Illya waited until the agent fell unconscious, then grabbed his first aid kit from the bike and went over to him, bandaging the wound. When a truck driver approached on the road, he waved him down and told him he found the man at the side of the road, injured. He asked the trucker to take the man in to Vagamo to the doctor, using the excuse that he couldn't take an unconscious man on his motorcycle.

  He followed the truck as far as the junction of 15 and 51, then when the trucker turned east to head toward Vagamo, Illya decided to head in the other direction and find some place to sleep out of the rain. He had no wish to make the trip to Oslo now in the rain, feeling under the weather himself, knowing he would arrive at night since he had been delayed, and knowing that Halverson might be waiting for him around any turn.

  He ended up finding a deserted shed a quarter mile off a road, with a door wide enough to push the bike through. It stunk of old fertilizer, but it was dry, and Illya was tired. The smell triggered his cough, though, and he coughed until he thought his head and chest would explode. It finally eased, leaving him shaking and gasping. He took his cloth jacket from the saddlebag on the back of the bike, and made a pillow for himself, then curled up and slept, exhausted.

  * * * * *

  Athens, Greece

  11:50 p.m.

  Napoleon glanced at the clock as the telephone rang. It was almost midnight in Athens, but still only five o'clock in the evening in New York.

  Or in Washington, he discovered, when he answered the phone.

  "Peter Baker?" Napoleon asked, surprised to hear the CIA's Soviet Division Counterintelligence officer on the other end of the line.

  "ARE YOU IN ON THIS OSLO CASE?" Baker demanded.

  "Oslo? No," Solo said, sitting down and grabbing a pen to take notes if he needed to. "What's wrong?"

  "WHAT'S THAT PARTNER OF YOURS UP TO?"

  "Illya? He's attending a course there. Officially, he's off duty until it's over."

  "WELL, HE'S CAUSING PROBLEMS WITH OUR OSLO OFFICE THERE."

  "What? Why?"

  "ONE OF OUR AGENTS THERE HAS REPORTED IN THAT KURYAKIN'S ACCUSED HIM OF BEING A DOUBLE-AGENT, AND THE MAN IS OUTRAGED AS HE THINKS KURYAKIN IS SETTING HIM UP."

  "Why would Illya do that?" Solo asked, letting his voice also pose the unvoiced question of: well, is he a double agent?

  "BESIDES, HE'S ALREADY SHOT ONE OF OUR MEN."

  "Then I'm sure he had good reason to. Baker, I'm in Athens at the moment, heading for New York in the morning. Let me find out what's going then."

  "I'LL EXPECT A CALL FROM YOU THEN," Baker said shortly, then hung up.

  Napoleon put down the transceiver thoughtfully. Illya, what are you up to?

  * * * * *

  Thursday, July 15, 1965

  Jostedalsbreen Glacier, Norway

  Holding his breath to stop the bronchial cough that had deepened over the last few days, Illya felt the U.N.C.L.E. issued motorcycle slide on the damp road and he ditched the bike, rolling clear as it headed into the deep lake at the base of the glacier. It hit the water with a hiss of steam, then sank quickly.

  Without transportation, he was decidedly at a disadvantage, as most of his supplies were in the saddlebags of the motorcycle. He still had his gun, in its holster, and ammunition on the small pack on his back. It was almost dark as he started up the Briksdalsbreen arm of the glacier, the area closed to tourists for the day. He had to move quickly, still trying to outrun Halverson, who was back on his tail. At least he had his gun, some ammunition, and the cough lozenges, which constituted the last of his food.

  He'd been on the run now for three days—the past day without money or food— and he was hungry, tired, bruised, burned, and now he could add cold to the list, as he tried to quickly scale the glacier wearing only an old well-worn pair of Tony Graham's Adidas sneakers. They weren't the best shoes for trying to climb up an icy slope.

  At last as full darkness fell, ten minutes later, he found a narrow wedge to fit himself into just as the roar of tires down below signaled what was probably his persistent follower. While they had no guilt at shooting at him, Illya knew that if he killed one of them, he'd be blacklisted. He'd already shot one of them, but Alexander Waverly's last words to him had been to bring in the Thrush/CIA agent alive, and Illya was still trying to figure out how to do that without the help of the Oslo U.N.C.L.E. office or his partner. He knew he was only working at a fraction of his usual proficiency, but he couldn't get his head around what to do.

  He could hear the voices now as the men were out of their vehicle—Halverson had help again—and looking at the bike's trail as it careened off the road and into the lake. When he'd thrown himself clear, he had landed on the edge of the glacier ice, so there was no sign to his pursuers that he had not gone into the lake with the motorcycle. Flashlight beams cut through the darkness as the two men looked for any sign of his passing, but gradually the lights went out, and he listened as the car engine started and drove off until only the sound of the dripping, creaking ice was left.

  Shivering already as the cold ice penetrated his leather jacket and numbed the minor burns on his back, Illya fumbled with the wrapper of one of his last few cough lozenges. He'd rationed himself for the past day, as his supply dwindled. He had to figure out what to do next.

  It was getting difficult to swallow, his throat raw. He knew he needed to keep up his strength, but he had no appetite. As it grew dark and there was no further sound of pursuit, he relaxed a little in his ice cave, deciding to wait and rest for a while before heading out again on foot for the closest town.

  He touched the transceiver in his pocket, his fingers closing around it like a talisman and fell asleep.

  * * * * *

  U.N.C.L.E. HQ, New York

  Back at his desk in New York, Napoleon poured through the documents and reports that had accumulated during his time in Greece, but there wasn't a single reference to Oslo Norway, or his partner. He'd spent his flight back to the United States thinking about Peter Baker's phone call. It wasn't like Illya to make unfounded accusations against a CIA officer, especially without conferring with U.N.C.L.E.

  "Heather?" he said into the intercom.

  "WELCOME BACK, MR. SOLO," Heather McNabb said. "SO HOW WAS ATHENS?"

  "Volatile. Any word from my partner?"

  "NOTHING. HE'S BEEN INCOMMUNICADO LATELY. WHAT'S UP? "

  "I don't know." Napoleon picked up his report on Athens. "Is Waverly in his office?"

  "HE'S BEEN THERE ALL MORNING. HE HAS A MEETING AT THE U.N. IN AN HOUR."

  "I'll be right up. Tell him I want to drop off my report on the situation in Greece."

  "WILL DO."

  Ten minutes later, Napoleon Solo entered Waverly's office. "Sir, might I have a word with you?"

  "Your report on Athens?" Waverly said, scribbling notes on a legal pad. "Sit down, Mr. Solo," he said, indicating the conference table.

  "Here's the report, sir, and my recommendations. Sir, I received a phone call from Peter Baker, the Soviet Division Counterintelligence officer with the CIA in Washington."

  "I am aware of who Mr. Baker is and whom he works for," Waverly responded shortly, without looking up.

  "He was demanding information on what Illya Kuryakin is doing in Oslo."

  "If he requires information, he can certainly put in a request through the prescribed channels."

  "Yes, sir," Napoleon responded. He waited a minute, then asked, "May I ask what the situation is in Oslo?"

  Waverly paused, but still did not raise his head. He continued writing, as though Napoleon hadn't asked the question.

  There was a twitter of sound from Napoleon's transceiver. "Excuse me, sir. It's probably Neil Meleon. We have the Skyscraper Affair in progress."

  Napoleon moved to the window, and turned the transceiver to on. "Napoleon Solo," he said crisply.

  There was a burst of static, then a familiar voice said, "NAPOLEON?"

  He glanced over to Waverly, who was looking his way, no expression on his face.

  "Illya?"

  "NAPOLEON—" then the transceiver crackled again as what sounded like harsh coughing took over. They could hear the sound of someone trying to speak while coughing and gasping for air, then the transceiver cut out.

  Napoleon tried unsuccessfully to reestablish the connection, but there was no response. "Sir?" Napoleon demanded, returning to Waverly's desk.

  Waverly put down his pen and folded his hands. After a few seconds, he reached for his pipe, appearing deep in thought as he carefully lit it. He took a few puffs on it, getting the burn just right, then he apparently reached his decision, for he took a file from his desk drawer and handed it to Napoleon. "It seems our Mr. Kuryakin is unable to finish his job. Tie up any loose ends without starting an international incident." Waverly stood up and disappeared out his back door.

  * * * * *

  Friday, July 16, 1965

  U.N.C.L.E. Oslo, Norway

  8:45 a.m.

  Napoleon Solo strode through the U.N.C.L.E. Norway corridors and into the head office of Torvald Seljelid.

  "Napoleon Solo," the fair-haired man said, sounding surprised, although they must have already told him from the front desk that the American agent was in the building and heading his way. "What brings you to our country?" he asked, standing and offering a firm handshake.

  "I'm looking for one of my agents, Illya Kuryakin."

  "Kuryakin?" the man echoed, as though trying to place him.

  "Illya Kuryakin," Napoleon said, impatiently, enunciating each syllable.

  "Oh, yes." Seljelid sat down, and motioned for Napoleon to take a chair opposite his desk. "Your Mr. Kuryakin caught a few Thrush birds at the university—now safely in our custody—and is now stalking someone else."

  "From what I've heard, he's after a CIA officer."

  "We have heard the same thing. A Peter Baker from Washington, DC, has made several phone calls."

  "And you've offered no assistance to Mr. Kuryakin?"

  "He provided us no information on his case and refused all assistance, other than requisitioning a motorcycle from our car pool. He left here on Monday, and we haven't heard from him since."

  Napoleon thought back to the burst of static he'd heard the day before. "Has he used your airwaves at all? Yesterday, maybe?"

  Seljelid shrugged. "Perhaps. There was an international signal yesterday, that our communication team spotted, but it bounced off a satellite rather than our standard signal." Seljelid folded his hands on the table, looking across to Napoleon. "I have a question for you. Does your Mr. Waverly require all his agents to work autonomously? Our custom in this office is to pair our agents."

  "Mr. Kuryakin is my partner."

  "And yet he has been here alone."

  "I am here."

  "You may be here too late," Seljelid said. He reached for a paper on his desk. "On Monday morning, your partner was caught in a chemical explosion at the University of Norway. He came here a few hours later, looked through our mug books, then left after accepting minimal medical help. Our staff physician checked him out as quickly as he could, but most of his attention was spent on numerous minor cuts suffered from a fall through a window to a hedge below. Your partner allowed the ministrations only until he had found what he was looking for in our photo books, then he requisitioned a motorcycle and protective gear and left AMA. You are familiar with the term?"

  "Against Medical Advice," Napoleon provided. "If he was well enough to ride, what was the problem? A few minor cuts?"

  "Nitrogen dioxide was present during the explosion in the chemistry lab. We do not know how much your partner inhaled. The cause of concern is mainly to his lower airways and is delayed in onset up to seventy-two hours."

  "Symptoms?"

  "Shortness of breath. Chest pain. Excessive coughing."

  Napoleon thought of the brief communication from Illya the day before, and the sound of what was likely coughing. "What does he need?"

  "Medical treatment, if he did breathe in the fumes. Oxygen therapy, if it's not too late already."

  "What do you mean?"

  "Depending on how much he inhaled, the longer he waits before getting treatment, the more likely the excessive damage to his lungs could lead to death."

  * * * * *

  Olden, Norway

  10:00 a.m.

  Illya stumbled along the mountain road, shivering. He was getting sicker, and breathing in the thinner air was progressively becoming more difficult. After hours on the narrow path along the road, he walked into Olden, at the southern tip of Innvikforden Lake, the closest town to the glacier.

  Although technically the middle of the summer, it was cold in this area, and the persistent rain wasn't helping. He was drenched and miserable.

  And broke. His last kroner were spent the day before buying some bread and cheese, long gone.

  Olden wasn't large, but it did have a bus station. Illya gave the schedule a cursory glance, then sat down in one of the chairs. The next bus to Oslo was in five hours, so he at least had that long to stay out of the rain, even if he had no money for gas.

  His transceiver was broken, and no one knew where he was. All he had was his U.N.C.L.E. issue gun, some ammunition, and one cough drop. He couldn't put two words together without coughing.

  Maybe if he could sleep for a few minutes, he thought, his eyes closing as he settled on the bus bench, he would be able to think of what to do next.

  * * * * *

  CIA Office, Oslo, Norway

  10:30

  Napoleon Solo met Peter Baker outside the Norway CIA office and they entered the building together.

  "This is a small setup," Baker briefed him. "Usually just two agents regularly assigned here."

  "So one of them is saying my partner is accusing them of being a Thrush agent?"

  "We had several agents assigned temporarily because of unusual activity between USSR, Norway, Iceland, and USA. Most are in the north investigating, but one of the locally assigned agents made the complaint."

  They walked in to the office, just as a man was heading out. "Peter? What are you doing here?"

  "Investigating your report, Todd. Todd Dahl, this is Napoleon Solo, U.N.C.L.E. New York. It's his partner who made the complaint about one of your agents."

  "Jens Halverson." Dahl shook his hand, almost reluctantly, Napoleon thought. "Halverson has been a good agent. I find it unlikely he's been cavorting with Thrush, as your partner accused."

  "I can't see Kuryakin using the word 'cavorting'."

  "I believe 'fraternizing' was the word he used," a woman said, stepping from the side office. "He seems to be after all our agents. We just received a report from another agent in Vagamo, that your partner put a bullet in his arm."

  "I was just going to check into it. Vagamo is about an hour and half by helicopter."

  "Do you have room for two more?" Baker asked.

  Dahl glanced towards the woman, then shrugged. "Sure. Let's settle this now."

  Two hours later, they were at the clinic in Vagamo.

  "Jens told me this crazy U.N.C.L.E. agent is accusing him of being a Thrush agent. That's just stupid," the young CIA agent said, brushing his left hand through a short crew cut. He was in a chair by his hospital window, obviously ticked off about being sidelined. "So we see he's following us, so we switch around and try and stop him and he's shooting at us and gets me in the arm."

  "You say you tried to stop him," Napoleon said, listening to the account. "How?"

  "What?"

  "How'd you try to stop him? Flag him down?"

  "No, we stopped our car and—"

  "You fired at him."

  That seemed to fluster the agent. "Well, Jens did, just to get his attention."

  "And then what happened?"

  "He stopped his motorcycle and fired back."

  "So you were behind the safety of your car, and he was on a motorcycle?"

  "Well, he went behind some rocks."

  "And you exchanged gunfire until he got in a lucky shot and hit your arm?"

  "Yeah."

  "And then what happened?"

  "I woke up here."

  "Where's Halverson?"

  "I don't know."

  "He left you there?" Solo asked.

  The young agent scratched at his unshaven chin. "I don't know what happened to Jens. This truck driver took me into town here," he said, then added, almost reluctantly, "Said some little blond guy flagged him down and asked him to take me to a hospital, as he couldn't get me there on his motorcycle. The driver said the guy had already bandaged my arm."

  "So the U.N.C.L.E. agent shot you, but then did the Good Samaritan thing and made sure you were taken care of?"

  "He still shot me," the agent glared.

  "You were shooting at him," Solo countered.

  "He could have killed me!"

  "But he didn't. If he'd meant to kill you, he would have," Solo said, leaning in on the agent. "If Kuryakin hit your arm, then that's where he was aiming."

  * * * * *

  Olden, Norway

  2:00 p.m.

  From the window at the bus station, Illya again spotted Halverson as he pulled into the parking lot of a restaurant across the street. A moment later, he came around the corner of the restaurant, heading to the front entrance, accompanied by another man who Illya recognized immediately from one of the reconnaissance photos of Thrush agents Illya had seen in the Oslo U.N.C.L.E. photo book. He'd seen the man before, once on assignment in Copenhagen, and knew him to be a deadly Thrush agent.

  At least the rain had stopped, Illya thought, as he slipped out of the bus station and around the back of the restaurant. There was a large garbage bin near were the car was parked, out of sight from the street and close to a high fence blocking any view of him from behind, so Illya crouched down behind it and waited.

  Finally they came out, and he could hear them speaking, in Norwegian, as they approached the car. Illya came out from behind the garbage bin, gun armed and ready. "Put your hands up!" he said, in Norwegian. "Drop your weapons," he barked hoarsely as they both instinctively reached for their guns.

  They chose to ignore his warning, so he put a bullet in the second Thrush agent and concentrated his attention on Halverson, who froze when the other agent fell to the ground lifeless. "Get behind the wheel. We're going for a drive," Illya ordered, waiting for Halverson to get into the front seat, while he got in the back seat, his gun still pointing to the double agent.