"How long will it last?"

  The sheriff shrugged. "Couple hours at least. We should be out of the storm surge up here, but this lady is already dumping lakes on us, and that's only going to get worse. The wind starts really getting nasty, then; you two should clear off those glasses and bottles from the area of the bar where you're going to take shelter. You don't want that stuff flung at you." He ignored them then, turning away to help the others as Kuryakin and Solo followed his instructions. Brown and Carl Lerner returned from the second floor, hands empty, and he collared both, his finger wagging at them as he gave firm directions as to what he expected of them during the next few hours.

  There was a loud crash outside, signaling something to Lafitte. The room darkened as the feeble light coming in from the louvered window above the front entrance was blocked by the dense clouds.

  "Get in place now!" he yelled, dragging Pierre into the storage locker, along with his wife and the frightened family. Brown worked his way into the indicated small space beneath the front cash desk, muttering to himself.

  Kuryakin saw his partner hunker back into the cubbyhole they had created, trying to arrange the blanket Lafitte had given them to cover their faces with if glass should fly. The wind seemed to stop outside for a moment, then the door shook like some mad giant outside was trying to get in, rattling its hinges. Solo leaned back and motioned for him to come, then tried to work his pen transceiver again.

  Kuryakin froze, unable to move for a microsecond as bombs went off around them.

  But they weren't bombs. It was the wind, traveling at unheard of speeds and buffeting the building. It was unlike any sound he knew, yet his brain persisted in interpreting the thunderous roar as explosions and the blast of a train whistle and the sirens of the security police. The light was almost gone, but the noise never let up, the wind and the slashing rain. Another crash shook him out of the daze and he turned. Solo was checking the safety on the U.N.C.L.E. Special, and had not noticed his hesitation.

  Kuryakin bent over and rummaged through his pack, not meeting Solo's curious frown. He found what he was looking for and walked carefully over to where Brown was hiding. Crouching down in front of him, Kuryakin had to clear his strained throat several times before he had a voice loud enough for the scowling man to hear. "Hello, there. Just for your safety, and mine, Mr. Brown—" He chopped at the man's neck, stunning him long enough to slip a pair of handcuffs around Brown's wrists, locking them together behind his back. When Brown protested, he put his U.N.C.L.E. Special into the man's face, pressing it up against his temple. "If you're not who I think you are, you can sue me later." Kuryakin patted the man's pockets efficiently, pulling a tiny revolver from the suit jacket. "Handy thing to have in the wildlife business, is it not? This must be great protection." The sarcastic tone was not lost on the other man. He searched the rest of the pockets, but there was no other package to be found. "Where's the information for New Orleans?" he asked, with a dangerous growl, pulling the man's head backwards by the hair. "Where is the information about the nerve gas canisters? Is it on fiche or on a microdot? Did you stash it somewhere?"

  Brown let out an outraged bellow. "What the hell are you talking about? Are you crazy? Release me! You will most certainly hear from my lawyer!"

  "Have him contact my uncle," Kuryakin whispered, directly into the man's ear. He sat back and grinned at Brown's sudden pallor. "We'll talk after the storm is over. I wouldn't try and get away with your hands locked like that. If you had to swim, well, it might be your last... Until then, you can pray that my irritation level goes down before I have to speak with you again. I get mean when I've been sitting around in damp clothes for a while."

  Kuryakin turned his back on the curses that scarcely carried above the wind outside, his eyes falling on the wealth of bottles above the bar that had not yet been cleared off. He grabbed a couple indiscriminately, claimed the food left on the counter for them, then returned to where Solo waited. The protected area was narrow, barely two feet wide by three feet deep, and he crawled into it resolutely, trying to shake off the persistent sense of foreboding. His back was to Napoleon, his legs drawn up to his chest, Solo's longer legs on either side of him. Not the most comfortable of arrangements, but there weren't a lot of other options, given the layout. Besides, at least this way he didn't have to look at Napoleon.

  "What did he have to say?" Solo asked, his voice barely audible though he yelled into Kuryakin's ear.

  Illya shook his head and handed Napoleon a liquor bottle as he settled another between his own legs. "I cuffed him. He's not going anywhere. I think he is more scared than the children." Illya ripped off one end of the long baguette Mrs Lafitte had given them, tossed the other half behind him to Napoleon, and then stuffed the bread eagerly into his mouth, surprised at how hungry he was. He could feel his partner shifting, also eating the simple fare quickly.

  "What is it?" Napoleon leaned forward and asked, nudging him with the bottle in the darkness. The light was now almost nonexistent.

  Illya shrugged. "Does it matter?" he yelled loudly around the bread in his mouth. He took a big swallow of the expensive liquor to wash it down.

  "Any old port in a storm will do?" Napoleon yelled back, over the roar of the wind, laughing.

  Illya closed his eyes, trying to steady himself against the rush of emotion that response elicited. Part of him wanted to scream in rage at their situation, but the storm was already doing that for him. And part of him wanted to laugh, to give in to the friend behind him, and let go of his pride. To jump and not worry about the consequences.

  Norm Graham had always caught him.

  Alexander Waverly had always pulled him from the water, at least.

  There was precedence.

  He sat stiffly, feeling his partner move behind him, trying to get comfortable. Then a hand was on his chest, tugging him backwards further into the safety of the overhang. Illya froze at the touch and then turned around to glare at him, but the quiet reassuring smile that greeted him almost smashed his defenses. Then the light died altogether and the real storm began, the building rocking on its foundation, digging in its heels as it was lashed by the elements.

  Oh, to hell with it, was Illya's last conscious thought as he leaned his head forward and allowed himself to sleep.

  * * * * *

  Napoleon was trying to get the cork off the bottle when he became aware of his partner slumping over in front of him, his head resting on his knees. It took a brief moment to figure out what had happened, then he felt the grin creep over his face. You pick the strangest times, Illya Nickovetch. The grin faded as he saw the tension in the body, not exactly relaxed in sleep, but giving into it with reluctance. Professionally, Illya knew he had to sleep, that his body needed to replenish itself before the next battle they faced. Personally, he didn't want to sleep anywhere near Napoleon; he couldn't afford to be vulnerable right now.

  Tough. Napoleon eased the sleeping body back toward him. It wasn't the first time his partner had slept on his shoulder, and probably wouldn't be the last. And it went the other way, too. There were times—sick, injured, or exhausted—when he had used the sturdy Russian as a pillow or bolster; he knew the feeling of camaraderie that allowed that small luxury in the middle of crisis. And the feeling of trust. Things getting back to normal, are they? he asked silently, but he knew this was but a small concession on Illya's part.

  A year before, in Rotterdam, they had hid much like this, in the dugout basement of a warehouse in the dark along with a few others. But then, Illya had huddled against him, drugged, yet knowing it was his partner and that Napoleon would take care of him and whatever was happening. The stiff body in front of him now had no such assurances; Illya's arms were locked around himself in protection, not accepting anything from his partner other than Napoleon watching for danger.

  At least he was sleeping. Maybe with a bit of rest, it would be possible to reason with him, to get him to see what was happening. Napoleon wrapped the blanket around Illya. With that cough, he didn't need to get chilled from sitting around in damp clothes.

  Once Illya had been settled somewhat, there was really nothing else to do. Napoleon unplugged the cork from the bottle finally and stole a drink, letting the fire work its way down his throat. A little early for this... His eyes widened when he saw his watch read only 8:00 in the morning. It was a lot early for this. It felt like half a day had gone by already. He studied the time trying to sort out their schedule over the next few hours. Since Illya had handcuffed Brown, he had to assume the Russian felt they had found their Thrush courier. Now all that remained was getting the information, passing it on to the New Orleans office, and determining how to lay siege to the base.

  Lafitte had said the initial part of the hurricane would take an hour at minimum before the eye passed over them. They were out of the direct center of its path, but when a hurricane like this spanned hundreds of miles, there was room enough to be tossed around. Grand Isle, and the facility on Grande Terre, would be right in the middle of it all.

  Napoleon jerked, startled, when the door behind him blew open, the wind howling in like a banshee, whistling as it tore through the tavern, seeking a way out the back. Something smashed into the mirror over the bar, and Napoleon got the blanket up in time to prevent the glass from splintering down on them. Before he could kick away the shards, he could feel the heavy counter push behind him, sliding them both at least six inches toward the cupboards they were facing. He heard another loud crash above him somewhere, then the roar became truly deafening as—he discovered later—the hurricane ripped off the entire top floor. Napoleon braced himself for the building to cave in around them, but the same wind carried away the debris before it landed on them. Something sailed into the air, connecting with the wall just in front of them, and fell to the floor, just missing his foot. Pieces of a chair.

  The wind moved on after several minutes of relentless pounding, its speed dropping to a mere 50 or 60 miles an hour, Napoleon estimated, counting on his years of experience in the Navy as a reference. He tucked his leg back in, trying to loosen his tight hold on his partner before he strangled the man, but Illya only stirred and shifted slightly.

  What's wrong? Napoleon snapped on his flashlight, shining the light on the Russian's face under the blanket. No, Illya wasn't injured or unconscious. He was still sleeping. Through all that.

  The CEA tilted Illya to one side and leaned forward as far as he could without dislodging them from their lair. He could just barely see the gray blanket under the front counter, its owner, Brown, violently trembling beneath it. Well, Brown wasn't apt to go anywhere in the next little while. Napoleon settled back, trying to get comfortable. Illya's weight was a little heavier against him now; there was slightly less tension in the body. Napoleon reached for the port wine that had been knocked aside, taking a long hard swallow as he listened to the door slam repeatedly against the frame. Round one.

  The hurricane, the wind, the flood—it all seemed removed from reality one notch. Reality was sitting having a breather from the race, knowing your partner was safe and at hand, and setting up the next moves in your mind. Terror never quite invaded that part of his existence.

  What was it about their partnership? Napoleon took another swallow from the bottle and wiped his mouth on the edge of the blanket, glancing up as something hammered on the outer wall. When the partnership worked—when they let it work—it was eerie. This strange unexplainable peace, the almost enjoyment of the case. The addiction.

  On one hand, he would never be able to dissect the resonance they shared, seemingly without any conscious act on either side. On the other hand, he couldn't ignore it. It required attention. It required communication. And for the last few days, it had required mending.

  He took another drink, wondering about Brown and the facility on Grande Terre. Illya had not been able to fill him in on everything and now it was impossible to speak in the constant shriek of the wind—that was getting louder. It was escalating again, the floorboards shaking, as though the tavern was shivering in its foundations. Napoleon placed one hand over his partner's ear, trying to shut out some of the sound, but it didn't seem to make much of a difference. As always, Illya's concentration when asleep was as intense as his determination to stay awake when he wanted to.

  The grin wouldn't stay off Napoleon's face. Yes, let Thrush do its worst—and let the storms rage—but Illya slept on, unconcerned about the destruction. For the time being, it was someone else's problem, not his. He was taking a time out, resting in a lull—or at least their version of a lull in the action.

  It was handy to travel with the eye of the storm in your back pocket. Or at your side.

  ...That was it.

  That's what it was. What had Heather called their lives? A whirlpool? More like a hurricane, Napoleon decided with a slow nod of his head. Buffeted from one direction, a short break to recoup, then buffeted from another. Except, he thought as he refined the image with another sip from the potent bottle, they were the eye of the hurricane. Not individually. Together.

  Now that's the sappiest thing you've ever come up with, Old Man. He shrugged, not caring at the moment, but he corked the bottle and put it away. It was sappy, and today he would be the first to admit it. But that didn't mean it wasn't true, as well. I'll just find another way to word it to Illya or Sam, if I have to.

  Again the grin pulled at his lips, but it didn't stay long. He did need to call in for reinforcements. The transceivers were no longer working, the interference too great, or maybe the tiny components damaged in the water. Illya might be able to fix them later, but that was not Napoleon's area of expertise. The last chance he'd had to report in was an hour or so previous, as they pulled away from the Grand Isle hotel. He had scarcely been able to make the connection. And the phone lines were out here. He had lifted the receiver on the tavern's pay phone, only to hear silence.

  Seventy minutes later, he was still trying to figure it all out when the room suddenly quieted and the air took on a strange feeling, heavy and still. It wasn't raining any more. A flashlight came on somewhere, but the room was bright enough that it was hardly needed. "Everyone all right?" the sheriff's voice boomed out. "We've got a ways to go yet, but we're halfway there. Everyone stay put, ya hear? I mean everybody!"

  Different voices answered him, and from where the counter had pushed them, Solo could see Lafitte's legs pass him, and heard the sheriff lift some chairs and other debris out of the way as he headed for the beer cooler. The U.N.C.L.E. agent let out his breath, relieved, when the sheriff reported that the occupants were still safe.

  Brown's voice blustered out from where he hid, tight with terror, "The roof's gone!"

  "Well, the walls ain't, and that's why we're still here. Good. Everyone's in one piece, more or less." Lafitte returned from the cooler and crouched down in front of Napoleon. "Do you boys need anything? Oh. He gettin' some shut eye? Good for him. Carl's almost asleep himself. I don't usually like Russians, don't trust 'em much, but Kuryakin seems a good sort. U.N.C.L.E.'s careful with that sort of thing, aren't they?" He looked away, then leaned in slightly, his voice a bit lower. "For your information, Solo, the water is almost up to the top stair outside. We still should be okay here for a while, but if it starts rising, we're gonna hafta head up to higher ground."

  "In this wind?"

  "We drown for sure if we stay here." Lafitte stood up and moved further to check on Brown.

  "Tell that Russian to uncuff me!" Brown yelled at Lafitte. "Where is he?"

  "He cuffed you; he can uncuff you. You just stay where you are, and you might live awhile longer. I don't care one way or the other." The sheriff moved back past them to his cubbyhole and resettled himself.

  The waiting was strange. It felt like it was over. That the sky would clear and a rainbow would fall over the flood-ravaged land. Instead, the air crackled with tension, the warm air heavy. The stench was becoming more pronounced. Salt from the ocean, but also the sludge from the swamps and the moldy, putrid smell of delta mud.

  The body he had leaning against him began to tremble and Napoleon froze, his head craning around to see what the problem was. Before he could say anything, Illya came awake with a loud gasp, sitting up so quickly that he whacked his head on the bottom of the counter above him.

  "We're in the eye of the hurricane," Napoleon offered the wide-eyed disoriented face. "Go back to sleep. You're dreaming."

  "Explosion. The chessboard blew up. The pieces—"

  "It was a dream," he said quickly.

  The body deflated, crumpling back against Napoleon, asleep for whatever time they had left. This time, though, Napoleon could feel the difference. Whatever had happened in the dream, or in their brief conversation a moment ago, Illya was with him again, trusting again, leaning on him for protection while he slept.

  Napoleon stared ahead, lost in thought. He could watch out for the hurricane, but he didn't know what protection he could offer from the nightmares his partner was plagued with. Not even Alexander Waverly could rewrite history.

  Within ten minutes, the winds returned, this time from the other direction. The tavern shifted as its foundations became more stressed. Half an hour later, water poured in through the open doorway, not rising slowly quarter inch by quarter inch, but spilling across the floor and covering the surface as though some massive dam had given way.