"We had an agent turn."

  The agency head didn't change expression. Baker grimaced and took a step closer.

  "Did you know about Elsnic?"

  A flicker of impatience crossed the Director's face. "You know I don't get involved in operations at a personnel level."

  "I'm just curious if some department had an assignment to frame Kuryakin."

  The DCI ignored the question. "Is the Russian on his way back here?"

  "Yes. Solo and Kuryakin made it out of that plant. Alive. I understand Kuryakin was injured."

  "Not seriously, I trust." One quizzical eyebrow skewered his subordinate.

  "No."

  "Well, there you are." The Director closed a file and opened another, seeming to dismiss the issue. "All's well that ends well. Waverly hasn't seemed to mind his Russian getting a bit damaged in the past. I trust the news of this minor problem won't overly disturb him."

  "I'm the one who went to Waverly requesting his agent's help. In what I thought was good faith. The agency's good faith."

  The DCI didn't bat an eye. "Naturally. That was your assignment. And Kuryakin is still your assignment. I'll trust you'll see the Russian gets home to his U.N.C.L.E. in one piece."

  "Sir—"

  "That's all, Baker."

  Baker bit back an angry reply, realizing he wasn't going to be told anything more. "Yes, sir."

  ***

  Somewhere over the Atlantic

  Solo looked up as Nelson settled down beside him. The CIA agent took a glance at Kuryakin, sleeping under mild sedation beside his partner. "So we pulled it off, Solo." He lit a cigarette and offered one to the U.N.C.L.E. agent.

  Though he rarely smoked anymore, Solo took the cigarette, knowing Nelson's words were something of a peace offering. He'd had that thought upon seeing the American flags in Germany, but since then, he'd been too numb with worry about Kuryakin and Elsnic to feel any relief. Now he let that realization sweep over him, remembering the fires and explosions. Typical Kuryakin trademark. He smiled a little and shrugged.

  "Yes. We did."

  Nelson waved a large hand toward Kuryakin. "You've got a good partner. Focused. Professional. And you're not a half bad agent, yourself.

  Solo smiled grimly. "Thanks."

  "Just so you know. I don't have much use for U.N.C.L.E.. But I know a good agent or two when I come across them. I don't sell out good agents or operatives. I don't sell out team members. Not even those some think straddle the international fence. But I can't speak for others."

  "I understand," Solo said, recognizing the words to be something of an apology.

  "Just thought I'd set the record straight. I don't imagine we'll be working together again." Nelson stubbed out his cigarette, rose and walked away. Napoleon finished his own, savoring the rarity, and checked out Illya, who was still peacefully sleeping. Jackson was dozing beside him; the medic's eyes opened as he bent over the drugged man, then they closed again. Solo settled down and let the drone of the plane's engines lull him back to sleep.

  It's over. Well, almost over. Like Nelson said, recriminations are between Waverly and the CIA. Not simple operatives like myself. What a relief. I'm sure Waverly will have a better idea than sending a strike force over Langley.

  ***

  U.N.C.L.E. Headquarters, New York City

  Waverly wasn't particularly surprised at Solo's report. He had half expected the CIA might try something. He felt a touch of satisfaction that his own agents had still carried out the mission and foiled the counter-agent's plot, however belatedly done. He would discuss that with Solo on his return.

  However, the CIA had to be dealt with now. Agencies, like any other antagonistic organism, could smell weakness and wouldn't hesitate to exploit it. The CIA's misuse of his operative was a blow to U.N.C.L.E. that had to be countered, or U.N.C.L.E., and he himself, would be considered weak. He wasted no time in getting the Director of Central Intelligence on his private line. Interestingly enough, the man, so often elusive, was available, almost as if he was waiting for the call. Naturally. To be evasive now was an open admission of guilt.

  He had expected the DCI to deny all culpability and claim the mission's outcome was the result of one traitorous agent, acting on his own. He had no interest in arguing with him. They both knew the true state of affairs and belaboring that petty point was to no one's advantage. But he also had no intention of letting his colleague believe he was blind.

  "Perhaps this was the result of some unfortunate rogue. Who happened to slip through your security." Waverly let that comment hit home for a moment before continuing. "But perhaps the rumors are true. The left hand of your agency does not know what the right hand is doing."

  The DCI abandoned any pretense of backing up that story, seeing Waverly was not about to buy it. "You ought to be grateful to us. Your Russian proved, Alexander."

  "I had no need for any such test," Waverly said shortly. "Nor was it part of our contract. And I doubt even Mr. Kuryakin's present actions will convince you for long of his convictions. My agent was damaged as a result of your agent's actions. He will undoubtedly be out of the field for several weeks. I can ill afford the loss of a top operative for that time."

  "Operatives should expect to be damaged."

  "Not as a result of a supposed colleague's hidden agenda. Whether as a covert operation, as it seems likely, or simply the action of one traitorous agent, I will not enquire further. That is your business to settle. Ours lies in another area. I have no desire to raise any embarrassing investigations into this matter, provided we settle it to my satisfaction privately. I was generous in lending my operatives to this affair, since the aim was the stabilization of world powers. But compensation for treason among operatives, or among agencies, is quite another matter."

  The DCI swore softly under his breath. But by the rules of the game, he was well and truly caught. Fortunately, the CIA had a large discretionary budget and sympathetic support in Congress. Waverly would see him pay dearly for this, but that was the way the game was played and the bastard was within his rights. And he at least played the game honorably. Once he received his compensation, Waverly would never disclose the CIA's betrayal. "All right, Alexander. Name your damn price."

  ***

  Andrews Air Force Base, Maryland

  Solo wanted to put Kuryakin on a plane from Andrews back to the New York Headquarters. He made the suggestion, figuring it was worth the try, but he was over-ruled by Nelson and when appealed to, by Waverly.

  "I remind you, this is a CIA operation, Mr. Solo. You will cooperate fully with the debriefing. And you have yet to inform me how it was possible the equipment was sabotaged when it was your responsibility to prevent any such actions by the CIA."

  Solo flinched at the reprimand coming through the transceiver and looked out over Maryland's gently rolling countryside. "I didn't think about checking the equipment, sir. Illya usually handles those technical aspects."

  "Mr. Kuryakin had his own responsibilities. Dividing duties within a partnership according to relative skills is all very well. But you must not let the practice blind you when you become responsible for those areas."

  "Yes, sir," Solo acknowledged wearily.

  "Very well. What is Mr. Kuryakin's condition?"

  Solo glanced over to where two medical personnel were transferring Kuryakin from the plane to a waiting ambulance. "He seems to be breathing pretty normally now. I imagine they'll remove the trach tube when we arrive. He's being transferred to the Langley infirmary." Solo left the accusation plain in his voice, irritated that Waverly hadn't at least let his partner be transferred back to headquarters, or at least the Washington, D.C. U.N.C.L.E. infirmary. "According to what I've been told he has a mild concussion and some cracked ribs. None of it serious. I imagine we should be able to report back tomorrow at the latest."

  "There is no rush. The CIA may well wish to debrief Mr. Kuryakin when he is able to talk. You will both remain until they are satisfied."

  Solo grimaced. "That could be a long time." His temporary peace with Nelson aside, he still had little use for that agency. He didn't bother to keep the caustic tone from his voice.

  "I trust you will keep your head through these proceedings," Waverly warned. "And not let the incident with Elsnic color your dealings with the CIA at large. Remember, you represent this agency. I cannot afford operatives who allow personal inclinations to affect their professional relations, whatever the provocation."

  "Yes, sir. I understand." Sighing wearily, Solo snapped the transceiver closed and walked across the airport tarmac toward the waiting ambulance.

  ***

  CIA Headquarters, Langley, Virginia

  Peter Baker touched his fingers to the blinking intercom. The disembodied voice said. "Operation Red Retriever just came through the gates."

  "Good. Send Nelson and the others to the Director's office. I'll meet Jackson at the ambulance dock and then join them shortly." He cut the connection and headed out his office door.

  He arrived in time to see the ambulance attendants transfer Kuryakin from a stretcher to a bed. Jackson handed over his notes and those from the attending physicians at the Armed Forces Hospital. Baker stepped up to the group and nodded to the young medic. "Good job, Jackson."

  "Thank you, sir."

  The physician had finished flipping through the notes and was taking a quick check of Kuryakin's vital signs.

  "How is he doing? Is he conscious?" Baker asked.

  "No, sir. Once his condition was stabile, the physicians in Germany prescribed a mild sedative," Jackson said.

  Evans, the physician, put aside his stethoscope. "Nothing too serious here. We'll take some more x-rays, just to verify their findings. But it looks as if the ribs are just cracked and the concussion relatively minor. We'll take out the trach tube, sew him up and he'll be good as new."

  "How serious a procedure is that?"

  "Minor."

  "Good. I want this one mobile and out of here as soon as possible."

  "What's the matter? Didn't he pay his insurance this month?" Evans joked.

  "He's an U.N.C.L.E. agent," Baker said curtly.

  The physician looked up. "Really? Funny, how I missed that 'U' stenciled on his cheek."

  "Yes. Really." Baker said, a touch of irritation in his tone. "And I expect to take hell from certain quarters that he was damaged at all." He looked at Jackson, who had paled slightly. "Not that I'm upset with how you handled the situation. If Solo had retrieved him and he choked to death in the plane—" Baker shook his head, not even wanting to voice the possible repercussions. "And I understand the circumstances were not that favorable for you."

  Jackson shrugged. "I can't blame Solo for being worried about his partner. Not after—"

  "Yes." Baker cut him off, with a meaningful glance from Jackson to the physician, who was examining his patient's inflamed throat. "Evans, do whatever you have to do to get him on his feet as soon as possible. But don't take any risks or shortcuts—I want this case handled with kid gloves."

  "They don't happen to sterilize well." The physician waved off Baker's impatient gesture. "But I understand. Cross-agency politics. I assume you want him debriefed, or you would have sent him straight back to U.N.C.L.E. We can remove the trach and have him stabilized enough to answer questions in a few hours, though I can't promise he'll be able to talk for long. His vocal cords—not to mention his whole respiratory system—is still swollen and inflamed. You could send him back to U.N.C.L.E. after that. If you want him to walk out of here, I'd recommend a giving him a day or so. Removing the trach is not the issue, but the smoke inhalation is. We'll want to monitor his breathing for a while after we pull the trach. Swallowing is going to be painful. He'll need a liquid diet for a day or two because of that raw throat. We'll probably put him on antibiotics, just as a precaution against pneumonia—"

  "All right. I get the picture. He needs a day." Baker glanced at Kuryakin for the first time. The Russian's face was pale under the smoke smudges; cinders and ashes were caught in the tangled hair and he had a bruise on his cheek that looked as if he'd been in a fight. Baker shook his head. "See that he's cleaned up, too. You never know who might be traipsing in here to see him. All that dirt makes him look even worse."

  "Yes, sir. Before or after we stabilize him?" Evans asked.

  Baker ignored the snide comment. "I'll need a written report on his condition and your recommended treatment and prognosis as soon as possible—meaning in the next 10 minutes—to pass onto his superiors. Keep me posted if his condition changes—I'll be in the Director's office. Send your report there." Baker clasped Jackson lightly on the shoulder and walked out.

  "So," Evans said sourly, "what have you been up to lately, Jackson?"

  "I'll never tell," the medic said fervently, staring after Baker.

  "You guys have all the fun." Evans looked down at his patient. "Humph. Either I'm getting old, or you agents are getting younger every day."

  ***

  Solo reluctantly accompanied the CIA agents when they made their report to the DCI, while Kuryakin was transferred to the infirmary. Thinking Kuryakin might be just as safe in Thrush headquarters, Solo made his escape from the interview as soon as he could. He'd been virtually ignored by the DCI, who was obviously miffed at having an U.N.C.L.E. agent in his operation, especially one who'd seen an agent of his turn traitor. The debriefing went on after he was excused. His only comfort was that at least Nelson was going to get his ears pinned back, too. Then he thought of his own future debriefing with Waverly and decided he couldn't afford to bear malice.

  Solo scowled at the sight of Peter Baker ensconced in a chair beside his partner's bed. Baker had been in and out of the DCI's office during the debriefing, listening, leaving, coming back to drop reports off, leaving again. Solo had envied him his freedom and Waverly's admonishments aside, he didn't keep the resentment completely from his voice as he said, "He pulled off your job, Baker. I think you can stop the watchdog routine."

  The CIA chief looked calmly up from the stack of reports he was reading. "Until he sets foot back in your HQ, he's my responsibility."

  Solo ignored that and crossing the room, pulled back an eyelid to check his partner's pupils and squinted at the label on the bag of IV fluids. He trusted nothing here.

  Kuryakin stirred at the touch and his eyes opened. "Where are we?"

  Napoleon glanced down at Illya, startled, and then stared meaningfully at Baker, warning him to keep quiet and go along with the white lie he was going to tell. He didn't think Kuryakin would feel very secure knowing he was in CIA HQ after one of their agents had recently tried to frame him. "You can talk," he said, surprised

  "And it hurts like hell too." Kuryakin coughed and then grimaced, his fingers going to the bandages on his throat. "I seem to recall several planes rides. Where—?"

  "You're in a hospital. Don't worry. We pulled off the mission; we're back in the U.S. and you're going to be fine. You're suffering from smoke inhalation and a concussion."

  Kuryakin's eyes skeptically roamed the bare walls, his brow furrowed as he tried to focus his vision. "CIA infirmary?"

  Solo scowled. "How the hell did you know?"

  "Ex-KGB agent..." Kuryakin whispered, his voice failing, "Recognized. Same group, just different country."

  Amazingly, Baker smiled and stood, moving over to Kuryakin's beside. The Russian's eyes studied him and Kuryakin blinked, trying to focus the image. "Baker," he croaked. "You've become twins. Or is it triplets?"

  "Neither. You just got quite a bump on the head. Get some rest, Kuryakin, and don't worry. You're safe here."

  "Not worried." Kuryakin closed his eyes. "Hungry. Remember promise."

  Napoleon hadn't thought of that. His own stomach was growling, now that he thought of it and he'd caught a sandwich in Germany while he'd sat outside the emergency room doors. Illya was probably starving. And hadn't someone promised he could pig out when he'd pulled off the mission?

  Baker shook his head at Napoleon. "He's NPR. Nothing by mouth for the next few hours and then I understand he might be on a liquid diet for a day or so." To Kuryakin, "You'll have to wait until the doctors clear you."

  "Knew it."

  "What, Illya?" Solo asked.

  "Never trust CIA. Especially CIA doctors. At least KGB give wounded vodka."

  Amazingly, Baker laughed. "I'll send you a case of Stolichnaya. After Waverly debriefs you and clears me of responsibility for you." He glanced at Solo meaningfully. "The sooner you're back at U.N.C.L.E. HQ, the safer I'll feel."

  "Napoleon just doesn't want to break in new partner," Kuryakin mumbled.

  "You're right," Solo said, grinning. "I've just barely got you trained."

  "I can see why," Baker said. "Get some rest, Kuryakin; you'll be home soon."

  "Home," Illya said, contentedly. He burrowed his blond head into the pillow and slept.

  ***

  Solo spent an uncomfortable night dozing restlessly in an infirmary bed next to Kuryakin, but at least Baker left. Solo wasn't sure if he was embarrassed carrying out a too obvious surveillance of Kuryakin in the U.N.C.L.E. agent's presence, if Kuryakin had finally been vetted by the CIA as trustworthy, or if Baker just felt his presence superfluous with Solo there. He would probably never know, since no one could ever understand the myriad motives of the CIA.

  Relieved they would soon be returning to U.N.C.L.E., Solo made a mental note to avoid ever being 'lent' to another agency again. Not to mention keeping his partner from the same fate. The CIA would have to find their pigeons elsewhere.

  He woke to a soft voice calling his name. He squinted in the dimness, but the room, of course, had no windows. His own internal clock told him it was about dawn. He turned over to stare at his partner.

  "What is it? Are you all right? Can you breathe okay?"

  "Where are we?" Kuryakin's voice was hushed, tense.

  "Don't you remember?" Solo sat up and moved over to the other bed. "We're at Langley. CIA infirmary, remember?"

  Kuryakin shook his head, looking puzzled, his eyes running over the room. "How long have I been here?"

  "Just yesterday. You woke up briefly, after they took out the trach tube. Baker was here. Do you remember making a crack to him, about KGB and CIA infirmaries looking alike?"