"The town or the island?" Illya asked, adjusting the backpack over his lightweight windbreaker, a poor choice of names for a jacket that was letting the wind chill him already.

  "Grand Isle, the town or the island—it's about the same thing. The island's only seven and a half miles long." Solo refolded the map and stuck it back in his pack. "Let us be on our way. Women and wine await."

  "More likely men and beer, if the families have been evacuated, but lead on," Kuryakin said wearily. "It's not where I had hoped to visit in Louisiana, but one does what one can."

  That grabbed Napoleon's attention. "So where would you want to go, if time allowed?" He fumbled with his kangaroo jacket hood and tied it fast, then glanced up to look at his partner when there was no answer to his question. "Well?"

  Illya shrugged, growing impatient with the inconsequential dialogue. "Doesn't matter."

  "Maybe it does."

  "It has nothing to do with the case. Let's go."

  Napoleon held his ground. "Where would you want to go?" he repeated stubbornly.

  Illya sighed. "If you must know, to 400 Esplanade Avenue in the French Quarter."

  "The French Quarter? You didn't seem too interested in it earlier this evening. What is so important at 400 Esplanade Avenue that you would be willing to play tourist?"

  "The Old U.S. Mint."

  "You want to see an old mint?"

  "Yes."

  Napoleon studied him in the dim light. "Why, may I ask, do you want to see a place where they used to make money?"

  "I want to see the jazz museum that is housed in the old mint. Alexander Scott told me I had to see it if I was ever in New Orleans."

  Napoleon grinned suddenly, his teeth white in the darkness. "I tell you what, when we finish up this case, if we're still in the area, I'll take you to the Old U.S. Mint and you can waste a few hours there while I'll go peruse Bourbon Street."

  "Whatever you wish. Now can we go? My boots are starting to leak standing on this boggy ground." Illya turned his back on the senior agent and moved up to the road, scarcely visible at the edge of his flashlight's reach.

  Biber had known the area well and dropped them in an accessible site, away from the stunted oak groves that hugged most of the landward side of the island. A main road—actually a state highway—went up the length of the island, and the town was only a mile down the road. Both men were tired, but the oncoming storm and the information they still needed pulled them forward. They spoke little, conserving their strength, and, in Kuryakin's case, his temper.

  He was uncertain of why it flared now, so close to their destination. It seemed regardless of what Solo did or said, it rubbed him raw, aggravating the still open wound of days previous. The anger hovered just within his control, knowing its place when on assignment and in the company of a senior agent. How quickly I move back to the safety of 'senior' agent... he mused, but it was in that capacity that the conflict had occurred, and it was in that relationship that it must be resolved. Napoleon may know how to exist on many levels at once, but I cannot.

  Superior, partner, friend. Three separate relationships. But the first, the uppermost, relationship was broken, so the rest fell as well. Yet, Napoleon seems to have dismissed the incident. Or, Kuryakin countered a moment later, the case itself was demanding the performance from Solo; he appeared confident, at ease, in control of the partnership. Not aware, perhaps, of how tenuous his hold was on his Number Two agent.

  They passed a boarded-up house at one point; from the porch light, Kuryakin could see Solo wipe at his forehead with a stained cloth. Somewhere along the line his forehead had been cut, either in the plane when he had fallen against the cabin wall, or on landing. Once they were inside, it would have to be bandaged, but Napoleon did not seem concerned about it now, too anxious to get on with their task at hand to pause and deal with it.

  Illya determined not to drag behind either, although getting enough air was becoming increasingly difficult with each step. The faint rattle in his lungs was more pronounced as he tried to breathe evenly in the heavy humid air pressing against his face. Pneumonia could come back, the doctors had warned, and Illya had been diligent to take the antibiotics. The parachute jump, however, had placed extra pressure on his upper rib cage as the chute opened, restricting his already compromised ability to breathe. He kept one hand on his chest trying to keep from coughing as the wind flung loose dirt and dust into his eyes and nose and mouth, and he decided he envied Solo his jacket hood. His ears were ringing from the whistle of the wind. At least it wasn't raining yet, but the heavy breeze they had landed in was now becoming stronger.

  The scattered lights of the town ahead were welcome and they picked up their pace, eyes glancing to the bent-over trees on the far side of the road, loudly rustling in the dark. Illya's stifled coughs won out and he stopped finally, doubled over coughing, trying to draw in oxygen as the wind battled with him and robbed him of air. He felt rather than saw his partner return for him and he tried to push away the offered help. Strong arms steadied his shoulders, though, until he once again caught his breath, then, Napoleon pulled away and gestured them forward. Illya knew the attack had cost him energy, feeling the tremor in his legs as he walked behind Napoleon at the side of the road. The last thing he wanted now was to be viewed as less than competent and they had a long way to go before this assignment was finished.

  Conserving his flashlight's battery, Kuryakin followed the blind path of the bouncing light from the torch in his partner's hand, trying to keep to the edge of the road. Solo's cut was still bleeding thirty minutes later; Illya could see the faint movement regularly as the senior agent's hand wiped at the injury. There was some small satisfaction Illya took from the abrasion—in this, at least, Napoleon was not infallible. Guilt followed for a moment, then vanished. Settle yourself, he ordered, crossly. Pacing was always important at this stage; it was vital he concentrate on the mission, especially when he was not at full efficiency. Brooding could prove fatal for himself or his partner. There was nothing he could do about the cough. When an assignment came up, like this one had, you worked with whatever tools were at your disposal.

  If Sam had approved the assignment, that meant he was fit enough to be off the sick list. Or am I? He had not read any orders indicating that he should be on this case. Had Alexander Waverly authorized this? Or had Napoleon acted on his own? Solo had just shown up in Washington and he had gone with him without asking for clarification.

  It really did not matter, he shrugged. A crisis came before personal considerations. There was no choice; the chance of intercepting the Thrush information on the nerve gas, or locating the storage site, was too great to miss. Napoleon hadn't placed an impersonal phone call, he had come in person. Napoleon would not have done so if he had not needed his assistance, he would not have made a face to face request for Illya to join him if it was not urgent.

  He arched his back, trying to relax. But I would have gone anyway.

  A sudden shove from the wind sent him stumbling over the unpaved shoulder of the road, but this time, fortunately, with all the other noises around them, his partner didn't notice, and Illya managed to catch up with him a few steps later. The wind had increased, the trees hissing around them as branches were stripped of their leaves. They were walking into the storm, and Illya tucked his chin into the top of his jacket, his hair blown back off his face.

  Buildings loomed around them as they entered the town, coming out of the darkness, their lights at uneven intervals along the main route. Napoleon pointed to a restaurant off to their right and they moved past the few cars parked in front and went up the stairs. The restaurant's windows were already boarded up, but an open sign flashed from its makeshift hook outside the front entrance. Inside, a jukebox played halfheartedly in the corner, while, louder yet, a radio demanded the attention of the fifteen or twenty patrons. They all had a grim look about them, sitting at the long bar, or hunched in a big group around one of the small tables.

  Kuryakin knew that look well. He had seen it in too many wars, soldiers waiting for the next battle, landowners staying by their property until the last moment, wondering how long to stay and if fighting for their property was worth dying for. He saw their strength and their pride as they sat together and waited for a future they could not control. Simple people, honest people, with none of the pretentiousness of the city.

  For a moment, no one spoke; the group was obviously startled that strangers had joined them at this late hour.

  * * * * *

  The restaurant's door shut with a bang behind them, and Napoleon pushed his hood down and moved straight to the cash desk. The restaurant was surprisingly full for this time of night, but it was a small group of locals and everyone appeared to know everyone else. Just nervous about the storm, he figured, and they wanted to band together and "hold down the fort" for the emergency. "Good evening, ma'am. My name is Napoleon Solo, and this is my friend, Illya Kuryakin. We're backpacking through the area, and could we possibly get some information on any hotels that might be open?" he asked the trim older woman at the counter. "With this storm, we've decided against camping for the night."

  She smiled wearily at him, and Napoleon liked her at once. She looked like someone's favorite aunt. Her floral print dress was drawn in at the waist by a thin white belt, and a cream sweater rested lightly on her shoulders. Gray hair was pulled back into a bun, yet it was soft and loose. She gave the immediate impression of someone who was approachable yet practical. Like his Aunt Amy.

  She shook her head. "I'm sorry, son. Everything's been shut down. Didn't you hear about the hurricane?" She noticed the blood on the side of his head, pulled out a first aid box, and without asking permission, began to bandage his cut temple. "You really banged yourself there. You should be careful."

  Solo glanced over at Kuryakin, then shrugged as if he had no idea what she was talking about. "I fell a ways back. I guess it reopened—I hadn't noticed. Thank you very much. You mentioned a hurricane? Are you saying it's coming here?" he asked, looking surprised. He patted the bandage, nodding his thanks, and pulled the heavy pack off his back, setting it on the floor beside him. "I know there's quite a wind out there, ma'am, but I don't think it qualifies as a hurricane. My friend and I have been camping around the Mississippi and just walked on to the island tonight. With this wind and all, we thought we'd get a hotel room for the night, rather than try to set up our tents." Napoleon pulled out a highway map already folded to the area. "Our itinerary had us going to the campground here. It's supposed to be further down the road, and according to this, it says there's a place to charter a boat, in case we want to do a little deep sea fishing. Why's everything closed? It's your tourist season, isn't it?"

  "Not when a hurricane watch is in effect. It's too dangerous." She turned to a man in his late fifties sitting at the bar, his scrawny body neatly attired in a casual shirt and lightweight slacks. "Pierre—you're all closed up now, aren't you?"

  He nodded. "Officially, I am. We cleared out the hotel first thing this morning, when the watch was issued." Pierre glanced over to the door as another man entered and took off his outer coat. "Ask John," he said as the newcomer looked over at them in surprise. "If he says they can stay, I suppose I can take them both in."

  The tall, broad-shouldered, white-haired man in uniform approached them, holding out his hand. His badge identified him as the county sheriff, and he wore the uniform with ease, the holstered gun comfortable at his hip. "Name's Sheriff Lafitte, and this here beautiful lady is my wife, Mrs. Lafitte," he said, indicating the hostess of the restaurant. "How can I help you boys? And what is it you want to ask me, Pierre?"

  Solo grinned charmingly and repeated his request as he saw Kuryakin drop into a seat at a nearby table. Good. He had heard the coughs as they walked, but didn't want to say anything about them to the proud Russian. At least Illya was off his feet for a short time. In the bright lights of the restaurant, the dark lines under his partner's eyes were noticeable.

  Lafitte frowned. "Tourists, you say? How'd you get here? I didn't see any cars pull up outside. I just came in from office across the way."

  "We walked in, across the bridge."

  The sheriff shook his head, taking off his hat and tossing it on the counter. "Can't have you two loose out there if the storm hits... You didn't pick a great time to visit us."

  "So I've gathered," Napoleon said easily, sitting next to Illya. "We should have brought a radio with us."

  Lafitte seemed to think about the situation for a moment, scratching the top of his head. "Pierre, go ahead and give them a room. If we have to evacuate, I expect you boys won't give us any trouble—?"

  "If we can help in any way, please let us know."

  That seemed to settle it all, and a short time later, the two U.N.C.L.E. agents were sipping hot coffee and eating hamburgers. It didn't take much encouragement to get the locals talking about the hurricane and the past ones that had hit the area. It was foremost on their minds, and the chance to discuss it with newcomers was a welcome diversion. Occasionally, the announcer's voice would come on, in between the music, and the room would go silent as the storm's progress was announced or more details were released about the devastation it had caused in Florida as it passed earlier in the day. At the moment, Betty was on a direct path to Louisiana, so the weather bureau was being cautious in their announcements. Over the past ten days since she first appeared, she had shown drastic changes in her course.

  "What kind of structure can withstand a hurricane, then, if you have to be so careful?" Solo asked, when the music resumed and everyone relaxed again. "Has there been anything built recently to test the wind, or any new construction happening around here in the last few years?"

  "Not in town here. There are a few new places in the area, some construction last spring on the northern end of Grande Terre. Far as I can gather, it's a government wildlife project."

  "Grande Terre?" Kuryakin asked, looking up from his food and his gaudily illustrated placemat and speaking for the first time since they'd entered the restaurant. The group all looked over at him, as though surprised he had a voice. "Is that an island?"

  Sheriff Lafitte nodded. "It's about a mile across Barataria Pass. After the storm has passed, you boys should rent a boat and head over there. It's not far at all. The southern point of Grande Terre has what's left of Fort Livingston, abandoned after a hurricane in 1893. The Barataria Lighthouse, built a few years later, stands right next to it. No one, except the lighthouse keeper and his family, lives on the island—except for that government group now at the other end. We don't see much of them; they bring all their supplies in directly from New Orleans."

  "You know a lot about the local history," Solo said, pushing back his plate and holding his cup out as Mrs. Lafitte came by with the coffee pot, filling his and Kuryakin's cups.

  "I should. My ancestor was Jean Lafitte."

  "The pirate?" Kuryakin looked up now from his study of the map, and Napoleon stared at him, mouth agape. Kuryakin gave a little sigh, then gave his brief lecture to his partner. "Jean Lafitte came to the area as the captain of a French privateer, back in 1804. He and Pierre Lafitte operated a slave labor and smuggling depot in New Orleans, and then in 1811, Jean organized and ran a band of smugglers and pirates that frequented this area. They had their headquarters in the secluded islands of Barataria Bay, and operated about a half a dozen ships sailing under the flag of the short-lived Republic of Cartagena." He glanced around him at the smiling nodding patrons of the restaurant. "These local residents are probably made up of the descendants of the pirates."

  Solo shook his head in wonder, hardly fathoming his partner's wide expanse of knowledge. "Where do you get this stuff? You've never been out this way before."

  "It pays to read, Napoleon." Kuryakin turned over his paper placemat and excused himself, looking for a rest room.

  * * * * *

  It was one in the morning before they followed Pierre out into the relentless wind to the hotel next door. The local stations were still calling it "light gale" conditions out, enough to be worrisome at sea, but common enough for the island residents not to be too concerned. Pierre led them to a large double room on the second floor. It probably usually had a wonderful view of the ocean, but tonight, the storm shutters were drawn fast and Pierre gave them strict instructions not to open them. Napoleon pulled his boots off and stretched out on his bed. For a day that had begun quietly enough in New York, it had now seen him through three plane trips, parachuting, and backpacking. His temple was beginning to throb.

  He could imagine what Illya felt like, watching the still-thin version of his partner ease out of his jacket and fold it across the chair at the foot of the other bed. The smiling dancing young man of the morning was gone; Illya moved slowly now, with a weariness hovering around him that had deepened as the hours passed. He had been quiet most of the evening, alert, yet distant. The odd cough had sounded again a few times in the first half hour after their arrival, triggered by the cigar one of the men smoked.

  "We've got some good leads for tomorrow," he said.

  "Yes. The Grande Terre Island facility." Illya sat on the edge of his bed, his back to Napoleon. "Rather dubious."

  "Amazing how if you stamp 'government agency' on a building, people stay away. And with the wildlife tie-ins, I'm sure that doesn't bode well on a community that needs fishing and hunting to survive. No wonder the locals keep their distance from it, happy when the group doesn't interfere with them."

  "Yes."

  Napoleon stared at the stiff back for a long moment. He was too tired to deal with this. If Illya wasn't going to sleep, then he certainly was. The painkiller he had taken for his headache was beginning to work, and he rolled onto his side and was asleep in seconds.

  * * * * *

  The senior agent flung himself upright as a crash echoed in the small room, his feet already over the edge of the bed. "What?" The gun in his hand was aimed at the source of the noise, but pulled up sharply as he recognized the silhouette materializing at the open doorway, the wooden door still vibrating from being pushed open so quickly.