"Where to?" Halverson asked, easily.

  "Oslo. I'm taking you in," Illya said firmly, trying not to cough. At least he was sitting, he thought, his gun steady on Halverson, but he was having an increasingly difficult time breathing.

  "That's an eight hour drive!"

  "Then you best start now."

  Almost three hours later, after driving a winding highway along the lakes, Illya told Halverson to turn south at Hwy 51.

  "I need gasoline. We're almost empty."

  "Then we will stop at Randsverk," Illya said calmly. He knew the town was only 12 miles from the turnoff, as he had planned to stop there for gas when he'd driven this way earlier. "Perhaps the police in that village will assist."

  Halverson braked suddenly, and Illya was thrown against the side window, although his gun never wavered. The car skidded around a corner and barely missed two cars parked at the side of the road, ironically right at the place where he had been ambushed by them only a day before.

  The car continued its circle, caught now in a spin that ended when the car smashed violently on the passenger front side against the same rocks Illya had hidden behind before.

  For a moment, neither man moved, then Halverson, his head dripping blood from hitting the rearview mirror as they crashed, made a move to exit the car. Illya opened the back door and fell to the ground, his gun still centered on the Thrush agent. "Don't move," he croaked. Then another face came into view, one he recognized well. "Ah, Napoleon," he said to the shocked agent looking down at him, "Halverson, as requested."

  His vision hazed out, then thankfully went black.

  * * * * *

  Wednesday, August 4, 1965

  U.N.C.L.E. HQ, New York City

  8:45 a.m.

  Two and a half weeks later, Napoleon put down the joint U.N.C.L.E./CIA report of what had gone down in Oslo. To Napoleon's shock, he found out that Waverly had known from the beginning about the Thrush/CIA double agent and the Thrush scientists in Norway, and he had deliberately put Illya in a place where he'd be in contact with them.

  That in turn had allowed Waverly to contact the CIA and demand they withdraw their men from chasing Illya, and then later demand huge compensation for Illya's injuries, to the tune of half a million dollars, which also promised U.N.C.L.E.'s silence on the matter.

  Illya sat across from him, looking at the same report. "I do not see the problem."

  He'd been released from the Oslo hospital only a week before, after being treated for minor chemical inhalation and mild frostbite on one toe, but the main reason for his ten day stint in the emergency ward was bronchial pneumonia—probably caused by the chemical inhalation—and the doctor's reluctance to have him fly back to the United States before he was considered healthy.

  "Waverly deliberately put you in a situation that put you at risk, if you'd been recognized—which you were, I might add—and he didn't inform you of that risk."

  Illya put down the report, frowning. "As an agent, I should expect to be moved around as needed, without explanation."

  "Not when you are specifically told that you were not on an assignment."

  "One is never fully off-duty," Illya countered. "I have never been off-duty."

  "There's supposed to be a difference in how the KGB or GRU treated you, and how U.N.C.L.E. does. I don't approve of these tactics."

  "Well, you aren't in charge," Illya said, his eyes narrowing. "It is not for us to question Alexander Waverly's motives."

  "He's not infallible," Napoleon said, his voice low. "He's already in his mid-eighties. His health is beginning to deteriorate... I read this report and it gets me wondering how much longer can he make decisions that we can trust? Who is in a position to tell him that maybe it is time for him to retire?"

  Illya stood up. "I can not believe you are speaking like this," he said, his accent thickening in anger. "You mock Alexander Waverly's vast knowledge and experience?"

  "Not at all," Napoleon said quickly, waving him back down. "I'm just pointing out that I don't agree with blood money. We should be working with agencies like the CIA, not extorting money from them."

  "Extorting?" Illya exclaimed, standing again.

  "Shhh," Napoleon said, "Sit down."

  "Is that an order?" Illya shot off.

  Napoleon stared up at him, confused by the direction the conversation had taken. "No," he said, his voice calm.

  "Then I will leave."

  Before he reached the door, Napoleon stopped him. "Wait. What's going on here?"

  "You tell me," Illya said, staring him down. "I will not listen to you criticize Alexander Waverly."

  "I was just discussing with you my concerns over this case. I have tried to discuss it with Waverly, and he refuses to talk about it. I need to decide whether to refer it to the U.N.C.L.E. council for review and I was hoping to get some feedback from you."

  "You think he is incompetent."

  "Quite frankly, I don't know what to think." Napoleon rested his hand on the report. "Unless there is something going on that I don't know about, what happened on this case was all handled incorrectly. There are prescribed inter-agency procedures to be followed that Waverly totally abandoned, by making the choices he did."

  "I see," Illya said. "And you don't like being out of the loop."

  "Not as a second in command of this office."

  "And you aspire to be in command. What better time to make your move."

  "What??" Napoleon exclaimed as Illya left the office.

  * * * * *

  Illya moved quickly down the corridors, trying to get his rage under control.

  There were things that one did not do, and criticizing Alexander Waverly was high on that list.

  While recuperating on his hospital bed, irritated by the hiss of the oxygen feed, he'd thought a lot about the case and his role in it. Had he been slowed down because he had gotten used to working with a partner? Had his decisions been skewed? Should he have done one thing instead of another?

  His critique, though, had been limited to his own performance, not to his orders from Alexander Waverly. He had wondered about them, of course, but he knew that Alexander Waverly must have had some reason for making those precise orders.

  "MR. KURYAKIN, REPORT TO SECTION ONE."

  He glanced up at a speaker on the wall, then changed his direction to the elevator that would take him up to Alexander Waverly's office.

  Interlude

  Waverly looked down at his chess board. His opponent had moved, the black king putting at risk his white knight. He had to make a decision.

  Should he move the white knight out of danger? There was only one place he could safely move: in the sidelines on the edge of the board where he would be protected for several moves. Or should he put him into the thick of the black zone and force the other's hand, but then his own king might equally be threatened.

  It was a difficult decision to make. He really was not prepared to risk that particular white knight so early in the game. He'd already lost a knight, his rooks, and several pawns. His opponent was skilled.

  There was a slight knock and he looked up. At the entrance to his office, Illya Kuryakin stood framed in the doorway.

  Waverly made his move.

  Part 3

  Regaining Footing

  We are, all of us, calling and calling across the incalculable gulfs which separate us even from our nearest friends.

  David Gayson (American journalist, 1870-1946)

  Wednesday, August 4, 1965

  CIA, Langley, Virginia, 3:00 p.m.

  In the thin leather briefcase tucked beneath Kuryakin's arm was the complete summary report of the mission the Network called The Double Dipping Affair and the American organization referred to as the Oslo Situation. A more detailed report would follow in a week or two, or even three, once U.N.C.L.E.'s Section One department had thoroughly dissected the content of the two hundred page document. It would pass between the legal experts and all five Section One leaders until they came to a consensus on the wording and the terms of agreement and the shades of gray that already hid much of the truth of what had happened in Norway. Anything that would reflect poorly on the Network would be removed. The personal attack on their agent by a group internal to the CIA would be showcased subtly, but it would be worded to suggest that U.N.C.L.E. was not overly concerned about it; it was to be expected from the Central Intelligence Agency, after all.

  Well, it was over now, officially. In his briefcase was the final contract. Both sides had signed the papers. He knew that despite Napoleon Solo's misgivings, the heads of each organization would give a sigh of relief and feel they had somehow won the round, they had shown the other side who had the control, who had the ultimate hand.

  Illya Kuryakin, however, no longer cared. His involvement had ended. At Alexander Waverly's request, two hours previously Kuryakin had stepped aboard the plane for Washington, D.C. As he had settled into the seat and fastened the belt, he had deliberately retreated to his training and numbed himself to his mixed emotions of the past few weeks. It had felt comfortable, isolating his current role and obligations and dealing only with that. It left him focused. He had been tired and had known that he needed to rest his body while on the flight. When the plane landed he would be prepared for whatever any nemesis threw at him. He was not concerned.

  The air was warm as he stepped from the cab and glanced around the Langley, Virginia, Central Intelligence Agency Headquarters. The Agency was situated across the Potomac River from the U.N.C.L.E. Safe House on a 125-acre tract of woodland, nestled within another 750-acre government-owned section of the rolling, forested land.

  Well-hidden and yet completely overt, the hideaway was a contradiction in terms, since everyone knew where it was. Kuryakin walked calmly through the entrance of the multistory grayish-white concrete building, signed his name in the reception room, and then crossed the marble floor of the echoing lobby to the front counter.

  He thought briefly of Del Floria's tailor shop, badly in need of painting.

  His gold I.D. card was already out before him, although the woman knew him well from his previous visits. "Illya Nickovetch Kuryakin," he said. "I'm with the United Network Command for Law and Enforcement. I have an appointment with Peter Baker of the Soviet Division." He used his full name here out of habit. He was Russian. There was nothing he could do about that, nothing he wanted to do about it. He would not apologize for who he was.

  Not here.

  The woman smiled politely, but her smile faded at the lack of interest on his face. "Please follow the guard. He will escort you to Agent Baker." She returned his card, checking his name from the predetermined guest register. As he moved to fall in behind the navy-suited guard, Kuryakin felt her eyes on him while she dialed the telephone to Baker.

  The Soviet Division Counterintelligence agent was waiting at the door to his office. "Come in, Mr. Kuryakin." Dark hair, an easy smile, the eyes intent. Baker, an agent he had encountered many times over the years, had been curiously supportive of Kuryakin during their time in Norway. When he had first awoken in the hospital in Oslo, Baker had hovered around the room as though needing to convince himself that Illya was not going to die from a simple case of pneumonia.

  A champion born of guilt perhaps, Illya thought, and one not to be trusted, for guilt eased. The man could be dangerous. He had been an adversary longer than a proponent, and habits were hard to break.

  At the moment, though, he was no threat.

  "I was surprised to hear that you were to be the courier U.N.C.L.E. was sending, Illya. I wasn't expecting to see you again so soon. You are looking well."

  "Thank you." Kuryakin stepped inside the room, glanced at the spacious layout—the narrow series of windows overlooking a grove of flowering trees, the haze of cigarette smoke, the American flag in one corner of the room, the President's picture on the wall—and then he sat in one of the chairs before a massive oak desk. He had been in this particular office once before, he realized, the previous December when he had been questioned about the events surrounding the assassination attempt on his life. He had not known then whose office it was.

  Solo had been with him, standing there by the window, arms crossed, his body showing his dislike at being there at all. There had been signals passed between them. There had been a strength in his partner's presence.

  "Can I have some coffee brought in for you?"

  "Tea would be fine," Kuryakin responded automatically, looking away from the empty window. He centered his attention back on Baker. "If that can be arranged."

  "Iced tea? I'll order it right away."

  "Hot tea," Kuryakin said firmly. "Black. No sugar."

  "Hot tea... of course. No problem. I'll join you." The CIA agent called down for two cups of hot tea, then seated himself behind the desk, his hands folded before him.

  The phone rang and he answered it, requesting whomever it was to call back in few minutes. He took a moment to return the receiver to its cradle. "Your Alexander Waverly called the Director an hour ago."

  Kuryakin looked back calmly, not responding.

  Baker continued, "He advised us you would be bringing the necessary documents. The signed contracts and the receipt."

  "Yes." Kuryakin thumbed the combination to his briefcase, disarmed the connection, and opened it. There were two sealed packets within, and he withdrew the one labeled CIA, laying it flat on the desk, unopened.

  The Soviet Division agent reached across the length of the desk and retrieved it. With a gilded letter opener, the Agency's crest emblazoned on the handle, Baker broke the seal and slid the file out, glancing at the papers. "Are these all of them?"

  "Yes."

  Baker nodded again, returned the papers to the file, and then resealed the packet. He leaned over and pressed the intercom switch on his desk. "Send Delrina in. I have something for him to deliver to the Director's office."

  There was a knock at the door and a young woman entered, placing a tray with two cups of tea on the corner of his desk; then she turned quickly and exited. Passing her on the way in, a middle-aged, balding man came in. Baker handed him the file and issued a few curt instructions for its care and delivery. It was all handled coolly, efficiently, and professionally, as though the entire procedure were an over-rehearsed scene in a dull play.

  They were alone again. Kuryakin leaned forward and claimed one of the steaming cups. He ignored the other man and drew the tea bag from the hot water, dangled it from its thread, and then dunked it back into the darkening drink several times.

  It occurred to him for a moment that it would be easy to drug the beverage, but the risk in this instance seemed minimal. The consequences of such an action would not be worth any information they could extract from him.

  "So you're feeling okay?" Baker asked again.

  Kuryakin took his time answering, letting the CIA agent wait. He pulled the tea bag out of his cup completely and settled it on the saucer before sipping carefully at the hot liquid. "I feel fine." He allowed one corner of his mouth to curl in an amused smile.

  Baker picked up his own cup, but grimaced at the unfamiliar bitter taste, and replaced it after one swallow. "Listen, Kuryakin, about Halverson, I—"

  "It is over, is it not?" Kuryakin broke in smoothly before Baker could go further, his eyes fixed on the steam rising from the tea.

  "Yes, but as for the rest—"

  "Then what is done, is done." The U.N.C.L.E. agent drained the tea and returned his empty cup to the tray. "If there is nothing further, I do have other stops to make." He reached for his briefcase.

  Baker looked startled, as was intended. "Wait," he said, his hand raised abruptly as though he would physically restrain the other if he could. "It is important that you understand that the actions of a double agent like Halverson, and a few renegade members of the CIA do not necessarily represent the beliefs of us all." Baker's voice was louder than he had obviously intended, the words ringing through the office. Another small gesture with his hand tried to belay the harshness.

  Kuryakin's face deadened to a professional dryness. "I will keep that in mind, should the situation occur again."

  The barb did not go unfelt. Baker acknowledged it with a nod, but persisted in his agenda. "You really proved yourself during the situation, Kuryakin. I mean it. I know that you could have killed those men easily, but you showed everyone what you were made of. That you were a real American," he said, stressing the last word slightly.

  "On the contrary, Mr. Baker; I had nothing to prove to them or to you. Perhaps it was not made clear to you, but I did what I did, not because I hold an American passport, but because I was told to by the Head of U.N.C.L.E., Alexander Waverly, my superior. What he tells me to do, I do, no matter how grievous the consequences."

  Baker stared back at him, the rattle of the air conditioner and the tap of the CIA agent's pencil the only sounds in the room for almost a full minute. "Do you realize what you are saying?" he asked incredulously. "What those words could imply? What if your Alexander Waverly asked you to perform an act of sabotage against an American institution?"

  "I work for the United Network Command for Law and Enforcement."

  "You've said that ever since we began questioning you four years ago." Baker snapped the pencil in half and tossed it in the wastebasket.

  "So, I am consistent." Again, Kuryakin let the smile drift across his face.

  "You are also a defector from the Soviet Union."

  "I am an American citizen now."

  "You seem to acknowledge that only when it is in your favor to do so."

  Kuryakin shrugged. "We all make sacrifices for what we believe in."

  "And leaving the Soviet Union was a sacrifice for you?"