He reached one hand into his suit jacket and withdrew a cigarette case and lighter. She had never seen him smoke before, but it somehow made him appear more human. He lit it, shielding the flickering flame from the wind until it caught.

  "Thrush is busy again," he continued in the same matter-of-fact, unemotional voice. "There is a nerve gas being manufactured, potentially far more dangerous than what is being used in Viet Nam. Instead of thousands infected, millions would be if it was released over our cities as we believe they plan to do. Right now, we have a chance of locating their laboratory. If we can get to the formula, we might find a way of nullifying it, or protecting ourselves against it, or even destroying it altogether." Solo took a long drag on the cigarette. "How can I not ask for his help?" He turned from her and walked down the stairs.

  She returned to the railing and watched as Tanya and Illya saw him move across the grass toward them. Illya froze, his shirt flapping open in the wind, eyes wide. Tanya stepped back and smiled at Solo, her head tilted to one side as he approached, still in awe of the senior agent and slipping into his web of intrigue, her youth no match for his seductive skills. She excused herself shyly, retrieved her radio, and went back to the dock for her bag, looking more like a teenager and less like the confident young woman she was becoming.

  Solo focused on his partner then, and said something to Illya, who met him solidly, his chin raised. Silent messages passed between them. Illya nodded once, then Napoleon nodded and held out his hand. After a moment, Illya responded, completing the handshake, an offhand shrug on his shoulders and a serious cast to his face.

  Trish felt strangely betrayed at the ease of it, the short space of time that it had taken for Solo to win his partner back. What was it about the man, that he had this effect on so many?

  They're friends, Norm had said. Let him go. They'll work this out.

  It looked too easy though. Solo had merely walked up and Illya had probably, without a moment's thought, forgiven him whatever the crime between them had been.

  Can't you see it, Lusha? Don't let him devour you, demand of you more than you want to give.

  Her anger intensified, because she knew that ultimately they were right. Solo was right this time. He needed Ilyusha's assistance—that brain and that extra set of hands. And, damn him, Solo needed that friendship. He was explaining the case now, the two men walking across the grass, side by side, intent on what the assignment held, everything else pushed aside as U.N.C.L.E. dominated their thoughts.

  And Illya was no longer smiling.

  * * * * *

  For a brief moment, he was back in the simulator room; from the corner of his eye, he could see Napoleon walking toward him, not seeing the lab explosion right in front of him. Illya blinked, faltering in the dance, his head wrenching around as he spun, trying to catch the sight again, not entirely sure Solo would be there. He was. Illya stumbled, then, and dug his heels into the soft turf. Tanya looked over her shoulder to see what had startled him and why they had stopped moving.

  "Oh, God. It's Napoleon Solo," she breathed, turning into some caricature of a swooning teenager so popular in the media.

  "Quiet. Go get your bag, little sister. He's here to see me, not you." Illya's low voice was harsh, and she glanced to him, surprised that he would order her with such a tone. "Please, Tanechka. Do as I say now," he urged, his eyes traveling from Trish Graham on the deck, to his partner.

  Tanya's head tilted ridiculously to one side, she excused herself shyly and moved away from them. Only then could he concentrate on what was happening, his heart slamming against his ribs.

  Napoleon said nothing until he was within a few feet. Dark eyes fastened on his. "We have an assignment." I need your help.

  Illya looked down, nimble fingers doing up his shirt and tucking it in before meeting Napoleon's eyes again. I am available, of course.

  I know that. There was never a doubt about that. I came here for you, didn't I?

  We do not agree yet on other matters.

  No. We don't.

  I won't change my mind.

  I won't ask you to, for now. "Thrush is active. We have a world to save, once more. Time is limited and we have a flight in thirty minutes." Napoleon held out his hand.

  "Then we must go to work." Illya returned the handshake, feeling the tension in the other's grip. "What is the problem?"

  They turned and walked across the lawn, heading toward the house. As he threw a few personal items into a small bag, Napoleon filled him in on the information purloined from the computer, on the nerve gas, the frozen formula, and the hurricane.

  An U.N.C.L.E.-owned cab whisked them both away from the house toward the airport before Illya could even say goodbye to Trish or Tanya, and he settled back into the racing vehicle, still listening to Napoleon's voice. He turned once, as the house faded from sight, to fix it in his mind.

  Interlude

  As the mid-afternoon sun came through the lone window in his office, Waverly walked around the small table that held the chess board. His opponent had moved earlier in the day, but other matters had prevented him from studying the game until now.

  This was interesting. It was a move he had not expected.

  How would it affect his long-term plans? He had to think on it, before making any reciprocal moves.

  Regardless of what he did now, he would lose two players in the next few moves. He had to make sure they were the right two. If he could just dangle the correct bait, his opponent would make the irresistible move to take out the two he was ready to sacrifice, and not touch the others, and so sign his own death warrant.

  With a sigh, Waverly returned to his desk. His phones were ringing. He would wait before he moved.

  Part 5

  The Eye of the Hurricane Affair

  The fishermen know that the sea is dangerous and the storm terrible, but they have never found these dangers sufficient reason for remaining ashore.

  Vincent Van Gogh

  New Orleans U.N.C.L.E. office

  6:00 p.m.

  New Orleans was in a frenzy of activity when they arrived in the Vieux Carré at just past six in the evening. The streets were filled with music and dancing and crowds of Saturday night tourists that they had to fight their way through once they left the relative quiet of the taxicab. For Napoleon Solo, this was a return visit; he had been in the city on numerous occasions and had often entertained the notion of retiring one day into its magical charm. One never looked back on time spent in the French Quarter with a disenchanted memory.

  His partner, on the other hand, had never been here before, but there was little appreciation evident in the tight-jawed face as he threaded a path through the throng to the memorized street number. The only concession he allowed himself was a constant glance about to look for danger. They had business to attend to, and Illya Kuryakin would let nothing stand in the way of his job. While applaudable, this evening Solo found it irritating, the total lack of interest Kuryakin showed for their surroundings and the party atmosphere in the street behind them.

  Rising above the accordions and violins and mandolins, the multistoried New Orleans U.N.C.L.E. office, an historic building with iron wrought railings on its balconies, was an architectural blur of French and Spanish, as was most of the district. On the western edge of the French Quarter, the Vieux Carré, it was situated on Canal Street, the main thoroughfare of the commercial district. To Napoleon's delight, and Illya's impatient sigh, the much-applauded seafood restaurant on the main floor of the U.N.C.L.E. building had been alerted to their arrival, and a banquet of food was spread out in the private back room—overlooking an equally private courtyard—for their feasting enjoyment.

  While mechanically putting away his fair share of the food, Illya interrogated the local weather expert throughout the meal, asking questions, demanding opinions, dissecting past experience with hurricanes in the area, and even enquiring about local folklore. By the end, his belt loosened a notch, Napoleon had heard far more about hurricanes than he wanted to know.

  But they still didn't know where Betty would hit. No one did. But she was on her way. And she was big.

  They sat around coffees and port with the New Orleans Chief, Dick Cameron, and his top agents, and discussed the case and the local situation and everything that was known about the nerve gas canisters. Waiting was always difficult. Everything was ready to go, but they didn't know which direction Betty would have them jump yet.

  The evening passed, the light faded. In the courtyard outside, lanterns lit the dancers swaying body to body in the eerie Cajun music. Napoleon could feel his partner's tension, strangely connected to his own awareness, and several times their eyes had met and he had tried to smile away some of the tightness resting on Illya's shoulders. The empty eyes would turn away, unfazed, and Napoleon couldn't tell which mask was in place on the Russian face tonight, the one for the world in general, or the one that also locked him out. Usually the serious gaze didn't affect him, but then usually there wasn't this wall between them, rigid and unbending.

  Strange how it manifested itself this time. They communicated clearly about the assignment, Illya, in his usual fashion, piecing the picture together rapidly. Yet Illya had not slept on the plane, and he looked like he could have used some. Illya had always been able to sleep in his company, always been able to take the opportunity to rest and not worry about his safety or being vulnerable. Today, he had sat upright, headphones in place, unfocused eyes listening to some piece of music that seemed to demand his complete attention. There was a polite wariness about him that Napoleon had not witnessed since their first assignment together.

  Perhaps something else is wrong. Solo glanced over to his partner, gauging the intense concentration as Kuryakin listened to the conversation going on around them, a thick piece of bread clutched in one hand and a pencil in the other as he jotted notes. Napoleon realized suddenly that he had not asked Illya how his health was. He had assumed his being on the not-field-certified list was because of Waverly keeping them apart, or a cover for the testing, but now he wondered about the long term effects of the smoke and chemicals Illya had breathed in during the Norway university lab explosion several weeks before.

  Sam Lawrence had not appeared overly-concerned about it, though, and when Napoleon had asked that morning if Illya was physically able to go on a mission, Sam had said yes. But the odd cough tonight, as a plume of smoke caught in Kuryakin's throat, was a reminder of the explosion, yet Illya did not seem to be bothered by it.

  Well, with any luck, they would be through this all shortly and he would have the time he needed to recuperate fully. Strange, though, that Waverly had deleted Illya from inactive list, but hadn't added him to the field list. Was that just an oversight? Or had the Section One Chief been planning some further action with Kuryakin, besides the testing and the evaluations? Waverly had made no comment that morning when Solo had informed him of his plans to take Kuryakin with him to New Orleans; he had only nodded and waved the CEA out of his office.

  Solo watched the interplay between the various agents, noting Kuryakin's brusque defense of the case as one of the Louisiana agent's suggested they were overreacting to the Thrush Corporate computer message. If nothing else, Illya was a team player.

  At nine p.m., a messenger from the U.N.C.L.E. communications center several floors above them brought a dispatch to Solo. Candles flickered off to his right as Napoleon spread the papers out beneath the table's candelabra. He was aware of Illya beside him now, coming around the table and leaning close over his shoulder, his bright eyes already reading the latest information culled from the New York Thrush computer. "Why don't you read it out loud?" he prompted.

  A sharp nod of the blond head. "OUTTAKES OF TRANSMISSION, RECEIVED AT 9:45 EASTERN TIME. FORECAST UNCHANGED BUT BETTY APPEARS TO BE HEADING FOR TEXAS/MEXICAN BORDER. LOCAL CAJUNS NOT CONCERNED. BARATARIA SEEMS SECURE." Illya glanced up at the New Orleans agents. "Barataria?"

  "South of here," Cameron supplied. "Barataria Bay or Barataria Pass—could be anything within twenty-five square miles. Some towns nearby, of course. Largest in that area would be Grand Isle. Barataria Pass separates it from the rest of the Grande Terre Islands."

  "And I hate to tell you guys this, but we don't have any offices down that way," Cameron's second-in-command spoke up. "Closest we have an agent is over at Leeville down Highway One, or the other side at Buras on the Twenty-three. Trouble is, with all the little islands and coves in that marsh area, it's near impossible to patrol. I suggest we fly you boys into Grand Isle tonight and you ask around. There's a restaurant and a tavern in town, on the main highway, that'll be open till the wee hours."

  "If that is the fastest way in. But if there is a hurricane warning, would the residents not be taking precautions?" Illya asked, straightening up and glancing at his watch.

  "We've had warnings for years, son." Cameron polished off his drink and indicated to the others that it was time to leave. "Last big wind came through here in 1957. Few years ago everyone got all nervous about a hurricane, but she changed her mind when she got to Florida and bypassed us altogether. Headed north. That's what they've all been doing lately." The group moved from the restaurant to the elevators.

  "So the residents have done nothing?" Solo asked.

  "Oh, they've boarded up their places, probably. Sent the kids away for the weekend. But until there's something more definite, they won't be evacuating much more than that. It's only a hurricane watch, so far. If there is an actual hurricane warning issued, they'll move out—or most of them will." He glanced at his watch, then over at another agent. "Fred, call over to Winston and tell him to get ready for a night drop."

  * * * * *

  Grand Isle, Louisiana

  10:30 p.m.

  The winds were beginning to pick up when Winston Biber signaled that they would be jumping in a few minutes. It was impossible to speak in the roar from the plane—hand-signals were all they had. Kuryakin adjusted the chin strap on his helmet, checking and double-checking the ties and straps about him. His U.N.C.L.E. Special was secured in its safety pouch, the ammunition in another zippered compartment in the jump suit. Without asking permission, he turned his partner and visually checked Solo's pack. A secondary dropchute held additional weapons, their larger backpacks, a heavy tarp and pegs, and an inflatable raft, in case they came down in a less than dry area. It was set to go, its homing beacon already activated.

  The plane trembled in the wind, but Biber seemed unperturbed by it, so the two New York agents ignored it as well and hung on as the craft jerked them around. An updraft knocked Solo's grasp free, and Kuryakin caught him before he crashed against the far window, long fingers taloning into his partner's jump suit. A downdraft, dropping them two hundred feet followed; Kuryakin gasped as Solo's weight slammed into him and pinned him against the side of the plane, like a hockey player crashing an opponent to the boards.

  The craft steadied for a while, and Biber's assistant worked his way back to them. There was a slow dip as the pilot throttled down, and the jump light flashed green. The assistant unlatched the door, sliding it back, and when they were ready, he pushed out the drop chute.

  With a last glance at the relative safety of the airplane, Illya adjusted his goggles and followed his partner into the darkness.

  "Why did we jump again?" he asked twenty minutes later, trying to catch his breath as he worked his way over to Napoleon. "Tell me again why we could not have driven here."

  "As the crow flies, we are fifty miles from New Orleans. As the car drives, we are several hours from anywhere."

  "Ah. Yes." He peered about at the windy blackness surrounding them. "And where, precisely, are we now?"

  Napoleon had landed first, and Illya had easily followed him in the night drop, maneuvering his descent to deposit him fifty feet from his partner. They had both come down safely on relatively dry ground and then had quickly slipped out of their harnesses, daisy-chained the lines, and disposed of them, as well as their jumping gear.

  The drop chute had landed a short distance away, easily located by its homing beacon, and their flashlights had reunited them with it in the darkness. Beneath the jump suits they wore casual clothes, in line with their cover of tourists, backpacking and camping around the Mississippi delta. Grand Isle, with its reputation for great fishing, also held a state park that allowed campers, and at this time of year they would not be suspect.

  They had made a quick check-in call to New Orleans and then one to New York to ensure there had been no further messages from the Louisiana Thrush group. Kuryakin held his flashlight so that Solo could peer at the waterproof map and compass and figure out exactly where they were.

  It was quite amazing, Illya decided, how jumping from a plane or helicopter always seemed to invigorate Napoleon. Maybe it was just the fact that he was finally doing something concrete instead of waiting, which the Section Two Head always chafed at. He has never had to wait for anything. Just demanded. Kuryakin shifted, turning his face out of the wind.

  "Let's get out of this marsh; I think we're on the northwest side of Grand Isle," Solo said, after several minutes.