"I've had agents watching the building for two months, photographing everyone in and out, and when I examined their film yesterday, there was no doubt but that it's Thrush Headquarters. We thought it was just a small satrapy, but this is the big one. Head Office. Home of the Corporate Computer. If we get this one—and later the Ultimate Computer—Thrush is ruined. You tell me why we should bother waiting? What better opportunity have we had than this? We get them before they can fully recover from us wiping out Thrush NorthEast earlier this year."

  "What about maps of the building? How do you know exactly where the computer is located?"

  "The sub-basement had significant alterations a year ago. We located a contractor who put in an extensive electrical system, and another that brought in power cables suitable for a large computer network. We've come in from the building across the lane, via a sublevel passageway. Listen, Illya, I don't know what you heard, or where you heard it, but I am really not free to pass along any more details. This case is 5-A; I shouldn't have told you as much as I have. Only Section One and I know about the full details; I'm going to be the one setting the bomb so the other agents who did the surveillance work aren't involved."

  "I didn't realize it was so secret." Kuryakin was thinking, his eyes focused on a map of the city on the far wall.

  "It is. Which is why I must demand to know your source." Solo watched his partner intently, noting the slight intake of air, the fingertips passing restlessly over the pad of the thumb. Nerves. He softened his voice. "Come on, Illya. Who's your source? How did you know where the building was? Even the time we had planned to set the bomb?"

  Kuryakin studied the back of his hand, and then readjusted his position on the chair as though trying to get comfortable. "You are sure you cannot wait a few weeks for this? It is vital. It is necessary for you to wait."

  "Give me a reason why I should delay it. Some proof." Solo stopped. His partner had flinched. "What? What's going on?"

  "I don't have any proof. I have no proof. Nothing. Nothing!" The word exploded from Kuryakin as he stood up, wavering with emotion and pain, neither of which showed on his face, but reflected in every muscle of his body. He was poised for flight. Expressive hands cut through the air, punctuating each word. "No one told me. I just know. I—Have—No—Proof!"

  "But how did you know? What are you saying?—That it was just a lucky guess? Is that what I'm to believe? What do you expect me to do, Illya? I need a reason to put a halt to this, to scrap this mission. I need you to talk to me." Solo stood at his desk as his partner moved across the room to his crutches. "Damn it, man, I can't believe you won't tell me. What's going on?—Illya!" he called, as his partner froze at the door. "If you can't tell me, then at least speak with Mr. Waverly. Don't make me have to." Solo heard the anger in his voice and saw Kuryakin look back over his shoulder, a desolate emptiness in the icy blue eyes. Come on. Talk to me, Illya.

  Fear answered him. Kuryakin turned and left the office.

  The Chief Enforcement Agent stared at the closed door, shaking his head, the anger growing again. Why this? Why now? For every three steps forward in their partnership, there were always steps backwards. What the hell had set it off this time? How many times did he have to prove to Illya that he was trustworthy? And that he trusted him.

  It was the fear in the Russian's eyes that was more than irritating; it made Solo irate. Personal fear. Of Napoleon and, this time, also of his role of CEA. After all the events of the past year, the assignments, the cementing friendship, Illya still was afraid. Of him. It was there in his eyes, the natal roots of hostility and cruelty the Russian had been nurtured on.

  Damn it, it has to end sometime.

  How do they word it? You can take the man out of the country, but you can't take the country out of the man.

  It had been like getting a wolf to trust him; month after month of proving he cared, offering food, tending wounds, and learning to hold him when he was in pain. And the other side, coaching a smile to the serious face, watching amused as the playful pup emerged from behind the adult mask, and trusting that same wolf to take care of his needs. And like a wolf, Illya had been shy and unapproachable—yet conversely unafraid of others, instinctively assertive when he needed to be, deadly and without mercy.

  But a wolf was still a wolf, no matter how trained and civilized it became. Cautious. Closed. Wary. However tame he appeared, Illya was still wild.

  Time would sort this out, but, at this moment, time was not a luxury. Solo glanced at his watch. It was getting late. He had an assignment to complete that Illya Kuryakin was apparently not to be a part of. Someone else could be brought in to examine the explosives that were to be used.

  One word, Illya. If you had given me one word of explanation.

  Gut feelings were important in their business, but they were discussed, verbalized. Not tossed into the middle of a conversation with no area of discussion.

  Solo strode angrily down the long gray corridors of Headquarters, agents and staff scattering out of his way. By the time he reached the armory, he was back in control, a plan already forming in the back of his mind. He interrogated the demolitions expert, Billings, going over and over the details with him, examining the blueprints of the building and the contractor's revised copies. They just needed enough of an explosion to destroy the computer, yet leave the structural integrity intact. The delayed-action bomb, set for four o'clock in the morning, would also assure the building to be empty of innocent office tenants.

  He stared at the timer, at the digital reading. "One last thing; change the time on the setting."

  Billings glanced up at him sharply. "Change it? I thought it was to go off at 04:00. We discussed this already."

  "Change the time to 02:00." If word had leaked out somehow, the two-hour difference would catch them unawares. Especially if only Billings and he knew about the switch in time.

  * * * * *

  11:00 p.m.

  Kuryakin looked up from his coffee, his eyes straying over the unread newspaper he had propped up before him. He stared out the window of the diner, watching the traffic, the pedestrians, and finally, as he had periodically all evening, he studied the building across the street.

  The ten-story structure was built in the late thirties, although the ground level had been renovated ten years ago. A dry cleaners, cigar shop, barber, and Savings and Loan occupied the side of the street facing him. Around the corner, on 52nd, was the main entrance, flanked by the bank on one side and a restaurant, now closed, on the other.

  He had long since sorted it all out in his mind—the problem, the internal fears and their sources, his conversation (or deficiency thereof) with Napoleon, his lack of rational action thus far, his almost paralyzing inability to talk about this, and four hundred and thirty-two possible but discarded courses of action.

  He sighed and refolded the newspaper, moving aside his coffee cup and a Budweiser bottle cap to lay the paper on the table.

  He froze. Not again.

  Trembling fingers reached for the bottle cap, covering it with his hand, hiding it within a clenched fist. He could feel the metal edges biting into his palm, his heartbeat quickening. There were few times in his life where he felt so out of control, so unable to make a coherent decision. It was as though a force were pushing him, steering him toward a course of action that he was still fighting, that he could not resolve himself to complete. Whatever this Mikhail was, he was certainly persistent.

  Kuryakin knew he was not an experienced judge of good and evil. Within each organization he had worked for, there had been shades of gray. In a war, each side judged themselves to be the victim or the innocent party; each viewed the other as the enemy, the aggressor. The Cause was good if it was your country's Cause. It was evil if it was the other country's. There were things within U.N.C.L.E. that he did not claim to understand. Somewhere along the line, you had to trust that those in charge knew what they were doing.

  Alexander Waverly was a wise man who had proven his ability to lead an organization such as the Network Command. From Illya's earliest association with him, the man had shown himself to be trustworthy and keenly aware of all the ramifications of his actions, the implications of his decisions. So, if he had ordered or approved this mission, then it must be right.

  It had to be right. Didn't it?

  Kuryakin opened his fist and stared blankly at the starred pattern bleeding on the palm of his hand. The blood welled up from the tiny punctures, pooling to drip to the table. The bottle cap rolled free, spinning from the Formica surface to disappear under the booth next to his. He pressed a paper napkin against his palm, and then added a second. When he crumpled them a few minutes later, dropping them into the empty cup, the bleeding had stopped.

  He stared back at the building across the street, then slowly got to his feet.

  * * * * *

  1:00 a.m.

  As the unmarked van came to a halt in the U.N.C.L.E. underground garage, Solo could see his partner sitting on the bench inside, his head down, staring at his handcuffed wrists. It was not a sight Napoleon had ever expected to witness. What had happened?

  Kuryakin looked up at him through the clouded window, then away. Someone spoke to him inside, and he stood awkwardly, back bent, and walked to the rear of the van as the doors swung open. One of the security guards moved to help him down, but Solo motioned them aside.

  "I'll do it. Which one of you cuffed him? Get them off," Solo ordered, as the guard responsible stepped forward. "I expect a written report from you of why you thought it was necessary to put handcuffs on a senior agent who was showing no signs of resistance. I said to bring him back here, not arrest him. I'll hear your explanation later."

  The guards stared at each other in confusion, biting back any retorts, and Solo waved off their frustration, indicating they were not in trouble. They had only been doing their jobs. They had followed procedures. The unauthorized entry had been blocked. The CEA had ordered that no one—NO ONE—be allowed into the building via any entrance, U.N.C.L.E. personnel or not. The Section Three agents had no idea what it was they were guarding, but they had been chosen for their skill and patrolling abilities. They had proved their diligence. And now that diligence was being criticized.

  Had it been anyone else–

  But it hadn't been.

  Solo watched coldly as the handcuffs were unlocked, and then with a bruising grip on Kuryakin's elbow, steered his partner toward his car. "We're going for a drive. Get in." He slammed the door harder than he needed to. The car roared to life and spun out of the garage before Kuryakin had his door shut. The city streets were still busy with traffic even at this hour of the morning, but he wasn't sure where he was heading. He just wanted to get away from U.N.C.L.E. Headquarters, to get some fresh air. He gripped the steering wheel tighter, not yet trusting himself to speak, because he wasn't ready to listen.

  Kuryakin said nothing, eyes front and center. Hopeless.

  Damn it, Illya. "I'm trying hard to understand what the hell you were doing."

  "I was going to deactivate your bomb." Quiet, unapologetic words.

  Solo stopped his fist from hitting the dash, stretching the fingers out to take tight possession of the wheel. From the time he had been notified that Kuryakin had been detained in the lower levels of the Thrush building, he had been trying to keep himself under control, but that control was slowly slipping at what sounded suspiciously like betrayal. "Why?"

  "Because you are being premature in this action."

  "I don't agree. We've timed it carefully–"

  "You don't see the big picture–"

  "The big picture?? What the hell are you talking about?"

  "It has been brought to my attention that this action will only prove to be to our detriment."

  "And who, precisely, has brought this to your attention?"

  The answering silence was painful.

  So was the look on his partner's face when he turned to check him. "What is going on, Illya? Why can't you tell me?" No response. He persisted, not easing the pressure nor gentling his tone, "Who are you protecting? Can you at least tell me if you are protecting someone?"

  Kuryakin shook his head, not risking a reply.

  It was suddenly clear to Napoleon who it was that Illya was protecting. He was protecting himself.

  Maybe it was a hunch, then; one of Illya's strange premonitions that came without warning, but this one came with incredible detail and accuracy. Stranger things had happened in their career, but in the past, Illya had always been open about his hunches and speculations. This one held a certainty about it that was onerous.

  "I thought we were at a place where we were trusting each other. Not even a week ago you said you were disappointed when I didn't tell you what was going on with Carter and the speculations I had about Morgan killing my wife Soon Hee. And that was personal; it wasn't job related. So what makes this any different? Do you have any idea what sort of trouble you are in if we don't resolve this in the next few minutes? I have to report this to Waverly."

  No response.

  He swore. "What does it take to get through to you, damn it? Why do you suddenly feel you don't have to tell me what's happening?"

  "Because I know you will not believe me!" The outburst came from deep within; Kuryakin's eyes were shut tight, tears actually glistening on the pale lashes, the suppressed emotion overwhelming.

  Napoleon pulled onto a quiet side road, sliding into a parking spot in front of a row of upperclass townhouses. He turned the car off, and then twisted sideways to face his partner straight on. "How do you know I won't? You haven't even tried."

  "I can't. You won't."

  "Try me."

  Kuryakin said nothing, but Solo watched the body language he knew so well. The pain ruthlessly controlled, emotions crushed beneath an iron will. The need to be affirmed and believed, and the need to run, to withdraw from this encounter before he was hurt further. "Try me," he said softly, coaxing now.

  Kuryakin's mouth opened and closed. The half-light from the street lamp reflected in the shining eyes as they opened, fixed on nothing. "Last night..." Illya stopped, captured again by his doubts.

  "What happened last night?" Solo asked, and then remembered the beer bottles. "You had a guest," he prompted.

  "Yes." Kuryakin cleared his throat, then turned, blue eyes locking with his as though he needed to see Solo's face when he spoke. "Last night, something that might––might—have been an angel came into my apartment and told me about the bomb. He said that if we wait two weeks, the satrapy will collapse on its own. If it is destroyed tonight at two o'clock, it will rise up stronger. And he said that you––" Any further words were bitten back. There were several attempts to say more, but Kuryakin did not seem to have the vocabulary to say it.

  He believes this, Solo realized with shock.

  The certainty in the words uttered was profoundly evident. Illya believes this. He doesn't want to, but he does. Solo raised his hand, stopping any further efforts at explanation. Tonight at two o'clock. The time change had made no difference; Illya had still known. Solo leaned back in the car seat, staring out the front window. The bomb was set to go off in thirty minutes. Either he had to act on Illya's words, or dismiss them. And dismiss him in the process. Turn him over to Waverly and a hearing. Indignity and dismissal.

  Here it is. This is what it comes down to. Either I trust him—really trust him—or I don't. Which is it? Because whatever I decide in the next few seconds will change everything. Our partnership. And our friendship.

  Illya Kuryakin was either telling the truth, he was blatantly lying, or he was delusional.

  Five seconds later, Solo started the car. "Why didn't you say something earlier?" He turned onto the main street, heading in the direction of 52nd.

  Kuryakin's eyes shone eerily in the half-light. Wide-eyed. Still fear-laden.

  "Why didn't you tell me this in my office this afternoon?" There was still no response. "Answer me!"

  Mouth dry, Kuryakin found his voice again. "You believe me?"

  Napoleon smiled into the darkness. "An angel visiting a communist-raised, KGB- trained agent? Why not?"

  "I don't believe me––how can you?"

  Solo heard the pain in the question. "Let me ask you a few questions, Illya. Why do you think it was an angel?"

  "He said he was." Kuryakin shrugged, still staring at Solo warily. "I don't know what else to believe, what else to call him."

  "Did this angel knock on your door? How did you meet him?"

  "He was just there. And later, not there."

  "What did he look like?"

  "Dark hair, dark eyes. Black T-shirt and jeans. Desert boots. The other one was similar, but dressed in white."

  "The other one? There were two?"

  "No, not at my apartment. Only Mikhail came to the apartment. The other one was in my office this afternoon." Kuryakin's voice trailed off wearily, the day's tension sapping him.

  "Mikhail? Is that what he said his name was?"

  "Yes. Said he was an archangel. I looked up the word. It means–"

  "I know what it means." The steering wheel slipped beneath his nerveless fingers for an instant. "The Archangel Michael," he whispered. My God, Illya. Who have you been hanging out with?

  "You know him?" Kuryakin asked, surprised.

  "We've never been formally introduced," Solo responded dryly.

  There were a few minutes of silence, the Russian offered, "The other one was named Gabriel, I think. I only heard the name quickly."

  "Gabriel? Of the Annunciation? There was an angel named Gabriel who came to Mary."

  "Mary who?—No, don't tell me. Anyway, how should I be expected to know? They're your religious figures, not mine. This stuff wasn't covered in my university courses or at U.N.C.L.E.'s training school." Kuryakin's tension had been ebbing, but as they pulled up in front of the building, it rose again. "What are you going to do?"

  "Two weeks, this Mikhail said?" Solo engaged the parking brake and turned once more to his partner. "Okay, here's the deal: We'll dismantle the bomb and wait two weeks. If nothing has happened in that time, you will personally assist me in replanting the explosives. Is that understood?"