He lost his footing as he descended the stairs, fortunately catching himself a few steps down. He paused, his heart racing at the near fall, and at the momentary wave of disorientation that had precipitated it.

  He glanced around, but could see nothing amiss. Dismissing it as jet lag, he hurried down the rest of the stairs to the U.N.C.L.E. sedan waiting for him.

  * * * * *

  University of Oslo, Norway

  Illya landed in a hedge below, glass splintering around him, his gun still in his hand. He rolled over in the dirt, extinguishing the flames on his lab coat, and then began to run, shedding the singed lab coat as a crowd was about to form, students approaching all pointing up to the second floor window. Coughing, he ducked around the corner of the building as flames began to pour from the upper classroom.

  He raced across the square to his dormitory room, gasping for air, up the stairwell and into his room. He had time only to pull on his light jacket and throw a few things in his pockets, crammed in with the paperback book and chocolate bars already there, then he ran down the length of the floor, down the far stairway and out the back of the building. There, he stole a rather rusted out Kawasaki Meihatsu scooter, got it running, and sent dirt flying as he tore out of the parking lot as fast as the poor scooter could manage.

  Despite the minimal amount of smoke he had inhaled, his throat still burned from the fumes, and he found the bike weaving as he coughed. Even without his physical limitations, the scooter was a poor match for the car that followed it. It sputtered and coughed as much as he was doing, but he was able to maneuver through the afternoon rush hour traffic, keeping ahead of the Thrush agents.

  Over an hour later, with the fuel gauge showing empty and his transceiver broken by his fall, Illya detoured around to the U.N.C.L.E. office in Oslo, hiding the bike, and paid the late matinee movie fee to enter the theatre, ignoring the startled look of the young woman at the wicket. Once through the entrance, Illya went up the side stairway to the balcony, pausing half way to catch his breath and rub the tightness in his chest, then he entered the projection booth where he flashed his U.N.C.L.E. ID to the man on duty there. The man spoke into a microphone, and a moment later a door opened on the far side, and he was inside Oslo U.N.C.L.E..

  The tall, blond woman at the reception desk stood as he entered, alarmed, no doubt at his appearance and singed clothing. "Agent Kuryakin?" she asked. "Can I help you?"

  "I must make some telephone calls," he said, his voice raspy. "Please direct me to a secure room and obtain a replacement international transceiver for me," he said, handing her the remains of his previous one.

  "Uh… ja. I vill take you," she said in her passable English. She motioned for him to follow. "You sure you not like to see doktor?"

  "Why?" he asked, brushing the sweat from his face, with the fingers of one hand.

  "There blod on face."

  "Blood?" he repeated, irritably, then looked down at his hand, stained red. It wasn't sweat, but streamlets of blood, probably from the glass fragments. "No, I am fine. They are but small scratches."

  "Skatches?" she echoed, not sure of the word.

  "Behage utleie meg bruk telefonen," he said, preferring his meager Norwegian to her English. "I must use the phone to call New York," he said, then doubled over coughing for almost fifteen seconds.

  She smiled nervously while he caught his breath. "Ah. New York. Very nice." She turned down another hallway and into a room. "Here a phone," she said pointing.

  "And I wish to look at photos of local Thrush," Illya said, while reaching for the phone.

  "Fotoer av—what?"

  "Jeg vil gjerne betrakte fotoer av Thrush inne Oslo," he repeated irritably.

  She nodded and left quickly, and Illya dialed the New York HQ and waited for Alexander Waverly to take his call. A doctor entered the room and, without asking his permission, began to clean up his minor head wound. He took out a damp cloth and wiped down Illya's face which was starting to sting from what Illya assumed was a minor burn from the explosion. The doctor cleaned it and then carefully rubbed salve on the reddened skin, making small clucking noises of disapproval.

  The receptionist returned with a book of photos which Illya quickly paged through, immediately locating the three Thrush scientists, but not the fourth man.

  "There was another man," he said to her. "More photos? More Oslo agents?"

  "Oslo agents. Ja," she said, and hurried out.

  Finally the call went through.

  "MR. KURYAKIN, I BELIEVE I LEFT YOU WITH INSTRUCTIONS NOT TO CONCERN THE LOCAL OSLO OFFICE."

  "Mr. Waverly," Illya said, pushing aside the doctor, who was cleaning the cut on the back of Illya's head. "My transceiver was disabled in a Thrush-initiated explosion on the campus, and I needed to report to you. I have not yet been able to apprehend the Thrush agents, but I have positively identified three of the four men. They are indeed known Thrush agents here in Oslo."

  "ARRANGE WITH THE OSLO OFFICE FOR THEM TO BE PICKED UP AT THE UNIVERSITY, SHOULD THEY RETURN TO CLASSES THERE. AND WHAT OF THE FOURTH?" Alexander Waverly asked.

  "I have not yet identified him."

  "WELL, SEE TO IT," the U.N.C.L.E. chief said shortly. "HE MUST BE POSITIVELY IDENTIFIED."

  "Sir?"

  "YOU STATED DURING OUR LAST COMMUNICATION THAT YOU BELIEVED HE WAS THE ONE SUPERVISING THE THRUSH SCIENTISTS."

  "Yes, sir."

  "THEN YOU MUST BRING HIM IN. THE OSLO OFFICE IS SHORT STAFFED AT THIS TIME AND DOES NOT HAVE THE MANPOWER TO OFFER ASSISTANCE. IT SHOULD NOT BE DIFFICULT FOR AN AGENT OF YOUR CALIBER TO BRING IN ONE LONE THRUSH AGENT."

  "Yes, sir." The line abruptly went dead, and Illya put down the phone.

  The receptionist brought in another album. "Here are agent photos Oslo."

  "Thank you," he said wearily, and opened the book. After flipping a few pages, he realized he was looking at Oslo based U.N.C.L.E. agents, the Norwegian Security Police, and agents from other countries who worked within Norway, such as: Interpol, CIA, MI6, Mossad, etc. "Not this," he said to the receptionist. "Thrush agents. Bad men," he tried, his growing headache stopping him from figuring out a translation for her.

  She made a face as though she now understood what he wanted. The doctor returned to leave a few pills on the desk along with a glass of water, and he followed her out.

  Illya downed the pills and sat thinking for a moment, appreciating the cool liquid on his raw throat.

  Zadkine, the fourth Thrush man had called him. How would he know that name? Thrush would only know him by the name Kuraykin, if at all.

  The man had an American accent, like the ones he heard in Boston. So how would an American Thrush agent know the name Zadkine—and well enough to think of him by that name?

  How would he—?

  Unless he was...

  Illya looked down at the album of photos of agents the receptionist had brought him earlier, and turned the pages until he reached three CIA agents. He stopped suddenly, his finger on a photo. It was the fourth Thrush agent.

  An Oslo-based CIA agent.

  Illya swore under his breath. So was the man undercover or was he a double agent? He noted the name, Jens Halvorsen, then closed the book.

  "Bring him in," Alexander Waverly had said.

  "How?" Illya muttered to himself.

  * * * * *

  Tuesday, July 13, 1965

  Oslo CIA office, Norway

  9:30 a.m.

  The next morning, leaving against the recommendation of the doctor, Illya drove over to the CIA office on a motorcycle he had requisitioned from the Oslo U.N.C.L.E. office. He parked the bike a block away and walked the short distance, going up to the third floor and into the small office overlooking one of Oslo's main business streets.

  As he entered the reception area, a chime sounded and a woman came out of a side office. "Yes, can I help you?"

  "Is this the CIA?" Illya asked.

  "Are you an American?" she countered.

  "Yes," he answered, truthfully.

  "If you have a problem, you should go to the American Embassy, Drammensveien 18. We generally aren't open to the public."

  He hesitated, not sure of what to say. "I'm with the U.N.C.L.E.," he said, reluctantly.

  "Do you have identification? And your passport?" she asked. He held out both and she glanced at them quickly, then returned them to him. "What brings you to our office?"

  "Information."

  "On?"

  "Your agents in Oslo."

  "That's classified."

  "Do you have many agents?"

  "That would be classified," she said, looking down at him.

  A man, drawn by their voices, came out from a back office. "Is there a problem, Marcia?"

  "An U.N.C.L.E. agent," she said, dryly.

  "What office?" he asked.

  "New York."

  "What brings you to Norway?" he asked, pleasantly, leaning against the front counter.

  Illya had noted that neither agent had given their name or answered any of his questions. "I'm looking for one particular agent. I have a few questions."

  "We aren't in a position to give any—"

  "His name is Jens Halverson." Illya watched their faces. The woman gave away nothing, but the man—who seemed to be the senior agent—nodded after a moment.

  "What would you like to know?"

  "Is he working undercover?"

  "Classified," the woman answered.

  "I saw him at the University of Oslo. I have some questions for him."

  "Submit them to our office," the woman said, "and we'll see what we can do."

  Illya stared back at them. This wasn't getting him anywhere. "He has been seen with Thrush agents," he said, finally. "Fraternizing."

  The male agent glanced at the female agent, looking rather amused. "Why don't you go speak with your boss back in New York, and have him call Washington, and provide your photos and your proof, and then we'll discuss this." He turned and went back into his office.

  The female agent took a few steps to the door of her office. "You know where the door is," she said, pointedly and went inside.

  * * * * *

  Hamar, Norway

  Illya waited at a coffee shop across the street from the CIA office. Around ten-thirty in the morning, he spotted Halvorsen entering the building, and approximately fifteen minutes later, Halvorsen left and returned to his car. Illya followed him to Hamar, a town an hour north of Oslo, pushing the rather gutless motorcycle to its limit.

  Halvorsen's more powerful vehicle had quickly lost him on the road, and it took Illya several hours of touring around the small lake town of Hamar before he'd spotted him again.

  Clad in dark leathers with one of the newer full helmets hiding his features, Illya dismounted from the motorcycle and studied a map of the area. Across the street, Halvorsen and another man spoke in what started as hushed voices, gradually rising in volume as the other man became more outraged.

  A sudden coughing attack drew attention his way, and by the time Illya had caught his breath again, they were gone. Cursing, he got back on the bike and spent another few hours trying to find the men or their car. The coughing and burning sensation in his lungs was starting to become more bothersome, and Illya reluctantly stopped at a pharmacy and bought some cough suppressant lozenges.

  Fortunately, the town only had a few main streets, and Illya located the two men again just after six p.m., walking out of a hardware store. It was his first good look at the other man, and it appeared to be one of the other CIA agents from the album he had seen in the U.N.C.L.E. Norway office. The man's ultra-short hair in the photo had lengthened, and rather than the more formal dark suit and white tie, the man was wearing casual slacks and a cotton shirt.

  He tailed them for almost an hour as they went to various sites in Hamar, then Illya's luck ran out as he veered around a residential corner to see them standing in the middle of a tree-lined street blocking it, weapons pointing at him.

  "Who are you? What do you want?" the one CIA agent demanded.

  Illya drove across the sidewalk, along the side of a house and out a back road. Fortunately the CIA agents were reluctant to fire in a residential area and he was able to flee without incident.

  Not sure what to do next, and feeling shaky from lack of sleep, Illya found a small inn outside of Hamar near the lake, ate a bowl of soup from a nearby inexpensive café, and slept the night. His bike was around the back of the inn, hidden from the road, and when he examined it in the morning, after a traditional breakfast of bread, cheese, and coffee, he was relieved to find it had not been tampered with.

  With Halvorsen unaccounted for, and the other CIA agent either also a double agent—or at the very least, wary of who he was—Illya decided to return to Oslo. If Halvorsen was trying to keep his double identity, he'd have to return there.

  He gassed up the motorcycle, staring thoughtfully across the lot, and wondered what it was Alexander Waverly wanted him to do. He couldn't figure it out. Usually, in the past, he'd always had explicit instructions of what he should do and in what order. Or Napoleon would tell him the mission's itinerary. This was different. It was as though Alexander Waverly didn't care what the outcome was, whether Halverson was secured or not.

  Still pondering this, Illya had barely crossed over the bridge out of Hamar when he was overtaken by a car, driven by Halverson, with the other CIA agent in the passenger side seat. He did a U-turn and headed back into Hamar, the CIA sedan following. With a sigh, Illya took a turnoff towards Lillihammar, hoping to swing back on one of the side roads. They stayed close on his tail though, pushing him further north on the E6 highway, past Lillihammar.

  Eventually they arrived at Otta, a small town on the E6 and Illya was able to lose them in the maze of streets, quickly moving onto the 15 highway, heading west. Driving along the Vagavatnetfjord, he was able to mix in with a group of touring motorcyclists, and when he stopped at Vagamo in the evening, he parked his motorcycle along with the rest, his bike as mud splashed from the road as theirs was. It blended in nicely, as well as not being the only one of that make and model among them.

  The two women of the group decided he needed to take care of his worsening cold and plied him with more soup in the restaurant outside the old hotel. Despite his constant brushing away of their attention, he kept a vigilant watch on the road and noticed no sign of pursuit. When night finally fell, he went up to his room and gave over to a restless sleep, compounded by frequent coughing fits that left him with a massive headache, fiery chest, and overall weariness.

  * * * * *

  Wednesday, July 14, 1965

  Vagamo, Norway

  Illya woke in the morning with firm intentions to return to Oslo. He was having difficulty getting a signal on his transceiver to report in to Alexander Waverley, and he had spent entirely too much time eluding the CIA agents. He had to get back to Oslo, find the CIA agent, and, most important, finish his homework on that last assignment which was due that Friday.

  As luck would have it, his motorcycle would not start, and he ended up wheeling it into a garage who promised to look at it later in the day. He returned to the inn where he'd spent the night and went back to bed, trying to make up some of the sleep he'd lost overnight. A look in the hotel room mirror had showed him that his face, at least, was losing the sunburned look, although at this time of year, with fair skin like his, having a sunburn was not unusual.

  At noon, the owner of the hotel knocked on his door and told him he had to leave, so he paid his bill and returned to the motorcycle garage, sitting in a chair in the dingy waiting area of the stuffy office, and warmed by the sun coming in through the window, he dozed in between coughing. The mechanics all looked over at him as though he had some contagious disease until he told them he'd been in a fire and must have inhaled something.

  It was just before closing that his bike was finished, and he handed over almost all the rest of his cash to pay the bill, tucking the receipt in his pocket. As he went to return to his bike, freshly washed by the garage, he saw Halverson across the street staring in at the shop. Illya stepped outside and Halverson retreated to his car and drove off.

  Illya mounted the bike and fastened his helmet. Now what? Should he follow? He suspected he should go to the U.N.C.L.E. infirmary in Oslo and have his breathing checked, but Alexander Waverly wanted him to bring in Halverson.

  So which way did Halverson go? Back to Otta, and then return to Oslo on the E6? Or continue west and work his way southward back to Oslo? His map showed that Highway 51 wound back to Oslo, and after going back inside to check with the garage mechanic, he found out that it would take about five hours for him to make the drive, getting him to Oslo just before dark.

  As Illya started up the bike, he noticed the garage mechanic pick up his phone and place a call, reading the number from a business card. When he saw Illya looking at him, he slammed the phone down and pretended to be busy elsewhere.

  Sighing inwardly, Illya headed west down Highway 15, not surprised to see Halverson's car in his sideview mirror. He picked up his speed and managed to get ahead of them enough on the winding road to find a place to hide his bike around a corner and let them pass him. It had been clouding over, and now started to rain. He waited a few minutes and followed, noting they were also taking the highway to Oslo. He preferred being the one pursuing than the pursuer, so he took the same road.

  In a deserted stretch of road, they were waiting for him, firing as he came around the corner. Illya swerved his bike, turning in behind some large rocks as they exchanged gunfire. There were still only two of them—Halverson and another agent— and Illya carefully aimed at one and fired his weapon, catching the man in the arm. He could see the wound wasn't life threatening, as he intended, but Halverson, realizing he was on his own, decided to bail and jumped in the car and tearing down the road, leaving his fellow agent writhing on the road in the pouring rain.