But it was a detail from the North American budget that had caught his eye.

  He'd have to be blind to miss that many zeros.

  A substantial deposit, the very day Illya Kuryakin blew up the Soviet nuclear plant.

  He swallowed hard, his throat suddenly dry.

  He'd joked to Waverly, before the mission had barely begun, about the price Kuryakin could had gotten for his services on the open market. The CIA had deep pockets and were not adverse to delving into them when the occasion merited it.

  But there had been nothing about payment in the contract he'd read regarding lending Kuryakin's services to the CIA. Waverly had bristled at the very mention of monetary compensation, claiming U.N.C.L.E. would be 'paid in another coin'.

  Whatever coins U.N.C.L.E. had been paid in, they added up to a very tidy sum.

  The implications were very clear. All Waverly's high brow claims aside, someone had paid U.N.C.L.E. for the services of Illya Kuryakin.

  That someone had to be the CIA.

  The very day they'd tried to frame him, possibly kill him.

  Blood money?

  ***

  9:00 a.m.

  Solo sat through the morning briefing, keeping his anger to himself. Illya looked a little pale to his eyes, a combination of post-mission stress and his previous late night at class catching up with him. The Russian agent was surprisingly cheerful though, occasionally cracking a smile, obviously having worked through any personal conflicts regarding his actions against his former country. Perhaps he had caught the feeling from Waverly—the Section One Chief also seemed in an unusually genial frame of mind, not deigning to castigate Solo for any lack in his hastily acquired information. Only Solo spoiled the atmosphere in the office, like a thundercloud in an otherwise clear sky.

  He could see that his superior noted his attitude but was choosing to ignore it, probably thinking he was still smarting over his recent reprimand. Illya in a cheerful mood was almost impossible to repress.

  While he, himself, was in a quandary. Speak, or not speak? Challenge Waverly with the budget information, or try and reach some understanding on his own. He glanced over at Illya and decided to shelve his discontent for the moment.

  Waverly stacked the case folders they had just discussed into a neat pile, and nodded. "Very well, Mr. Solo. I'll expect you and Mr. Kuryakin's final reports on the Reactor Affair by this afternoon."

  "Yes, sir," Solo rose from the table. At times, he firmly believed the worst aspect of a mission wasn't the part in the field, but the inevitable paperwork afterwards. So life in Headquarters was to go on as usual, at least in Waverly's eyes. And in his own? He watched as Illya folded his glasses and stuffed them into his jacket pocket.

  Misreading Solo's gloomy look, Kuryakin grinned. "I'll help you write yours, Napoleon."

  "I'm afraid not, Mr. Kuryakin," Waverly corrected. "Besides it being against procedure for you to produce another operative's report," Kuryakin tried unsuccessfully to wipe the expression from his face, since everyone in the room, Waverly included, knew Solo routinely caged his partner into doing his paperwork for him, "you have another obligation. It seems Dr. Lawrence has complained you have missed two appointments for a post-mission checkup. Please see to it at once. You know I don't care to have my time wasted in dealing with these minor internal procedures."

  Napoleon almost had to smile himself, seeing Illya's mood abruptly deflate.

  "Yes, sir," Kuryakin said. "I'm sorry you were bothered. I did mean to—"

  "Yes, quite," Waverly said, waving an abrupt hand in dismissal. "I'm not interested in excuses, gentlemen. You have been in your positions long enough that I should not have to be remind you of standard operations. Your mission reports are to be completed today, Mr. Solo, as soon as possible. And you, Mr. Kuryakin, are to endeavor to get our medical chief off my back. That's all."

  Solo walked out by his partner's side, scarcely noticing where they were going until the commissary server asked him what he wanted. He took a cup of coffee, his stomach not up to anything more. Next to him, Kuryakin was arguing with another cafeteria employee.

  "What do you mean you don't have any apples?"

  The girl behind the counter was flustered over the normally reticent Section Two agent's unusual request. "I'm sorry, sir, but we're out—"

  Kuryakin didn't seem interested in excuses. "That's impossible. How can we be out of apples when dozens of fruit peddlers are outside impeding traffic in the streets of New York?"

  Solo leaned his head into the conversation. "Give him one out of the VIP fruit baskets—"

  "But those are for the meeting—" the server stopped abruptly at Solo's slow smile. "Oh, all right." She disappeared into the back. There was an audible rustling of cellophane before she returned, the fruit in her hand.

  "Thanks," Solo gave one of his trademarked smiles guaranteed to dazzle anything lacking a Y chromosome. It didn't fail him now.

  "Not at all, Mr. Solo. Always happy to oblige." She smiled back.

  "I'm sure you are," Solo said suggestively, leaning slightly over the counter, before a yank on his arm abruptly jerked him away.

  "Must you always do that?" Kuryakin complained.

  "It wouldn't hurt you to try it," Solo said. "You can get more bees with honey—"

  "I'm allergic to bees. And flowers." Kuryakin replied.

  "Some flowers are worth it. You should get shots," Solo said absently, still smiling at the commissary server across the room.

  "I get shot enough."

  Solo was gratified when the girl rewarded his continued interest with a small wave. After the last two weeks, a little female diversion would be only too welcome. He didn't think she was new, but he didn't remember noticing her before. Still, U.N.C.L.E. HQ had quite a few female employees. Even he could be forgiven for taking a while to get to know all the eligible ones. He thought pleasurably of how to acquaint himself with this one. But when the focus of his attention moved to help another customer, Solo turned back to his partner.

  Illya had recovered his equanimity and was now good-naturedly complaining about his lack of souvenirs from their recent trip to bring to Norman Graham's Soviet-born wife.

  "I wanted to bring Trish something. A present. Two trips I've taken home, Napoleon, and I never get to go shopping."

  Napoleon had to look twice to realize that Illya wasn't referring to his 'adopted' home in D.C., but was actually meant his former country. "What the hell can you buy in the Soviet Union?" Solo growled, sliding into a chair, thinking about how ironic it was that Kuryakin was feeling disappointment over failing to acquire a trinket or two, when Waverly had gained a few tidy millions for U.N.C.L.E.'s bank account. And feeling more than a little chilled to hear Illya blithely refer to the Soviet Union as home, practically in the same breath as he spoke of his family in D.C. Surely the two weren't linked that closely in his mind. And if they were, Napoleon didn't want to hear of it.

  Kuryakin mock scowled at him. "What would you know? You are only a dumb American. If your Russian was better, you could have hunted something up for me while I was busy."

  This was more than he could stand. "Yeah, I'm really going to go souvenir hunting while you're being grilled by the KGB."

  His partner grinned again, "Why not? A suitable diversion."

  "There's probably more Russian stuff available to buy in New York City than in all of the Soviet Union."

  "It can be difficult to find things in regular Soviet stores," Kuryakin agreed, "but on the black market, almost anything can be had, for a price. Of course, it can be quite a price—"

  Napoleon pushed back his chair, unable to take any more. "Excuse me," he said thickly, "I just thought of something I have to do."

  Illya squinted up at him over his coffee. "I told you I'd help you with your report, Napoleon. It won't take that long."

  "What? No, this isn't about that," Solo said. "I'll talk to you later. And don't forget to see Sam."

  "I won't need to after this," Kuryakin said mischievously, waving the apple which was diminished almost down to the core.

  Solo paused, "What do you mean?"

  "You know the American saying. 'An apple a day—'"

  "'Keeps the doctor away'," Solo finished sourly. "I don't think Sam is going to buy that, Illya. Nor Mr. Waverly."

  "Humph," Kuryakin stared down at the apple core. "I knew it was just more American propaganda."

  ***

  10:00 a.m.

  Solo entered Waverly's office without preamble, the incriminating item in his hand. He strode toward the old man behind the desk and slapped the document before him. Waverly looked up from the file he was studying and stared at Solo quizzically.

  "Try to explain that," Solo demanded.

  The Section One chief peered at the page. "It appears to be a budget report." He pushed it aside. "If Accounting has made some error, Mr. Solo, there is no reason to bring it to my attention. You may take it to one of the young ladies in that area—you are certainly not unfamiliar with them."

  "I wish it were an error, but I doubt it. How do you explain this deposit?"

  Frowning, Waverly glanced at the figure, then looked back at his Section Two Chief. "You needn't concern yourself with that particular line item."

  "Why? Don't I have clearance for blood money?" Solo challenged, feeling a malicious sense of justice in making the accusation. In taking Waverly off guard. In controlling the situation.

  "There is no cause for dramatics," the U.N.C.L.E. chief reproved.

  "So it does have something to do with Illya's CIA assignment." Solo sat down abruptly, the wind taken from his sails. He had been right, but he didn't feel any victory in it. He had enjoyed accusing the U.N.C.L.E. chief, in turning the tables and demanding accountability from Waverly, as his boss has so often required it of him. But now that he had done it, he only felt a sense of loss.

  "Really, Mr. Solo, I should seriously doubt your qualifications for Chief Enforcement Agent if I was required to inform you of that," Waverly continued impatiently. "Now that your curiosity has been satisfied, I do have—"

  "I don't understand you," Solo interrupted. "How can you not find a problem with this? I can accept that every operative on assignment is expendable. I can even accept that when an operative is compromised, as Illya was when Jud Carter kidnapped him, that U.N.C.L.E. might not pursue the investigation if it endangered this organization or the agent's cover. But to deliberately sell an operative who has sworn his life to this agency, for money—"

  "I did not sell Mr. Kuryakin to the CIA," Waverly cut him off.

  "No? Not at first, perhaps. Not blatantly. But you did suspect Illya would be framed. Certainly that they'd try to betray him. Perhaps even kill him, or strand him back in the Soviet Union for the KGB to find. I was your insurance to bring Illya back out with the proof of what had been done to him. And you had already decided on what to do, hadn't you? What your bribe was going to be," Solo's eyes narrowed as Waverly rose from his desk, his face pinched with anger, and turned to stare out his window. But Solo noticed he wasn't denying anything and that added fuel to his fire. "You had it all planned in advance, didn't you? Did you really care about that mission, or was it all a plot to swell U.N.C.L.E.'s empty coffers? What's next, are you going to offer him to the KGB for a price and then rely on me to kidnap him between the payoff and the time they shoot him?"

  Waverly turned back, his movement abrupt. "That's enough, Mr. Solo. You forget yourself."

  Solo bit back an angry retort, breathing hard.

  Waverly came back to his desk and sat down behind it, stacking a few files ponderously. His voice, when he spoke, was calm and resigned. "I make what choices I must for this agency and its operatives. Mr. Kuryakin's mission was a valid one in maintaining the balance of power in the proliferation of nuclear arms between the two superpowers. It was in U.N.C.L.E.'s best interest, the best interests of world stability, to provide the CIA support in that regard. Nor are you are so naive as to believe that the CIA's actions regarding Mr. Kuryakin were completely straightforward, or that if I had reasonable proof of that duplicity, that I would not extract compensation. The reputation of U.N.C.L.E. alone, regardless of my valuation of Mr. Kuryakin, would not allow me to disregard such treachery."

  "It seems to me U.N.C.L.E.'s reputation hardly gained anything by that transaction," Solo said darkly. "And I think I understand only too well the value you place upon Mr. Kuryakin. I see it before me, in nine figures, no less. I suppose his life, as well as U.N.C.L.E.'s integrity, didn't have a chance against a ransom like that."

  "You are missing the larger picture, Mr. Solo. Thinking merely like an operative's partner, and not like the Chief Enforcement Agent of this organization."

  "You made him my partner!" Solo thundered. "You saddled me with him, against my protests. It's a little late for you to complain about that now. I never wanted a partner to begin with."

  "Nor do you deserve one, if you would sacrifice this organization for a partner's welfare. Your attitude is dangerous for an operative, but even more distressing in a Chief Enforcement Agent. Every operative is supported by this organization, not just your partner—"

  "I know that," Solo growled.

  "I am not finished. Every member nation who has put their trust in us to safeguard the world deserves your consideration, not just your partner. An operative who thinks only of his partner, or of some naive standard of conduct unrealistic with the realities of this business, is unworthy of this organization." Waverly studied his CEA. "I am somewhat surprised that you are new to these considerations, but then I believe you have always held a certain... naiveté... regarding your partners. It appears it extends further than that."

  "I have never favored Illya," Solo said hotly. "I send him into danger regularly. We have a very successful mission ratio, as you well know. But this last mission, what you did, what you planned—that was not a normal mission. Not an ethical action."

  "Nonsense," Waverly scoffed and then studied his CEA closely, and seeing he was unconvinced, sighed. "Perhaps this is a necessary learning experience for every potential head of Section One: the compromises, the necessities one must take for the greater good. I had not expected you to be quite so unaware of this. Indeed, it is a serious oversight on my part that I was unaware of your attitude. It is one you need to reconsider. I believe there are few experienced operatives in Section Two, including, your partner, who cling to such outmoded standards. I suggest you strongly review your priorities in regard to this organization, Mr. Solo." Waverly pulled a folder in front of him. "You are dismissed."

  ***

  10:15 a.m.

  Illya Kuryakin stood in front of Sam Lawrence's office door, returning the open smile of the physician with a terrible glare. "I could have taken you out three times before you even looked up from your work," the Section Two agent challenged. "So tell me why I need to be here?"

  "Nice to see you, too," Lawrence said unperturbed, and picked up a chart that was entirely too handy on the physician's desk. "Come on in; I can see you're impatient to get this over with."

  "If we must," Kuryakin said shortly. "I've been poked and prodded by enough physicians in the last two weeks to take me through the next several years.

  Lawrence motioned him into an exam cubicle and handed him a robe. "That's a typical month in the life of an enforcement agent. Two weeks in the field and two weeks in the infirmary, interspersed with writing up reports. Strip and change."

  Kuryakin drew in a deep breath and blew it out soundlessly in a telling display of strained compliance, before removing his tie with almost savage precision. Lawrence slouched on a corner cabinet, stretched his long legs out and crossed them casually at the ankles. Idly paging through the file in his hands, he surreptitiously watched the agent's movements, looking for incriminating hesitations that would warn him of strained muscles or other injuries the agent might be reluctant to reveal.

  "You can stop pretending to be interested in the fact that I had pneumonia at sixteen," Kuryakin said, biting off the words testily and shrugging into the infirmary gown. "I know what you are doing."

  Lawrence chuckled a little, straightened up and laid the chart aside. "With pleasure, if you'll agree to be as honest during your exam."

  "Do I have a choice?" the agent asked bitterly.

  "Of course. You can cooperate, tell me the truth, and you'll be out of here in a few minutes. Or be difficult and spend the afternoon here." The physician gestured to the exam table.

  Kuryakin didn't deign to comment, hitching himself up and staring blankly ahead as if to a firing squad.

  With this particular agent especially, Lawrence always tried to follow a set procedure during physical exams, taking vital signs such as pulse, pressure, and temperature in the same order and the same manner. The standard routine and familiar practices always seemed to help get through the worst of the defenses. By the time he had the thermometer in Kuryakin's mouth, the young man had dropped some of his tight core of tension. When Lawrence finally removed it, checked the temperature, showed the normal reading to Kuryakin, and was scribbling the figure on the agent's chart, Illya was rubbing one hand across his forehead as if to ward off an incipient headache. As Lawrence turned back to him, he met the physician's eyes for the first time, his gaze apologetic. When Lawrence put the chart down, Illya let out a deep sigh.

  "Feeling better, now?" Lawrence enquired.

  Kuryakin shrugged, his mouth twisting slightly in a regretful grimace. "I'm sorry, Sam."

  "Save it for the day you actually deck me before you settle down. And while you're at it, tell me why you ducked two appointments and came in here strung up like a taut wire. According to the reports from the physician at the military hospital in Germany, and Dr. Abrams at the CIA, you should be in reasonably good health."

  "I am."

  "Uh-huh," Lawrence waited expectantly for a moment then shrugged as Kuryakin stayed closed-mouthed. "Still not talking, huh? Well, let's see if you are fine. We'll just do this the slow and thorough way."

  Illya swallowed hard, closed his eyes, and laid back. Lawrence went over the agent carefully, from the roots of his hair down to his toenails. Considering the investment U.N.C.L.E. had in every Section Two agent, he had a valuable property on his exam table. While Waverly might be able, in his role as head of Section One, to squander talent as he chose, Lawrence was always conscious of the need to keep the field agents, U.N.C.L.E.'s most valuable assets, functioning as both people and operatives. And considering that his patient was Number Two of Section Two, and one of Waverly's prized protégés, the responsibility was even greater.