He told me that when he was in Norway at the conference, he would sit a dinner table surrounded by scientists who saw him as an equal and who spoke the same technical language as he did. I saw his eyes light up with eagerness when he spoke of that time, much as they are now. And part of me would like him to feel that acceptance again."