It was a rude awakening, to suddenly find oneself sitting in water. In the space of one minute Illya had been asleep and Napoleon had been swallowing the sweet fiery port wine, and the next minute they were both standing at the doorway, braced against the wind, staring out at the lake that stretched before them, almost-warm, almost-cold tropical water lapping at their shins. There was no highway, only the dead telephone poles sticking up along the side of where the road had been, like grave markers. Since the beginning of the storm, the land was now flooded at least ten feet deep in the lower areas. And rising.

  The ocean had swallowed the land. Now the ocean was swallowing them.

  Lafitte and Lerner joined them, as Brown awkwardly tried to crawl out from under the front counter. "We've got to get to higher ground before it's too late," Lafitte shouted. "We have to go out the front and around up the back way. There are enough vines around that we can pull ourselves up. The cliffs are our best bet here."

  The water seemed to swell before them, deepening, fed horizontally from the ocean, as well as from the heavy rain. "Have you ever seen this before?" Napoleon asked, staring at the sight, his mind hardly able to grasp the scene before him.

  "Not here, I haven't." The sheriff and deputy opened the locker, pulling the occupants out, Lafitte shouting orders over the wind. It was a struggle to link arms and wade out into the pressing water, waist deep on the adults as they descended the stairs and tried to make their way around the back of the building. That's when Napoleon saw what had happened; where the roof had been, there was nothing. Part of the northern outer wall was missing, the rooms stripped bare of whatever had been in them.

  Sheriff Lafitte led the way, then his wife and the family, Pierre, Illya, Brown, Napoleon, and Bernard and Deputy Lerner bringing up the rear. The Thrush agent— and there no longer seemed to be any doubt that he was a Thrush agent—was angry, furious at still being handcuffed. He followed along grudgingly, allowing them to drag him up the slope, until they reached the top of the hill, and then he insisted again that they release him. They pushed him to sit leaning up against an oak, both Kuryakin's and Solo's guns trained on him. Everyone in the group knew now that they were government agents and that he was an enemy.

  At the sheriff's instruction, the group huddled together well away from the edge of the cliff, trying to make themselves small against the wind. The now-leafless grove of oaks that covered the area made a crude breaker, but it was all they had. The view, blocked as it was by the clouds and wall of rain, was devastating. What little could be seen of Grand Isle showed an island destroyed. An oil freighter was lodged on the low land at the edge of their view, far from where it was supposed to be.

  "We can't be watching Brown and trying to protect the others at the same time," Solo yelled into his partner's ear. "Are you positive he's the courier?"

  Kuryakin nodded, his hair blowing in all directions. The sleep, almost two hours of it, had revived him considerably. "I am more than reasonably certain. Let's search him."

  Solo left Kuryakin to watch Brown and worked his way to Lafitte's side, turning his back to the wind to speak. "We could use your help!" he said, trying to be heard over the wail.

  Lafitte motioned for his deputy to join them and they made their way back to Kuryakin and his prisoner. Solo held his gun to Brown's head, while Kuryakin released the handcuffs and Lafitte patted him down. A wallet was handed to Kuryakin, who reholstered his weapon and braced himself against another tree, out of the direct force of the wind; he went through the wallet more carefully this time, looking for anything that could be useful, anything that could hide a microdot or contain microfiche. The deputy was checking the inside suit jacket pocket when Brown unexpectedly kicked out with one foot, knocking the man to his knees. With his right hand, Brown hit the buckle on his belt, twisting it slightly, and they could all see the yellow gas that was emitted before the wind ripped it away, defusing its power.

  Unfortunately, the wind, even the hurricane force, was not fast enough to prevent Lerner from breathing in the highly toxic fumes and he collapsed, his face instantly a strangling blue as he writhed in convulsions. Solo also gasped for air, as did the sheriff, both men dropping to the ground, their hands around their throats.

  * * * * *

  Kuryakin, standing upwind, looked up from his search of the wallet as he caught sight of the flurry of motion a short distance away. He tossed the wallet aside and rushed toward them, but Brown used the momentum of the shock and shoved Lafitte directly at the U.N.C.L.E. agent. Kuryakin lowered the sheriff to the ground, unable to help either of the Grand Isle men, or even his own partner whose tearing eyes said very clearly, Follow him.

  Fighting the wind, Brown started running toward the edge of the short cliff and Kuryakin stayed right on his heels, his mind white with fury. When Brown disappeared over the side, sliding down the muddy, rain-sodden slope, Kuryakin faltered at the crest, staring at where the highway had been. Telephone poles stuck up ten feet from the flood level, the road nowhere to be seen. Where the tavern had been, there was now nothing, the building swept away as if it had never been there. This is no high tide. This is a tidal wave, Illya thought, as Brown skidded down the short slope until he reached the water, then unhesitatingly dove into the filthy foaming water in an attempt to reach the opposite side.

  Kuryakin slid down after him, trying to control his descent as he grabbed hold of a tree root. The force of the rain felt like bullets slamming into his body; his feet were dangling into the water, already numb. The ocean water was not icy cold, but where the wind scraped his damp skin, it felt like ice.

  "Illya!"

  His head snapped up as he heard Solo's voice above him.

  "Illya, don't! Let him go!" The U.N.C.L.E. agent was bent over, still coughing, but Kuryakin could see he wasn't seriously affected. He would be dead already if he had been. The gas would not claim Napoleon as it had those people in the village in Haiti, their faces cold in asphyxiated horror. Kuryakin knew what that gas could do; he had been there. He had seen their faces.

  The flood waters were teaming down the highway—now a river channel—the wind-whipped ocean waves feeding them, pushing them inland. The noise was thunderous as the earth seemed to shake beneath his feet digging into the loosening soil on the side of the cliff. Kuryakin turned his head to where the Thrush agent tried to scramble up the far side of the swollen stream and failed, falling back into the river, swept away, still struggling.

  Brown had the microfilm; he had to have it. There was no other reason for his Jekyll and Hyde performance, turning from a passive, frightened man to a deadly determined murderer.

  What choice do I have? I have to stay with him. Kuryakin tried to yell over the roar to Solo, but he knew his partner couldn't hear him. No choice. He let go of the edge and tumbled down into the current, trying to keep his head above the rushing water. His head broke through the white-crested surface, but when he tried to breathe, he inhaled some of the salty water and ended up choking.

  Not now.

  Unable to stay afloat, he sank back beneath the raging flood, letting it carry him forward.

  * * * * *

  Standing in the never-ending torrential downpour, Solo watched his partner disappear beneath the water. There was no sign of him emerging from the foaming current, and no sign of the Thrush agent that Kuryakin had been following. His eyes scanned the low oak-covered ridge that ran along the highway. He could follow along for a while, but if he tried to get down to where the ocean flood ran, he stood the same chance as his partner of being swept away.

  And there were people behind him who needed help. Reluctantly, still coughing, he turned around and ran back to the group. They were gathered around Lafitte, who was sitting up weakly, trying to breathe. He seemed unable to communicate with them, his awareness slipping in and out. The deputy, Carl Lerner, was already unconscious, scarcely breathing.

  The hurricane winds had done something right, at least. They had saved Solo's life and probably that of Lafitte, as well. The nerve gas didn't have time to act, although the wicked headache that Solo could feel behind pounding temples showed that he probably had at least a mild dose of it. He instructed Mabel Lafitte to prop her husband up and keep talking to him, trying to keep him aware of his surroundings. When he checked on Lerner again, he saw it was too late; the man was dying and there was nothing he could do to stop it. You better catch this guy, Illya.

  The wind still howled.

  The rain came at them at a horizontal angle, cutting into their clothes. They clustered beneath the trees, clinging together, the children sobbing in terror. Away from the cliff, the water was creeping up on the other side of the hill, isolating them once more.

  A light flashed behind them. And then...

  * * * * *

  He slapped into something hard, his hands struggling to grasp hold of the tangle of wood. It was an oak tree, the trunk well under water, the branches, stripped of leaves, forming a net that was catching debris, seaweed, and one frazzled U.N.C.L.E. agent. Illya dragged himself out of the flood water, trying to scramble higher up the branches. His shirt was gone, torn from his shoulders. Somewhere along the tumbling ride, he had also lost his shoes and socks. The churning water trying to tug him back was colder now and harsh, relentless in its race inland, furious at giving up its prey.

  Kuryakin finally cleared the water line and sat panting, like a drenched sea bird taking refuge in the upper branches. Or more like a beached fish, he thought miserably, fighting to breathe, trying to force his lungs into a reasonable rhythm as his body shook from cold and shock.

  Sam's going to be mad. I forgot to take my medication again.

  He felt a chuckle catch in his throat, but he clamped down on the hysteria that lurked on the edge of his consciousness. Strange the thoughts that came to you at a time like that, but he had to stay in control and he pushed the laughter away.

  A movement. A glimpse of skin. He saw the tree catch a second fish, this one flinging water from his hair as he scaled the solid branches and spotted his opponent. Illya clung to an uppermost branch and swung his body down, trying to knock the other man from his purchase, but in the process, he almost let go of the slime-covered branch himself. His arms were too exhausted to support his weight, and he had to give up and sling a leg back over the branch, hanging on now by an arm and leg.

  Brown balanced on one of the lower branches, with a splintered two-by-four in his hand. He struck at Kuryakin's dangling left arm savagely, eliciting a scream from the U.N.C.L.E. agent, who suddenly found the necessary strength to swing himself higher, out of the way of a second blow aimed at his head.

  Neither agent had a gun any longer, both were only partially dressed, and both were far beyond exhausted. They sat panting at each other, hateful glares saying more than their voices were capable of. Illya tried to see where Brown could possibly be carrying the microdot, for there was little clothing left for it to be located in. But Brown still seemed to be defending himself, trying to stay on target. The enemy agent would have no way of knowing if the Thrush facility had survived the hurricane and this flood, so if he had the information Thrush was waiting for, he knew he had to provide it, or die in the process. They would never allow him to live with such a failure on his record.

  Add that to the way he was eyeing the U.N.C.L.E. agent, and Illya was convinced he still had the dot somewhere on his person.

  The watch chain.

  The movement connected in Kuryakin's mind; Brown's hand continually touching the chain of the pocket watch, as though checking to make sure it was still there. Illya was ready to bet that it wasn't for sentimental reasons. The chain was hooked to a belt loop, the antique watch secure in the man's suit pants pocket.

  A car floated past, the twisted wreckage testimony to the disaster about them. Brown glanced at it for a second, long enough for Kuryakin to release the branch he was clinging to and throw himself down on the other man, knocking them both back into the gray water. They snarled, fighting, heads emerging from the water, hands locked on to each other as their free fists tried to connect with an eye or better yet, a nose. Still raining blows, the flood carried them along its path.

  * * * * *

  Napoleon Solo stood in the Leeville police station, staring out the window at the wind- and rain-ravaged street. From his transceiver, he listened dispassionately to the New Orleans U.N.C.L.E. agents relay the details of their flyover of the suspected Thrush installation. He had declined accompanying them, much as he wanted to be a part of the sting, knowing the resulting delay caused by them picking him up in the helicopter might be costly. If the Thrush operatives were to attempt to clear out, they would be doing so now that the hurricane had passed, even though the rain still fell as though there was no end to the clouds' resources.

  An U.N.C.L.E. agent based in Leeville had been helpful, repairing his transceiver, setting up a base for him to work from, and now sitting at the telephone putting calls through to the various Red Cross stations to look for his partner. The small city of Leeville was busy, crowded with transients and those who had come inland for shelter. Finally, the hurricane had passed and they hoped the rains would ease up.

  It was a long wait.

  The group from Grand Isle had been picked up by the local fire brigade. It had taken two hours to get all ten of them from where they huddled on the crest of the hill into the small row boat and away to safety. Six trips in all. The sheriff was breathing easier once they had him on oxygen, but the deputy had died during the struggle, his lungs, compromised by the gas, failing him before they could reach medical help.

  Compromised lungs. The thought set Napoleon pacing, rubbing at the steady pain in his head. At least Illya hadn't been the one exposed to it, he reasoned. The Russian had been standing to one side, going through Brown's wallet. Napoleon was reasonably sure he had been spared, but he had only barely glimpsed his partner before Illya had been swept away by the flood.

  It was becoming a long wait. There was no sign of Illya. No sign of Brown. But a lot of people were missing, he reminded himself. And a lot of bodies were being fished out of the flood waters, he was equally reminded. He'd been to the local morgue twice already, but the bodies there were not the ones he was looking for.

  Napoleon Solo listened to the transceiver as U.N.C.L.E. paratroopers stormed the bedraggled Thrush building, easily forcing out the terrified men who had been stationed there. Through some miracle, the canisters were undamaged, and the New Orleans office began making arrangements for their transport elsewhere.

  The success didn't seem as important as it usually did. He remembered returning to New York from the Love Affair, arriving at the airport, his heart heavy even though they had succeeded. He had thought that Kuryakin had died, killed by the grenade thrown at his car. Well, Illya had been waiting for him, alive, and it all fell in place again. He could celebrate his victory then. Their victory.

  Headquarters called on the telephone, Heather McNabb's voice interrupting his dark thoughts. She connected him with Alexander Waverly who was thrilled, as pleased as Napoleon had ever heard him. This was a great coup on Thrush. The canisters were expensive to produce, and the cost of replacing them high. Now if they could get the formula without more difficulty— "Has Mr. Kuryakin produced it yet or is he still missing?" Waverly asked, as an annoying oversight.

  "He's missing, sir," Solo answered dully.

  "Oh. Stay with it, then, Mr. Solo. Since you brought Mr. Kuryakin into this case, I am making you responsible for his safe return. Report in when you find anything."

  "Yes, sir."

  It was a long wait. At least, the nausea from the gas was gone, and the pain in Napoleon's throat had eased. His head still hurt, though, and he reached for the medication the doctor had given him. He popped a few aspirins, washing them down with either coffee or tea, he wasn't sure what it was in the styrofoam cup a curly-haired volunteer had handed him with a suggestive smile and her phone number. Everything tasted like the flood waters. He could smell the stench of it on him, despite the quick shower he had taken at the Red Cross facilities.

  The transceiver went silent. The raid was over. U.N.C.L.E. had taken possession of the deadly gas. Now if they could also find the formula, it would save them weeks of interrogating the Thrush guards who probably knew nothing anyway, or trying to test the gas and decipher its composition on their own.

  And if they found the formula, he would probably find Illya.

  * * * * *

  Illya woke with a sharp cough that spasmed through his brain and shocked him into awareness. It took him several moments of disorientation to realize he was not in an U.N.C.L.E. infirmary this time, but in a large room with a wooden floor, and that he was naked and lying curled on his side on a mat, a blanket tucked around him. A few feet away was someone else sleeping, and beyond them, another form. And another. Footsteps echoed softly, and from somewhere he found the energy to turn his head.

  A young woman smiled down at him. "Hi," she said softly, "Glad to see you're finally awake."

  "Where am I?" he asked, blinking at the croaky sounds his throat made.

  "Red Cross center near Leeville. My name is Donna Marie. Don't move around too much yet. A doctor will come by and check you out." She glanced down at the paper taped on the floor above his head. "If I can read his writing, it said they brought you in suffering from shock and exposure, same as everyone else here." She rested a hand on his forehead, withdrawing it when the temperature seemed normal. "Can you tell us your name? You didn't come in with any identification on you—actually, you didn't come in with anything on you at all. I'll see if I can find some clothes to fit you. We're getting all kinds of donations brought to us."

  He tried to lift his head, but soon gave up.

  She lifted it for him, holding some water to his lips. "Can you drink this? You really should."