And he had a two o'clock meeting with Napoleon in Alexander Waverly's office. There would be no bomb placed at two o'clock across the city.

  Well, if it wasn't a Thrush-initiated hallucination or illusion, what else would it be?

  Beneath PROJECTED IMAGE?, he carefully wrote, PREMONITION?

  Kuryakin looked at the word and shivered. His gypsy friends would believe this. Certainly, he'd had feelings before of upcoming danger or disaster, and he had acted on them calmly and rationally. Usually. But he had never had to prove them to anyone. He rarely had to even mention the premonition, just take extra precautions. But forewarning feelings or thoughts had never before been manifested as men walking around his apartment drinking beer.

  His beer.

  Kuryakin shifted, still uncomfortable. The soles of his feet were throbbing. Pulling an armchair over to his desk, he propped his feet up on it as he took refuge behind the mound of paperwork, effectively shielding him from the doorway.

  Angels do not exist, he told himself firmly. They are simply... Actually, he wasn't sure what they were. Well, that was easy enough to resolve. A Russian/English dictionary was first in order, but it gave him little information. An archangel—the word in English identical to the Russian—was described only as a chief angel. It wasn't a word he knew in either language, but it was likely he had heard it before and forgotten it. Not in the Soviet Union, though; any reference to or curiosity in such obviously orthodox religious phenomena was quickly squelched there. Any reports were ignored or covered up.

  He had not been interested in religion or angels. There were more important things to occupy his time.

  He was about to dismiss the idea when he remembered that Trish Graham was religious; there had been books he had read from her library that could have contained the word. Maybe he had dreamed it, the word drifting up from his subconscious.

  Illya shut the dictionary and returned it to the bookcase behind him. So the word existed. What did that mean? What dark psychosis was responsible for him naming this dream image Mikhail? Had he been thinking of his despised foster father recently? Even wondering about it now made him shiver. Had he cast the hated Mikhail Zadkine in the role of an all-powerful overseer like some villainous character in one of the Graham children's fairytales?

  Or... He swallowed hard. What if it had all happened as he remembered it? What if it was real?

  When he had initially checked for the beer bottles at his apartment that morning, there had been a moment of euphoric relief that the table was bare. It had been a dream; no strangers had been there. But then Napoleon had said he had cleared the bottles. They had been there on the table, tangible proof that–

  The thought veered off resolutely. That what? That a warrior angel had dropped by for a cold beer?

  He laughed nervously and sat up straighter, brushing his hair from his forehead. If it was real—if Mikhail was who he said he was—then Illya Nickovetch Kuryakin was in real trouble. For what proof did he have? Fingerprints on a bottle? For supernatural phenomenon, there had to be proof. Extensive proof. Conclusive proof.

  Even then it wouldn't matter, for people believed what they wanted to despite the evidence. It was an interesting revelation of society that the scantiest indications pointing to an enemy's possible transgressions would be jumped upon as proof positive, yet the most sworn word of a previously reliable source meant nothing if the listener did not want to believe. And that was what it all added up to. Nothing. He had no proof of anything. Hadn't he learned that lesson well enough in the Soviet Union?

  Worse, this time, for even he did not believe what he himself had seen. How could he expect someone else to believe him? How could he expect Napoleon to believe him? Or Alexander Waverly?

  But he had to tell Napoleon.

  Kuryakin glanced at the clock, surprised to see another hour had passed while he had debated with himself. It was almost lunch and he was hungry. He hadn't been able to handle anything in his stomach earlier in the day, and his system now badly needed food and coffee—and large amounts of both. He had waited this long before speaking with Napoleon, surely he could wait another hour. He would tell him before their two o'clock meeting, he thought, carefully sliding his feet back in the loafers.

  Keep moving. Don't think about it. Unexpectedly, the crutches had come in handy: not only could he move quickly on them, but people tended to get out of his way, hold the elevators, and let him go ahead of them in the cafeteria lineup. There were advantages, but he would be happy to see them gone. Just a few more days, Sam Lawrence had said.

  Five minutes later, he dug into the macaroni and cheese casserole with far more enthusiasm than it deserved, one hand holding a buttered bun that accompanied the meal. There was a comfort in the action, a purpose to his movements. Around him, complaints abounded concerning the simple fare, but Illya was grateful for something relatively innocuous to fill his empty stomach. He vaguely remembered being sick the evening before, soon after Mikhail had left...

  His fork dropped from his hand at the memory and he hunched over the table, trying to swallow the food that suddenly lodged in his throat. A minute of careful breathing and he dealt with the mouthful, reclaimed the fork, and mechanically continued to feed himself.

  Something in me feels it was real. That he was real.

  On the other hand, wasn't that what made nightmares so frightening—that they felt real?

  Kuryakin shrugged to himself. Regardless, it was all a moot point. The one major flaw with the whole incident was that despite what had been predicted, Napoleon would not be planting a bomb at two o'clock, in less than two hours. They had a meeting, as Napoleon had reminded him that morning. Whatever had happened last night, dream or hallucination, it was over for now.

  He heard a throat clear and looked up.

  "I said, do you mind if I join you for a moment?" Napoleon put down his cup of coffee and slid into the seat opposite him.

  "No. Uh... go ahead."

  Solo nodded. "Listen, Illya. Something's just come up. I might not be at the meeting. Do you have time to pop down to Munitions when you finish eating? I want you to take a look at something."

  Kuryakin stared across the table, not seeing his partner sipping at his coffee. "To look at what?" he asked, his voice dry.

  "A bomb."

  The room tilted, then straightened. His heart began a silly offbeat pounding that made it hard to concentrate. "Why?" he forced out, finding it difficult to swallow. His tongue moved the macaroni around in his mouth. "What are you going to use the bomb for?" he asked, when he finally got the food down.

  "Hmm?" Solo was eyeing a bevy of secretaries across the room, reluctantly drawing his attention back to his lunch companion. "I'm not at liberty to say."

  Kuryakin wiped up the last of the cheese sauce with his bun and swallowed the remaining bite, washing it all down with a glass of milk. His head pounded. His ears buzzed. Maybe it is a coincidence. "May I ask a question?"

  "Certainly."

  "Do you plan on planting a bomb in the sub-basement of Thrush Headquarters on 52nd Street this afternoon at two o'clock to take out the Corporate Computer housed there?" His heart sank as he watched his partner's face grow pale, and then flush with anger.

  Solo leaned forward, his voice quiet and controlled, but with an underlying hiss that was unmistakable. He was furious. "How the hell did you know that? I just got permission from Waverly not even five minutes ago to get your opinion on the bomb. This whole thing is top secret—Section One. Who is your source? Who told you? That's no lucky guess."

  Kuryakin stared back at him, feeling exactly like that proverbial deer in the headlights. Great. He'd really backed himself into a corner on this one. My source? Oh, this angel that dropped by last night for a beer. What the hell do I tell him? I can't tell the truth. I tried that once and it didn't work. They'll lock me up and throw away the key.

  He tried to pass it off. "Oh, you know the grapevine; I heard a few things here and there, and came up with it independently."

  Solo stared at him, the familiar face blank and hard. "Not good enough. But we won't talk about it here. Meet me in my office in fifteen minutes. Whoever this leak is, I want it plugged now. " With that, the senior agent abandoned his partner and his cup of coffee, and left the room.

  Kuryakin fished his crutches out from under the table and fled the cafeteria, poling down the corridor to his lab. Once inside, he let them clatter to the floor, hit the privacy lock on his door, and spun to face the center of the room. What am I doing? He swallowed. Proof. Right. He needed proof.

  Well, there was one way to see if it was Thrush or not. He called down to the security section. "Brian? It's Illya. I'm––What?... My crutches? I fell from a door mantel. It's a long story... Brian, I'm doing a test in my lab. Can you monitor the hallway outside? Check for anything unusual on our security sensors. I want to make sure there's no interference with my experiment... Thanks."

  Illya hung up the telephone receiver, set the lab cameras in place and testedthem, then took a deep breath. This was crazy. He reached over and turned the cameras on. "Mikhail!!" he whispered. "If you are who you say you are, you'd better show up immediately."

  Nothing.

  He waited.

  Still nothing.

  Of course, nothing. There was nothing there to show up. It had all been a––

  The air shimmered. Something whiter than white flashed in front of him, making him shield his eyes. When he could see again, the light had coalesced into a human form.

  Illya stared. Who the hell is this? "Who are you? I didn't ask for you."

  The being could easily have been related to Mikhail. He was equal in height and shared much of the same characteristics and aura, but Mikhail's powerful build and dark hair and eyes were spun from a different mold than this one. If ever a man could be described as painfully beautiful, this man was. Intense azure eyes, strong jaw, white-blond hair that fell to his shoulders, and yet the same mixture of utter strength and purity. Instead of the dark T-shirt and jeans that Mikhail had worn, he had on a white loose-fitting shirt over white chinos.

  "My name is Nikosha. Don't be afraid."

  Although Kuryakin had spoken in English, the being had answered in Russian. And used his private name. Again.

  Illya trembled with agitation. "Afraid? I'm not afraid––I'm too angry to be afraid! What is going on here? Where is Mikhail? I need to speak with him."

  Gabriel perched on the edge of the desk. "He's busy. What do you want?"

  "I want to talk to Mikhail."

  "You can't. He's busy. He sent me to find out what you wanted."

  "I demand he come here."

  Gabriel smiled patiently, as though he were an imbecile, and responded gently. "He's busy elsewhere."

  Illya rubbed his forehead. I should go straight to the infirmary. Sam, I need a tranquilizer. I've got a major headache. Why? Because I've been arguing with some angels. I can't get the delusion of my choice, and the one that showed up is giving me the runaround.

  "We aren't giving you the runaround," the angel said. "Mikhail is busy, so he sent me." Gabriel tilted his head upward suddenly, as though listening to another's voice. "Hmm... What about the coup in Algeria? Who's on that?... What? How many dead?" The angel's face hardened, his eyes flashing. "Can we get around him somehow? Take ten thousand with you.... No, I'm going from here to Gansu near the Mongolian border... Uriel is in Saigon monitoring the U.S. military command... Do what you have to, Raphael." With a blink, Gabriel refocused on Illya. "Sorry, we're monitoring a few things." The angel frowned, studying him. "You are in pain... You injured yourself when you helped your partner last week. Was it worth it? Was the price of the pain worth saving his life and his trust?"

  "I don't know what you mean. Who were you taking to? Where is Mikhail?"

  "Physical pain is easy for you to deal with, isn't it, Nikosha? Almost a reward. Proof that you did something right. This won't be the same. It will not be a physical pain, but there will still be pain for you initially. You must decide what you will do, and what of your pride is worth the price of Napoleon's life and his trust?"

  Illya closed his eyes tightly, then opened them again. Gabriel was still there. The Russian glanced over to the camera, relieved to see the red operating light registering. He looked back to Gabriel, but the other's attention was elsewhere again for a moment. A smile, then Gabriel faded back into the bright white light that had signaled his arrival.

  A golden glow replaced him, and then suddenly it became the angel from the night before.

  The air crackled with electricity. "What's the problem, Ilyusha?" Mikhail looked dusty. And sweaty.

  Do angels sweat? Illya stared at him, stunned into silence.

  He did not know much about angel lore, apart from the inevitable Cupid-like caricatures that appeared on cards and billboards near Valentine's Day, one of the busiest, most carefully orchestrated days of Napoleon's year. Those angels had all been childlike and chubby and had wings. They all had wings.

  Each December, there had been one delicate porcelain figure on the Christmas tree at the Grahams' home, arms spread as it perched on the top most branch. On the mantel, there was always the meticulously arranged Nativity set that had an angel perched on the top of a stable, but it was an androgynous figure wearing an ankle-length robe, with dainty features, and mother-of-pearl wings.

  Neither version resembled these warriors, these dangerous beings who could radiate such light and power if they chose. Could Thrush manufacture such a scheme? Would they try to persuade me through some trickery?

  "Who are you? What do you want from me?" he asked, bluntly.

  Mikhail stood across the room from him, leaning against the work counter, his arms folded. He tilted his head as he studied Kuryakin, his body language, strong and confident—almost like Napoleon's, Illya thought, suddenly wondering if this could all possibly be a scheme of his partner's.

  Mikhail revealed nothing, but there was in the room a sense of the fearful power at his command. Eyes that were older than time itself looked into Illya's soul—without judgment, but with sadness, nonetheless. One hand reached back into the wealth of tools on the counter and Mikhail withdrew the bottle cap and held it out before him. He smiled. Then he let it rest against his bent thumb and flicked it into the air.

  Illya felt his eyes inexplicably drawn to the twirling cap, the light of the camera catching the folds of the metal rim as it spun. It seemed to take an eternity to rise into the air, end over end over end, and then it hovered in place, still spinning, before it fell to lie motionless in Mikhail's outstretched palm.

  You do not exist. I must not believe in you. The Russian shook his head to refocus his attention, clearing his throat. "I told Napoleon I knew about the bomb."

  "Good." Mikhail's hand closed, the bottle cap disappearing from view. "Have you talked him out of it?"

  "No, I have not yet tried. I have not yet decided if I should. I––I––What am I supposed to say to him?" he demanded, in a rush. "Why don't you tell him yourself? He had a good Catholic education. If you are indeed an angel, he will believe in you more than I can."

  "My orders were specific about who I could talk to." Mikhail dropped into a chair. "He's your partner. Talk to him. Tell him you are concerned about the bombing."

  "No."

  Mikhail listened for a moment. "Hmm? Gabriel says you are in pain. I'm sorry, I didn't notice." With a grip too powerful for the apparent body wielding it, the angel lifted Illya as if he were a child and set him on top the desk, despite Kuryakin's attempt to escape his reach and his grasp. It was force without pressure or violence, but force regardless. Mikhail took the left foot in his hand, gently moving it back and forth. He spoke quietly in a language that was neither Russian nor English nor any other language that Illya had ever heard. Then he released the ankle. "How does that feel?"

  "Why me? Why come to me? What is it you want?" Kuryakin hissed.

  "We discussed this last night. Just do what you must. Your partner's life depends on it. A lot of innocent lives depend on you doing what is right. Within two weeks, you'll see the fruits of doing what I ask now." Mikhail vanished, then reappeared. "By the way, Nikosha, the tape will not work. It will only show static."

  "Don't call me Nikosha," Illya growled as Mikhail disappeared again. He slid from the desk, retrieved his crutches, and headed out the door, his irritation climbing higher as he realized his foot no longer hurt.

  You do not exist. You can't.

  * * * * *

  Solo glanced up as his door swooshed open and Kuryakin entered. "Sit down."He could see his partner bristling at the formality in his voice, but he couldn't seem to school it out. "This mission is top secret, and it is crucial that I know how you found out about it."

  Kuryakin sat opposite him, stared across the room, and then looked him right in the eyes. "Why are you planning to do this now? Are you sure this is the correct action to take?"

  "Answer my question."

  "Answer mine," Kuryakin countered.

  "Name your source."

  "I can't. Can you tell me more about your reasoning? How did this all come up so quickly?"

  "What do you mean you're not going to name your source? I'm your partner and senior officer. You can't withhold information from me. It violates our partnership, and it violates your commitment to U.N.C.L.E." He watched Kuryakin lose his calm veneer and flounder at that. Mentioning Illya's obligations to the Network always set the man on edge.

  The Russian drummed his fingers nervously on the chair arm. "Why now, Napoleon? Why blow the building now? Can't you wait for a while? Isn't this all very sudden?"