One disadvantage of not being a master—like Alexander Waverly, like Napoleon—was that one became a pawn. But the advantage of being a pawn was that one occasionally got a rest. As many balls as might be in the air, or shells on the table, only one ball could be in the juggler's hand at any given moment, only one shell could conceal the prize. And the ones that were out of the picture could take, however short-lived or transient—a breather.

  He wouldn't object to a momentary breather. Not at all.

  ***

  12:50 p.m.

  The summons stopped Kuryakin just before he was ready to head out the door. He glanced at his watch and sighed. A cab would be at Del Floria's entrance to take him to the airport in ten minutes. His flight was due to leave in an hour. He didn't have that much time to spare if he were going to make it to the airport. And he wanted to leave. The conversation with Solo had been disturbing, and he just wanted to go home and...think about it. He was not even sure he was willing to talk about it. To anyone.

  But regardless of cabs, flights, or courier runs, the call had to be answered. It would not be the first time that he had missed a flight, much less a cab. The important thing was to not keep Alexander Waverly waiting. But the thought that Mr. Waverly might have changed his mind about his leaving filled him with foreboding.

  Sometimes being the pawn was a definite minus.

  He hurried to the office and Waverly rose when he entered. "Mr. Kuryakin. I am pleased that I caught you before you departed."

  "Yes, sir. But perhaps I should have Miss McNabb cancel my flight and dismiss the cab below."

  "That won't be necessary; I won't keep you long." Waverly gestured him to a chair.

  "Thank you, sir." He sat, his eyes cautiously evaluating his superior, wondering if Waverly knew what Solo had told him. And what he intended to do about it.

  Waverly turned and went to stare out his window for a moment. That didn't auger well. Illya glanced at his watch and shifted in his chair, wishing for blue skies under his plane's wings. Something was wrong. It wasn't like Waverly to be at a loss for words. But then the Section One Chief turned back, looked at his own watch, and frowned a little.

  "I did not have a chance before to congratulate you on your mission, Mr. Kuryakin."

  "Thank you, sir," Illya said again, mystified. Waverly usually never bothered with too many words of praise unless the odds had been particularly great or the mission of critical importance. He hadn't thought Waverly would be interested in a CIA mission, even if it had been convenient to lend a few agents to the operation.

  "There is, however, something we perhaps should discuss in reference to this mission."

  "Sir?" Illya prompted when Waverly seemed at a loss to go further. Finally the old man picked up a sheet of paper and handed it to Kuryakin.

  Illya shook his glasses out of his jacket pocket and read the document. For a few moments after finishing it he simply stared at it. Then he raised his head, his blue eyes alight, a ghost of a smile tugging at his lips. "Wow."

  For a moment the U.N.C.L.E. chief stared at his agent. Kuryakin couldn't tell if Waverly was shocked by his reaction or with the English slang word he used to express it. He didn't usually forget himself to that extent with his superior. But Waverly didn't seem to mind. Some of the tension left the U.N.C.L.E. chief's shoulders. He took the paper back from Kuryakin, a smile starting on his lined face. "Wow?" he queried.

  "Forgive me, sir; Napoleon told me the CIA paid U.N.C.L.E. some money," Illya explained, his eyes drawn back to the riveting numbers laying on Waverly's desk. "But I had no idea the sum was—" his voice trailed off as he noticed the expression on his superior's face.

  "Mr. Solo discussed this with you?" Waverly's tone was short. Angry. "He had no right."

  Consternation furrowed the agent's brow into familiar lines. "I'm sorry, sir. I didn't realize—" He swallowed the rest of his words, realizing he had already said too much.

  "No." Waverly cut him off, his arm raised in a placating gesture, dismissing Kuryakin's apology. "Mr. Solo was not authorized to discuss this with you. The fact that he did is not your fault."

  "He didn't, exactly," Illya said, torn between the anger he still felt at Napoleon and the almost instinctive need to protect a partnership which had seen them successfully through so many missions. The anger crossed his face again and he was keenly aware of Waverly's eyes on his as he struggled to repress it and went on. "I only knew that, perhaps, some money had been exchanged." His eyes went to the paper for a third time, and the amazing sum it displayed. "I had no idea..." He looked up at Waverly and, almost against his will, the smile tugged at his lips again. "It is a good thing for U.N.C.L.E., yes?" He managed to keep most of the expression off his face, but his voice revealed his own pride in the money he had, somehow unsuspecting, secured for his mentor.

  Waverly shrugged his shoulders, his face relaxing at this sign of loyalty in his agent. "The payment was not part of the original plan. But yes, the amount will be useful in our operations."

  Illya nodded sagely. Money was a convenient way of covering up treachery; he had been well familiar with that in his former service. And treachery seemed to have been part of what had happened in the CIA operation. Perhaps two warring factions of that agency, working in contradiction to each other? He was familiar with that, too. It made him glad he was in U.N.C.L.E. "I am pleased that the funds will be of use in this organization." Illya looked at his watch again, conscious of his flight. The U.N.C.L.E. chief didn't fail to notice the subtle hint.

  "Yes, you can go, Mr. Kuryakin. I have need of that packet arriving in Washington this afternoon. And I would also not want you to miss your vacation. You will have need of it. No doubt I will soon have another imperative task for your talents. If not quite as profitable for the agency."

  Kuryakin grinned, feeling much better now about being put on courier duty. Perhaps it hadn't been arranged to get him away. Perhaps it had. But either way, he felt much more valued now. "Yes, sir. Thank you, sir."

  "And for Mr. Solo, too, of course."

  His expression slid from smiling to something else, but then to a blank-faced stoniness with the speed of someone used to concealing his emotions. The anger that smoldered briefly in his eyes was harder to conceal. "Of course, sir." The Russian agent couldn't have put less expression in his voice. "I will be looking forward to it."

  1:00 p.m.

  Waverly stood at the window until his number two operative left the building and disappeared into the waiting cab. Regardless of Solo's attitude, obviously his other top agent was unperturbed by the less noble necessities of his superior's position. That loyalty, to himself and to U.N.C.L.E., made up for a good deal in his eyes. But Kuryakin had seemed upset at one point in the conversation — when Solo's name had been mentioned. In spite of what he knew now had transpired between the two agents, that reaction had surprised him and he had doubted the impression—until he had deliberately mentioned Solo's name at the end and seen Kuryakin's reaction.

  He had been startled by the level of anger he had seen blazing in the blue eyes before they had become opaque.

  And it seemed that anger might be reciprocated. Solo had not gone out to the entrance to wish his partner a pleasant trip—and according to the security system the two partners had not met since Solo had taken Kuryakin into his office—unusual since before one or the other took leave, they generally spent a considerable amount of time coordinating ongoing casework. Kuryakin had sent an office memo confirming his assignment and subsequent leave to his immediate superior and Solo had initialed it and sent it back. Security confirmed they had not even spoken over the phone system since that meeting. No calls had been exchanged between their two extensions and they had stayed holed up, Solo in his private office, and Kuryakin in his lab, until the younger agent had come to his office and left for the airport.

  So not only was he, himself, in conflict with his CEA, but his top enforcement team was also at odds.

  He should have expected that something like this would eventually happen. Truthfully, the partners had worked so well together, had seemed at times to be more concerned with each other's welfare, rather than their job or the success of their mission, that his misgivings had gone in the opposite direction. Now that it had happened, now that he had Kuryakin safely out of the way for a few days, he could see that this wasn't necessarily a bad thing. Inevitable, and beneficial as well, provided the problem were correctly handled.

  Solo and Kuryakin had become too close, too loyal to each other, as their recent actions had proved. A little rift would be good for them both. Kuryakin needed to develop a touch more independence, if his behavior when Solo had left to go after Jud Carter was any guide. And as for Solo—well his CEA was becoming overbearing; taking on more than his position required, overstepping his bounds with his superior in some regards, and failing to act properly in others. Making unreasonable demands and arrangements outside of his prerogative. He would think of a way to remind the Section Two Head of his subordinate position and get the man back on track.

  Plus, Solo was still over dominating his partnership with Kuryakin. Yes, Solo was CEA, but Kuryakin was Section Two, Number Two. Waverly had not seen Solo do much to get his partner ready for the eventual responsibilities he would have to assume. Perhaps he was unwilling to give up control of his position, just as he had been unwilling to take a partner. Yet Kuryakin was a gifted agent, as good, if not better in some respects, than Solo. He had shortcomings, true, but it was Solo's job to get him past them. But so far, Waverly had seen Solo do little more than keep his subordinate firmly in place. If Solo's current attitude and this mission had made Kuryakin finally sure enough of his skills and his place in this agency that he had grown intolerant of such treatment, than so much the better. He could think of ways to get Kuryakin occasionally out from under Solo's oppressive thumb. It would probably do them both good.

  Yes, he would deal with Solo. The agent was a too cocky, too sure of himself. His sojourn in the Soviet Union had probably done him good—there Kuryakin had shone, and Solo had been left out of the limelight. Questions of payment aside, buried resentment over that role was probably behind some of Solo's difficulties now.

  He could scarcely credit Solo's idealistic censure regarding his use of an able, willing operative.

  Certainly Kuryakin hadn't minded. He had, in fact, seemed delighted over what he had been able to procure for the agency. No hint of reservations, such as he had mentioned to Lawrence in the physician's exam room, had colored his attitude or seemed to darken his pleasure at the payment.

  Odd that his neophyte Soviet-born agent would be more sophisticated in this respect than the cosmopolitan Solo. Then again, Kuryakin had come from an organization where bribery and secret payoffs were part and parcel of daily operations.

  So, he would deal with Solo. And Kuryakin seemed not likely to prove much of a problem. Lawrence was correct in pointing out the Soviet agent's transition to this country and his current role was a gradual thing, full of necessary progress and inevitable setbacks.

  Waverly turned back to his desk and then paused, remembering the resentment blazing in the young Russian's eyes at the mention of Solo's name. Anger that had been quickly hidden, but had still been there.

  An angry Kuryakin, for whatever reason, could be a dangerous thing.

  And Kuryakin was heading 'home'. The best place for him, certainly. By the time he returned, Waverly would have settled the situation with Solo, and determined a plan to bring Kuryakin along through his current difficulties. But in the interim, an angry Kuryakin, even one whose anger was directed elsewhere, could be considered rather like a misguided armed missile. One could never be completely sure where it would go off.

  Waverly picked up the phone.

  U.N.C.L.E. Safe House, Washington, D.C.

  3:30 p.m.

  Trish put the kettle on, glancing over at her silent houseguest. Illya had arrived relatively unexpectedly just a short time ago. Her surprise was only partial because although Illya himself hadn't announced his intended visit, Alexander had, calling an hour before his agent had arrived. The Section One chief hadn't said much, other than that he expected Illya could use a few days to recuperate before returning to fieldwork.

  That in itself wasn't unusual—she knew Illya had been on a case for over two weeks, and while no enforcement agent worked a normal schedule, after a successful mission Alexander usually offered or ordered a few days off. What wasn't typical was Alexander's call—that had told her that Illya wasn't coming home simply to rest and unwind, but that something had upset the transplanted Russian agent.

  Since Illya's first defection Alexander had used their family to help Illya over the inevitable adjustment problems a defector would face—and then over the problems of his transformation into one of Alexander's best agents. Not that they minded—they had taken Illya into their hearts almost from the first. But there was a definite pull-and-tug between Alexander and their family over Illya that ranged from subtle to blatant. Alexander needed them in instances like these; he had risked much to bring Illya into the Network, the opposition had been great, the detractors numerous, and his protégé's failure, for any reason, would have cost him in many ways. When Alexander's solitary defector needed a hedge against the contradictions, the confusions and the slights and suspicions of the American world he had been placed in, Alexander relied upon them to provide it, to get his agent back on the necessary professional track.

  Still, Alexander rarely needed to so blatantly solicit their support anymore. Illya's defection was more than four years old; he had been in U.N.C.L.E. almost that long, and in the field for two years—when Illya came home now, it was more because he choose to spend his free time with them than because Alexander wanted him safely kept away from some trouble, or that Illya needed to recuperate from some setback.

  The kettle whistled, pulling her from her reverie. Illya stirred too. He had come into the kitchen after changing from his suit to casual clothes, had asked for tea, and then sprawled in one of the window seats, slouched disconsolately back against the cushions, his arms wrapped around his knees, staring moodily out at the distant river that shimmered through waves of heat and humidity.

  It was really too warm for hot tea, even though the air conditioning struggled to keep the house relatively cool. But it would, of course, soothe a throat made raw from smoke and chemicals.

  She knew something of his mission and his injuries, whether he chose to tell her of them or not.

  The clink of china as she brewed the tea roused him, and he looked up absently. "Where is everyone?"

  Trish smiled a little. Nothing in Illya's previous hectic life had acquainted him with the concept of a normal family schedule. Even after four years, he had to be consciously reminded of theirs. Or maybe, after his own fragmented upbringing, it simply gave him an odd sense of security to hear the mundane details. "Tanya's at ballet school and they'll have a rehearsal after class. She'll be home for dinner. Misha should be home from day camp around four. And Norm has no late meetings, so he'll be home for dinner as well." She looked up from pouring the tea to see some of the tension leave his face and body. The white knuckled hands wrapped around the knees loosened and relaxed. So he had just wanted to hear that her family were all in their proper places, doing their usual things. His security in a world where he had precious little of that to count on.

  Lawrence had once told her that he suspected Illya would surpass all of Alexander's expectations, as long as he had U.N.C.L.E. behind him. And his 'family' behind it.

  Well, Alexander had made sure U.N.C.L.E. was behind Ilyusha, though he had to put his reputation on the line to do it. She, herself, had championed Illya for the brief time it had taken until he had been accepted into their family. Illya was, indeed, exceeding Alexander's expectations, although she and Alexander had become silent, occasionally antagonistic partners in making sure he survived the resulting fallout that exceeding those expectations sometimes caused.

  He was sitting forward now, watching her as she fixed his tea the way he liked it, but he didn't rise from his seat by the window. That alone told her volumes about how weary he was.

  "Did you know where I was?" he asked suddenly.

  She didn't betray any startlement, smoothly stirring the dark jam until it swirled and disappeared into the tea. "Norm told me," she answered simply.

  He looked out again, away from her, as if suddenly ashamed about something, his gaze fixed at the lawn and the river. "I did want to bring you a present from home," he offered. "But there wasn't an opportunity. He leaned back against the window seat cushions once more, closing his eyes as if utterly spent. She noticed he was wearing one of Tony's old T-shirts again, although Tony had stopped outgrowing his clothes and Illya no longer needed to wear Tony's hand-me-downs as he had when he'd come to them with only the clothes on his back. What impulse had prompted him to drag out one of those shabby cast-offs? At the back of her mind, one of Lawrence's warnings rumbled in her head, but she couldn't pay attention to it, for Illya was continuing. "We arrived and left very quickly."

  Trish brought the tea over to him. "Darling, the only thing I want you to bring me back from the Soviet Union is yourself." She kissed the top of his head as he opened his eyes and looked up at her, a ghost of a smile quirking his lips. "Drink your tea. It will help soothe your throat."

  His gaze met hers over the cup and he growled a little, the effect spoiled by the hoarseness of his voice. "You know that too?"

  "I know everything," Trish said and, shoving his feet in their sneakers against the side of the window seat, she sat down companionably with her own cup at that end. "I'm the wife of U.N.C.L.E.'s Intelligence Chief. He talks in his sleep."