The Red Retriever Affair

 

by

 Patricia J. Foley

 

 

 

                                                                                    Chapter One:  Prelude

 

July 13, 1965

New York City

 

 

"Stop at my place in a few minutes for dinner,"  Solo caught his partner's arm as the elevator doors opened at the floor of Kuryakin's apartment, several levels below his own.  As of late, he'd tried to avoid making his suggestions sound like orders, but now he was too tired to care.  "You know you never have any food at home."

Still flipping through a sheaf of several days' mail, Kuryakin nodded absently.  The other occupant of the elevator, an elderly lady, edged fastidiously away from the mud-encrusted blond and wrinkled her nose as the slight enforcement agent slipped past her.  Solo ignored her and her outraged stare, but moved to the other end of the elevator, painfully aware that the little dog in her arms was better groomed than himself at the moment.

Solo dropped his dirty backpack and dirtier jacket on the floor just inside his own door.  Kicking off his muddy boots, he stripped off his shirt.  Peeled down to T-shirt and chinos, he headed barefoot for the kitchen.  Napoleon was starving, grungy and exhausted, not an unusual state after a long, arduous mission.  Over the years, he had developed a routine to deal with those items that was almost down to a science.  He started the water running in the sink to replace the stale, week-old liquid in the pipes.  Looking through his cabinets, the Chief Enforcement Agent then found and opened a can of evaporated milk, knowing the once fresh milk in his refrigerator had probably long gone sour.  He rinsed and filled the kettle; while that was rumbling over the flame, he searched through his small stock of canned food until he found two items similar enough to be combined.  Tossing their contents into a saucepan, he heated them up.  Canned stew was not exactly his preferred Five-Star restaurant fare, in fact under normal circumstances he would have found it barely palatible.  But his standards lowered in proportion to the elapsed time since his last meal and for a hungry field agent, it had the virtue of being fast and easy.  Illya, of course, would eat anything, anytime, anywhere.  And then ask for more. 

He made tea, adding a generous amount of milk and sugar to his own, sugar to his friend's.  Officially, Kuryakin preferred his tea plain, but Napoleon knew Illya actually snuck jam into it whenever he thought himself unobserved.  Solo was out of jam, but considering the short rations they'd been on for days, the slight Russian agent could use whatever calories were available. 

Sometime during his preparations, he heard his partner enter the apartment and reset the security alarms.  After dishing out their dinner into two bowls, he came back into the living room, dropped one mug and bowl beside his partner, and put his own on the coffee table. 


Kuryakin was sitting cross-legged on Solo's Persian rug, his nose buried in a thick journal that had been in with his mail.  He'd taken time for a quick shower, his fair skin pink from a combination of sunburn and vigorous scrubbing.  His hair was still damp and he smelled like baby shampoo and Ivory soap.  Solo had once tried to tell him one stood a better chance of scoring with women when one broadcasted an aura something over five years old.  But the Russian had taken one shocked look at the prices on the toiletries he'd recommended and had shaken his head violently in negation.   The innocent scents contrasted oddly with his cat burglar clothes: black T-shirt, black jeans and sneakers.  Illya didn't see any conflict -- the black clothes were useful in his work and that particular soap happened to be the cheapest in the local supermarket.  At that argument, Solo had given up, knowing that trying to reform his frugal partner was next to impossible.

Solo had warned him that his own reputation was being irretrievably damaged associating with someone whose clothes indicated he was on his way to a police lineup and who smelled like he was on his way to kindergarten.  Kuryakin, used to his partner's insults, was unmoved.  However Kuryakin had picked up his miserly ways, it was clear he had no intention of spending a nickel more than he had to on clothes or toiletries.  At the moment, though, Solo had to admit that Kuryakin smelled better than his host. 

Illya looked up from his reading long enough to grab the bowl and go after the contents with the ferocity of a starving wolf.  Solo glanced at the journal, his eyes crossing at the thick formulae filling the pages.  Shaking his head, he went to stretch out on the couch, resting his bowl on his stomach, eating slowly.  Someday, he would get up, shed the remainder of his dirty clothes, shower and go to bed properly.  Now he was too tired.

Finishing his food, Solo lay back and closed his eyes.  He could hear Kuryakin flipping pages at his usual breakneck rate.  Once, the Russian got up, refilled their mugs with tea and went back to his reading.  Solo ignored the tea, drifting pleasurably.  He was tired and relaxed, the soft rustle of pages a gentle counterpoint to his own disjointed thoughts.  It was good to be home, assignment complete, both himself and his partner intact, with a shower and bed the only items on his immediate agenda.  He heard the clink of dishes being collected and mentally frowned at the sound of them being washed with a great deal of unnecessarily awkward splashing, but he was too tired to give his partner a lesson in basic housekeeping, however sorely needed.  It was the silence that got his attention, followed by the rustle of clothing and the jingle of keys.  Sitting up, he blinked owlishly at the sight of Illya doing up his jacket.

"Where are you going?"

"I have school -- class,"  Kuryakin corrected, "tonight.  You know that."

"You have got to be kidding."  Solo sank back against the couch cushions, drained by even the thought of moving.  "We just got back from a week-long case.  I'm exhausted.  You're exhausted.  Surely you don't need to--"

"Napoleon, I cannot miss school.  I missed it last week."  Kuryakin picked up his journal, bending a page near the end to indicate his place and busily gathered up a few texts and a notebook Solo hadn't noticed he'd brought in with him.  "Unless you need me for a debriefing?"  He looked over at the senior agent, a slight frown furrowing his forhead as he considered this possibility.

"God, no,"  Solo replied, appalled at even the thought of holding a meeting in his current weary state.  "We'll debrief tomorrow morning, Waverly's office, nine a.m."

Solo's grandfather clock chimed the half hour and the senior agent blinked at it.  "I thought your class was at seven?  It's only 5:30."

"I have a study group that meets at six that I must attend,"  the Russian called over his shoulder, heading for the door.  Then he turned around and came back peering cautiously at his superior.  "If that is all right?"

Solo waved at him irritably.  "Go on.  Let me get some sleep.  Just make sure you get some.  We've got a full day tomorrow, you know."

"Class lasts only for a few hours.  Thank you for the dinner."    The door closed behind him and Solo got up wearily and reset the security system.  "Right.  Four hours of physics on top of a week long mission, on top of reading two hundred pages of the Physicist's Review or whatever the hell that was.  I'm not that old yet," dropping back on the couch, Solo winced at the pain in his shoulders, "so he must be crazy."  He sipped his now cold tea and grimaced.  Kuryakin had remembered to put the milk in, but had forgotten the sugar.  It could be subtle revenge for his having given his partner sugar he didn't want, but Kuryakin hadn't seemed in one of his rare mischievous moods.  That he had forgotten proved he was tired or distracted and that mollified Solo somewhat.

The senior agent went to pour the contents out and make a fresh cup, deciding it, and the residue of his partner's energy, would at least revive him enough to change out of his dirty clothes and shower.  "I was never that young,"  he told his kettle, waiting for it to boil.  "He is crazy.  No sane person would go.  A really sane person would never have registered at all."

But his partner was still enthralled with his latest activity.  Once Kuryakin had discovered how universities in America worked: that they were not controlled by the government, that they accepted foreigners, and that all he had to do was show them his previous academic credentials, fill out some forms and pay some fees, the Russian had acted like a kid at Christmas.  Solo had found him one day sitting on the floor of his apartment, surrounded by every college catalog and schedule of classes in the New York City area, trying to decide where to go and what to take.  Kuryakin had handed him some sheets of paper.

"Napoleon, I filled out the application, but I am supposed to write an essay defining myself as a person and describing my accomplishments."

"Do they accept essays in words of only one syllable?"

"Very funny.  Read this for me and tell me what you think."

Solo took the scribbled page, not quite sure of his partner's mischievous look and read:

I am a dynamic figure, often seen scaling walls and fighting forces bent on world domination.  Using only my wits, a small quantity of explosives and a coil of rope, I have been known to liberate small countries, large quantities of diamonds, and keys locked in cars.  I speak seven languages fluently and am currently taking a crash courses in American and pig Latin.  I know what lies behind the coat hook.

Women fall for my ice blue eyes and golden hair.  I have landed a helicopter on a moving truck, parachuted out of burning planes, and ridden the elevator to the top of the Empire State Building.  I will eat anything, and often do.  I am an expert safe-cracker, a terrible hospital patient, and a crack shot.  No matter what I plan for my vacations, I usually spend them bird-hunting.

I play jazz balalaika, English horn, and excellent poker.  I have danced with the Kirov, dined with the President, and been wanted for criminal activities in numerous countries.   My guide to the best jails of the world has never been written but would be instantly rejected by the eminent publishers.  My formal education credentials include a masters from the Sorbonne, a doctorate from Cambridge and a certificate from the U.N.C.L.E. survival school.  Answer blanks, equal signs and small electronic devices are irresistible to me.  Sometimes I live for days entirely under artificial light.

My talents include judo, akido, karate, origami, and paying all my bills in cash.  I have found diplomatic immunity does not extend to bullets, but was told the discovery is not original.   My employer calls me expendable, women call me inscrutable, my partner has called me certifiable, and my family calls me Sunshine.  I have been followed by the CIA, FBI, KGB, GRU, MI6 and the security guards at Macy's, but the Macy's guards apologized and gave me a free gift certificate.  Last month, Her Royal Britannic Majesty decorated me for exemplary service to her country.  Last week, I was caller number nine and won the free toaster oven.

I have been briefed in the Kremlin, blessed in the Vatican, and busted in the Pentagon.

But I have yet to be accepted by your college.

Solo tossed the paper down.  "Who put you up to this?"          

"I will never tell."

"You don't plan on actually turning this in?"

"Why not?"  Kuryakin's lips were quirking mischievously.  "Is something wrong with the grammar?  Spelling?  Punctuation?"

"Try content!"

"It's all true,"  Kuryakin defended.  "I really did win a toaster last week."

Solo snorted.  "True or not, you're supposed to be serious about something like this."

"I am very serious.  I have often been told I am too serious.  Maybe I should add that as a fault."

"Very funny."  Solo watched as Kuryakin added a scribbled line to the essay.  "Go ahead.  Send it in. I dare you.  Waverly will have your hide if he finds out.  But it might be worth it; after all, they might have a lunatic quota."

"Why don't you apply then, Napoleon?"  Kuryakin asked innocently.

They crumpled several applications before Solo had his partner pinned and saying U.N.C.L.E.

Solo doubted the essay did it, but Kuryakin was accepted at several schools.  Unfortunately, the lifestyle of an U.N.C.L.E. agent did not allow for the kind of scheduling stability necessary to complete the classes once he had registered for them.  Even his partner's numerous degrees, including his prestigious Cambridge doctorate in quantum mechanics, had not helped when it came to his inevitable absences.  It had taken Waverly's intercession and a sympathetic physics dean at Columbia before Kuryakin had found a school willing to deal with his inadvertent scheduling irregularities and let him make up the work he missed. Kuryakin had taken and actually completed two graduate physics classes there last semester; his sporadic attendence compensated for by several research projects.  Buoyed by that success, he had signed up for another physics class and one in law.  Unfortunately, the law dean had not proved as flexible as the physics one and Kuryakin had been dropped from the class after several absences.

"I don't know why you want to take law anyway,"  Solo complained to his partner, who was staring mournfully at the notice of his academic dismissal.  He'd pulled Illya into the relative privacy of his office when he'd found the usually impassive Russian looking like someone had shot his dog, revoked his citizenship, and invalidated his green card, all at once.

"Napoleon, we work for the United Network Command for Law and Enforcement,"  Kuryakin emphasized.

"So that's what it stands for."

Kuryakin gave him a disgusted look.  "I understand the enforcement part--"

"They shoot us.  We shoot them.  Not much to it, even for your limited comprehension."

Kuryakin ignored him.  "I want to understand the law part, too."  He crumpled the notice into a ball and lobbed it viciously into Solo's wastebasket.

"That's why we have a legal department."

"I want to understand it myself,"  Kuryakin said, his jaw set with the stubborness Solo knew was usually hopeless to try and circumvent.  He tried anyway.

"We always get around the laws."

"Always?"  Kuryakin stared at him in astonishment.

"Usually,"  Solo amended.

"Then why do we spend so much time in various jail cells around the world?"  Kuryakin asked, still frowning in the direction of the discarded notice.

"Because you're still trying to figure out the enforcement part,"  Solo dead-panned, ignoring the dark look the comment earned him.  "Look, it's a nice thought, but an exercise in futility.  Even supposing you had the time and the schedule to take all the classes you want, too often we have to skirt the edges of the law.  We just don't have the luxury, in our profession, to obey every antiquated rule on every two-bit country's books.  It's better not to know.  That's why we have diplomatic immunity.  That's why our salaries are so very small, because they cover the fat salaries of our legal teams, who bravely go in, pencils wielding, after our gun-smoke clears, and get our charges dropped, our damages paid, and our fines cleared, while we, the heroic gunslingers, bind our wounds and head off into the sunset toward our next battle."

"You have been watching too many western American movies," Kuryakin said, disgusted. 

"That's American western movies, not the other way around.  And, no, I haven't. But you have been reading too many college catalogs."  

Kuryakin shrugged despondently.  "Perhaps international law is too large a subject with which to begin.  But we have many assignments here in America and that would be a place to start."

"I told you--"

"As a citizen,"  Kuryakin said the word as if it still tasted strange to him.  "I have a certain responsibility.  I should at least know what laws I am circumventing."

"Don't worry.  The FBI will let you know.  Right after they arrest you,"  Solo grinned.

Kuryakin visibly winced.  "That is what I am afraid of."

"See what I mean?  It's better for you not to know.  When you don't know what laws you're breaking, you don't worry about it."

"Perhaps you--"  Kuryakin said heatedly.

"And one class is enough anyway, especially when it's physics.  How you can read the stuff anyway boggles my mind, but you already have a doctorate in it.  Not to mention a few other degrees.  Why take more classes?  E equals MC squared, right?  Exactly how much physics does an enforcement agent need?"

The Russian sighed wearily.  "Napoleon, physics is not like anatomy.  A clavicle is a clavicle for all time, but physics changes."

"All the more reason to avoid it,"  Solo advised, preaching the Napoleon Solo Theory of Energy Conservation.  "Why study something that will be obsolete in five years?  Nothing but an exercise in futility.  Time to get your nose out of those books.  Study something useful.  Grow up a little.  Now, take girls -- that's something American you need to research.  The habits and practices of our lovely female citizens.  That's a sensible study. What can you do with physics?  Tack another useless degree on your wall?"

"Useless!"  Kuryakin sputtered.

"You haven't even hung up the others.  We're not even talking wall coverage here.  But girls -- now, you can put that knowledge to good use every day."

"You're the expert,"  Kuryakin said dryly.  "You write me a field guide."

"A true scientist does his own research.  Not to mention the fact that it's more fun."

Kuryakin had ignored him, but had not stayed despondent long, signing up for a martial arts class to replace the law class.  Solo found his schedule wearying just to think about it.  Monday and Thursday he kept up with training in two different martial arts, Tuesday was his graduate physics class, and Wednesday was his usual night for working late in his lab, catching up on paperwork in his office, doing homework, or reading the stack of science journals he subscribed to or borrowed from the U.N.C.L.E. library.  Friday nights Solo insisted he keep free, in his ongoing attempts to get his partner's nose away from the grindstone and have some fun.  Rarely did Kuryakin make it home before ten p.m. and then he stayed up until midnight, or sometimes till two in the morning, reading and working.  Then he slept five hours and did it again. 

Solo was no slackerd.  Being Chief Enforcement Agent for U.N.C.L.E. North America meant he was constantly playing catch-up between his own field work, managing Section Two, and a flood of paperwork. As CEA, he worked long hours and during the little time he had free, he put as much energy into relaxation.  Solo found the slight Russian's energy and the directions he put it to a little disconcerting.  He understood that, at least in part, Illya pursued his studies for the same relaxing effects his partner received from pursuing girls.  So far he'd just been unsuccessful in convincing the younger agent that girls were more fun. 

"Arrested development,"  he muttered and blinked, waking from his reverie as the kettle started to whistle.  Solo made his tea, took his shower and had been peacefully sleeping for some hours when his partner finally came home.

 

                                                                                                     ***

                                                                                                       

Somewhere in the Soviet Union

 

The apartment was shabby and poor by American standards, but solidly 'middle-class' in the supposedly classless Soviet society.  The agent on duty flattened against the wall at the soft knock, even though it was in the prearranged code.  CIA agents in the Soviet Union could never be too careful.  He drew his gun as the door opened, but lowered it immediately as he recognized the agent entering.  "Did you retrieve Antipov?"

"He's dead."  The voice was flat with defeat and anger.

"The plans?"

"Who knows if he got them out?  They might have been in his head, for all we'll ever know.  He never regained consciousness."

The first agent slammed his fist against the wall.  "Damn these amateurs."

"No use getting upset, Daniels.  It happens."

"Yeah and we have to go back and explain how it happened on our assignment."

"The assignment's not over yet.  They don't know that he's dead.  The word is still out on the street.  The KGB are still searching for him."

"What good does that do us, Nelson?  He'd dead."

"Not to them.  For now we need time.  A decoy.  Wire this photo back to HQ.  We need some ringers on the streets.  Something for the KGB to chase but not catch while we set up an operation.  That part won't be hard -- the decoys will have to be slight and short, but that and a blond wig are all they'll need.  Keep the KGB interested.  Make them believe he's still alive and see if they are willing to negotiate.   Don't promise anything, don't offer anything, just set up a dialogue.  We still might be able to salvage this operation.  I'm flying back to HQ this afternoon -- with Antipov's body.  We're already set up to smuggle the corpse out. The American Ambassador's aide de camp just 'died of an asthma attack'."

"Right."

"I'll be in touch."  Nelson slipped soundlessly out the door.       Daniels turned to the picture in his hand and grimaced.  Even jaded CIA agents grew weary of pictures of dead bodies.  This had not been a peaceful death, but the agent ignored the blood and the empty expression in the blue eyes and started to sketch out a description of the clothes and hair they needed to replicate.  "Why couldn't the damn bastard have lived?"  he swore softly under his breath.

 

                                                                                                     ***

 

 

 

CIA Headquarters, Langley, Virginia

 

 

The Director of Central Intelligence frowned down at the report and tossed the folder to the head of his Soviet-Russia Division.  "Do a personnel search.  Find me an agent who can pull this off."

"Just how many Soviet nuclear physicists do you think we have in this organization?  Who could pass for the subject?"  Donald Johnson took the photographs and file specifications from his superior.

"That reactor must not be allowed to go operational.  I want those reactor plans.  I want that reactor compromised, if possible.  I don't need to remind you gentlemen that this country is engaged in a serious nuclear arms race with the Soviet Union.  If this reactor is successful then the amount of plutonium the Russians could produce is unimaginable.  If it is successfully duplicated before we can even get our own models in production, then they could win the arms race.  This is a chance to get near it, maybe our only chance.  And we don't have much time.  The KGB is not going to chase its tail forever.  You've got a week - no more than two, if absolutely necessary - to get someone in the field.  You know the relevant personnel in our organization.  Find someone."

Johnson opened the file folder and his eyes widened.  "You know who could pass for this?"  He handed the folder to the Peter Baker, the head of Soviet Counterintelligence sitting next to him.

Baker glanced at it.  "Kuryakin."

"Fine,"  the DCI answered.  "Brief him, prep him, get him out in the field."

"Sir, he's not one of ours."

The agency head's eyes narrowed.

"Illya Kuryakin.  You remember, he was an assignment just--"

"Waverly's assistant enforcement chief."  The Director frowned.  "The KGB defector.  Zadkine."

"His physical profile is close.  It's damn near identical.  And he has the physics background,"  Johnson said reluctantly.

"No,"  the DCI snapped.  "Do you know what I would owe Waverly if I had to go to one of his agents?  Damn it, we have thousands of men all over the world.  I want one blue-eyed, young, quasi-blond, quasi-Russian, who knows enough physics and espionage to bluff his way into that Russian plant, get me those plans and get out. Considering what the two of you cost me in budgets, you ought to be able to come up with one.  If you can't, then you call the FBI.  You contact the Joint Chiefs at the Pentagon and get someone in military intelligence.  Or Rickover in the nuclear navy. You find me an agent with this background, because I'll be damned if I have to go to U.N.C.L.E to pull off a CIA assignment concerning the defense of this nation.  This country does not need U.N.C.L.E. to take care of its own.  Dismissed, gentlemen."

 

                                                                                                     ***

 

 

U.N.C.L.E. Headquarter, New York City

 

Waverly put down the intelligence report and reached absently for his pipe.  Then he pulled his hand back, frowning slightly.  At his last physical, the medical chief at headquarters, Dr. Samuel Lawrence, had insisted he cut back on his smoking.  In fact, Lawrence, relying on medical intelligence reports still not generally accepted, had embarked on campaign to eradicate that habit throughout U.N.C.L.E. 


The physician's crusade was carrying only limited weight among enforcement agents who claimed with some amusement that they needed to worry more about bullets than lung cancer.  Undaunted, knowing how his agents' minds worked, Lawrence had simply made the practice cost them points in their field fitness evaluations.  Lawrence had then arranged with the head of Section Three, who was also trying to dissuade his younger agents from acquiring the habit, a small demonstration to prove how easily an agent with a sophisticated sense of smell could pick out a hidden intruder -- if that intruder smoked.   They'd gone after Illya Kuryakin to be their tracker and he'd done remarkably well; the demonstration had been a definite and convincing success.  Under this combined attack, agents grumbled and complained, but many had begun slowly cutting back.                  Waverly  had not paid much attention to the scheme, though he'd attended the demonstration and received some mild amusement, both from watching Kuryakin exhibit his here-to-unknown talent and from listening to Solo's teasing comments and nicknames for his partner over the next few days.  But his amusement was short-lived when Lawrence had then gone after his own habit, claiming Waverly needed to set a good example.

Irritating, to be asked to give up one of his few luxuries.  He was no field agent, after all.  Waverly rose and turned away from the tempting pipe and went to stand at the window, staring out at the lights of the United Nations building shining a few hundred yards away.  Although it was too late for the General Assembly and no emergency session was in progress, the building glowed in the gathering dusk of the summer evening.  Nightfall came late in this season of the year, but the UN bustled long after even that delayed close to the day.

Tonight, the lights seem to reproach him.

Waverly turned back to his desk and defiantly lighted his pipe, puffing until a wreath of smoke wound around him.  When the pipe was drawing well, he reopened the folder and studied the reports.

The danger was real.  Waverly saw a world poised on the knife edge of nuclear war, on one side a young country, ruled by a younger leader, blinded by the optimism such inexperience feeds.  Against them, an ancient country, ruled by corruption, treachery and pessimism.  With U.N.C.L.E. perched anxiously to one side, trying to maintain the balance of power.  The balance of peace.

Sometimes the things one was called to do in the pursuit of peace were less than noble.

Waverly went back to the report and studied it again.  He didn't like the implications, either for world peace, or for his agency, if U.N.C.L.E. were forced to step in and intervene.

A difficult decision, this.  Not one he could make lightly.  If U.N.C.L.E. did act and it's actions were discovered, he might have struck a blow for world peace at the cost of his agency.  On the other hand, if he let this prospect for nuclear proliferation go unchecked, both U.N.C.L.E. and the world as he knew it might cease to exist.

He would have to move carefully, to ensure he achieved his aims without compromising the effectiveness of his organization.

And the time was, as usual, limited.  The report had been in yesterday afternoon's courier packet.  The crisis was now several days old.  He might be required to act at any time and he needed more current informaion.

After a moment's pause, he picked up the phone.

Then he absently reached for his pipe again.  Belatedly remembering his promise, he swore a soft oath.

Then he struck the match.

By the time the call went through, he had the pipe drawing well.

 

                                                                                                     ***

 

 

U.N.C.L.E. Safe House Complex

Washington D.C.

 

The night was sultry, the humid air pressing down on the heated earth, the stars shining only dimly through the surrounding haze.  The atmosphere might have been oppresive, but Norman Graham, chief administrator for Washington, D.C. U.N.C.L.E. was in another environment entirely, swimming in his outdoor pool at least a foot below the oven-like air.

Trish Graham stood in the light spilling out from the open doorway, waiting for her husband's head to rise above the water. After a few moments of batting at the moths flying around her, she closed the french doors and crossed to the end of the pool.  The fact that she was keeping the head of U.N.C.L.E. North America waiting didn't concern her.  One of the few people who wasn't unduly impressed with Waverly, she felt a few moments spent cooling his heels would do the man nothing but good.

Norm approached her, swimming soundlessly toward the floodlights and as he reached out to push himself into a turn she crouched down and touched him lightly on the shoulder.

And suffered through an explosion of water.

After turning a complete, although inadvertent, somersault in the water, Norm stood up, shaking drops of water from his hair and sending them flying, like sparkling diamonds, through the air.

"Goodness, Norm.  Was that really necessary?" Trish rose, swatting ineffectually at the soaked linen of her skirt.

"No,"  Norm lowered his arms and relaxed from his defensive stance, pushing his soaked bangs out of his eyes.  "How often do I have to prove this, honey.  Never sneak up --"

"On an enforcement agent.  Yes, darling, I know.  And when I forget, you prove it to me all over again.  I'm sorry I startled you."

"Likewise,"  Norm grinned.  "But I'm not sorry for the company.  Kids asleep?  You could join me.  And since I soaked you anyway--"

Trish backed away from his wet hand.  "No, thank you."

"A spot of skinny dipping?  A moonlight swim?"  Norm grinned mischievously and advanced on her through the water, putting wet fingertips on the tiles at the edge of the pool, preparing to hoist himself up.

"Alexander is on the telephone,"  Trish said, backing away to a safe distance.

"Oh, damn,"  Norm lost the smile.  "Are you sure he has the right number?   The one for the White House is only a few digits off."

"He wants you, darling," Trish said sweetly, "his ex-enforcement agent.  The one always ready for action."

"Not this kind of action,"  Norm grumbled, grabbing a towel from a lounge chair and heading toward the house.  "I had in mind a completely different kind of action."

Trish sat down on the lounge chair and studied the ripples on the water shining in the floodlights.  "Skinny dipping," she said thoughtfully.

Then a mosquito took a direct hit on her upper arm and she rose quickly, tugging at her wet skirt and followed her husband into the cool, dry, civilized house.  Alexander wouldn't keep Norm on the phone all night.

 

 

                                                                                                     ***

 

 

 

                                                                                                     ***

 

CIA Headquarters, Langley, Virginia

 

Thirty-six hours later, well after midnight, two men sat surrounded by a sea of folders.  The roar of a jet from Dulles airport rumbled through the windows. "Did you call MI-6?"

"Yeah.  Guess who the Brits recommended?"

Baker groaned.  "No."

"He worked with them recently on a case.  Not to mention that they knew him from Cambridge.  I wish the GRU had taken the little bastard out when they had the chance."

"Jesus, Don."

"I still say he's a mole.  Maybe not the mole, but a mole, anyway.  Or a sleeper."

"That case is closed.  No use stirring it up now."

"So whom do we have?"

Baker sighed, comparing their small list of 'possibles' to the folders flooding their offices. "Chirkov is the closest fit.  Agent, physicist, speaks Russian, blue eyes.  He's even blond."

"Hell, he's forty-two.  He might pass for the father, not the son.  And he's a lousy agent.  He trips over his feet in the labs.  He's got no mechanical skills.  He's a scientist, not a field operative.  I'll bet he panics when the copier jams.  No way could he pull off a field assignment like this."

"Markowitz is our best physicist and he's worked undercover in the Soviet Union."

"With those dark eyes and that Mediterranean skin?  Besides he's thirty-eight and 5' 11"."

"Andrews of the FBI."

"He has a physics background, blue eyes, slight build and he's just thirty.  That's close to our physical type. Shit, we can dye and straighten his hair.  But he's still two inches too tall and his Russian is lousy.  He's never even been in the Soviet Union.  And he's a cop, not an agent.  Can he handle this kind of assignment?"

"Hypnotutoring.  And special shoes," Baker suggested dead pan, obviously joking.

"What about the Navy -- we've got dozens of young guys in nuclear subs -- they have some physics background, military training; they'd be close to our target age..."

"I asked...requested they do a personnel search for someone with blue eyes, our physical type, and some Russian background.  They laughed and asked me if I thought they'd let anyone even remotely Russian near those subs.  Then they told me it would take a week to just do a personnel search.  Let's face it, Don.  We have physicists.  We have Sovietologists.  We have doubles for this boy and we have agents.  None of them is a viable match.  Every one is a stretch.  Except Kuryakin."

"We should have taken that bastard out when we had the chance."

"We don't have much time to get an agent briefed, prepped and in the field.  We know the KGB have taken the bait. They made the contact with our sources and they're pretending to negotiate while trying to pinpoint Antipov's location.  We can't stall them for long.  Now we can spend our days wading through more personnel files, increase the Soviet's suspicions with a delay, and find some poor second, or we can go with the obvious choice."

"Waverly could refuse to lend him."

"Are you kidding?  Pass up a chance to get the CIA in his debt?  That old fox will string us out but good.  Why do you think the old man said no?"

"The chief may still say no."

"He won't like it, but he'll do it to take out that reactor."

"But Kuryakin?"

Baker frowned and picked up another file, riffling through it.  "He's been cleared.  Christ, Don, we've followed the guy since he got here.  He goes to U.N.C.L.E. HQ.  He goes to class, the libraries and home.  Once in awhile he goes out with a girl, but always with his partner.  The most incriminating thing he's done in New York is visit jazz clubs where he talks to no one and nurses one glass of vodka.  On every single courier run into Washington, he's flown into Dulles, dropped off all his packages as regular as Santa Claus, and headed straight for the U.N.C.L.E. Safe House for the weekend."

"Safe House."  Johnson sneered.  "Nothing but another damned U.N.C.L.E. installation we can't infiltrate.  But I guess there's no place safer than under the thumb of the head of U.N.C.L.E., Washington.  Norman Graham keeps tight tabs on Waverly's Russian, that's for sure."

"He has since Kuryakin's defection,"  Baker added.  "And the pattern hasn't changed according to these reports.  On the Monday courier run back to New York, Kuryakin always comes to Langley first thing.  He picks up our bundle and heads out the front door while our tail heads out the back.  Christ, he knows all our local men as well as they know him.  He makes his run to the FBI, the Pentagon, the White House -- he never even bothers to shed our tail anymore if he recognizes him -- they might as well take the same cab to Dulles, save the taxpayers some money, and share the same row on the NY shuttle.  Maybe they could help each other with the Post's crossword puzzle, add some interest to the trip.  Our local boys all say the same thing -- we must have better things for them to do on the weekend than trail Kuryakin while he takes Graham's eight-year-old kid to the comic-book store, or -- and this is the really exciting stuff -- buys himself a new book or jazz record."

"I'd like those agents' names,"  Johnson said sourly.  "Attitudes like that breed carelessness."

"It's been over four years.  If Kuryakin was a careless mole, he'd have been caught.  If he is a sleeper, he rivals Rip Van Winkle.  If he's a double agent, he's better than our best.  We've got nothing on him.  And Waverly is no fool -- not only must he believe the Russian is clean, but he's got that boy under his thumb but good.  Shipped him off to Graham the minute he got here.  The kid never strays an inch.  He either likes family life, or he's been told to like it, because when he's here he plays the dutiful son routine with a vengeance.  Hangs out with the Graham kids as innocent as if he was never an eliminator for the GRU.  Our agents groan when he's assigned to them, they say he has the most boring life of anyone they've tailed."

"You can't tell me that isn't an act."

"Would Waverly risk U.N.C.L.E. and his own reputation, on the coercion of one agent?  I don't buy it.  All that old world charm aside, Waverly is a ruthless bastard when the situation requires it.  Christ, he'd have Kuryakin taken out himself if he thought the Russian was a threat -- and it's not as if he doesn't have the means to do it.  In the absence of any evidence, that leaves me to conclude Kuryakin is exactly the honest little defector--"

"That's a contradiction in terms."

"--that Waverly claims him to be.  And if he is, then we can use him."

"The old man isn't going to like it.  Sending a defector back into the Soviet Union?"

"What better way to prove the Russian really defected, than to send him to do a job against his own country?  Anyway, U.N.C.L.E has sent him there several times.  The CIA has invested enough resources following Waverly's Russian that it's time we got our own payback.  Why shouldn't we get to use him, too?"

"You really think he's safe?"

"If he isn't, then it's better we find out now.  And if the Soviets discover the switch, they'll execute him anyway.  That's a pretty strong motivation to do the job.  At least we won't lose one of our own.  It won't be an American taking out that plant, it will be a Soviet."

"He's an American citizen now."

"He's a defector.  A spy.  A former KGB agent who turned on them.  If he's uncovered they'll hush it up, probably kill him quickly for fear of word getting out.  They know he works for U.N.C.L.E.; it will be Waverly's group that takes the heat, if he gets caught.  The CIA will never be implicated.  All in all, it's not a bad solution."

"The old man still won't like it."

"What can he do?  We'll show him the other candidates if he kicks -- he's savvy enough to realize our choices are limited. It may choke him, but in some respects it works out for us. I don't know about you, but I plan to leverage this into getting more of a personnel budget.  I don't like going to U.N.C.L.E. any more than any one else."

"A bigger personnel budget..."  Johnson blinked thoughtfully.  "You know, that's not a bad idea."

"Who's going to tell him?"

"Toss a coin?"

Baker lost.

 

                                                                                      Chapter Two:  Setup

 

 

U.N.C.L.E. Headquarters, New York City

                 

The man seated next to Waverly at the round conference table was intimately acquainted with one of the two agents who entered Waverly's office. 

Illya Nickovetch Kuryakin's face was impassive as Waverly greeted his two top enforcement agents, although he spared a brief glance at his boss before sitting down and staring blankly before him at nothing.  His partner, however, reacted with a scowl at the sight of Waverly's visitor. 

Peter Baker was the CIA's top intelligence officer responsible for Soviet Counterintelligence.  He had been one of the agents responsible for investigating and dissecting every facet of Kuryakin's prior life since his defection from the Soviet Union.  Now that his partner had been given U.S. citizenship, by no less than a special act of Congress initiated by the Senator from New York, Solo had thought the CIA had backed off, dropping their constant surveillance of Kuryakin.  Certainly they hadn't arranged for any more private interrogation parties, complete with lie detectors, for his partner's entertainment -- at least not that Solo had heard.  But why was the CIA here now?

Solo numbered among his friends a few CIA agents, Kelly Robinson and Alexander Scott among them.  They had, in fact, recently helped rescue his partner and himself from the situation in Los Angeles.  But neither Kelly nor Scotty was in the Soviet-Russia or Counterintelligence Divisions, those areas that had repeatedly grilled his partner over the years since his defection.  Solo had little use for those departments, or for the Cold-War paranoia that afflicted that agency.  Perhaps, his dual Canadian-American citizenship made him see things on a more global perspective.  Or perhaps his perspective was narrowed from having a defector for a partner.  Regardless, he had few warm feelings for the CIA.

Waverly began with little preamble.  "You both know Mr. Baker, gentlemen.  He is here to discuss the details of a case which may require some joint cooperation between our two agencies."

U.N.C.L.E. and the CIA working together on a case? Solo thought skeptically.  That will be a first.

Baker darkened the lights and brought up an image on the screen.  "This man's name is Alexi Stephanovitch Antipov.  He's a Soviet physicist, working on the latest version of their liquid metal fast breeder nuclear reactor.  His son was also a gifted physicist."

"His son?"  Solo glanced at Baker and back at the display skeptically.  "He's rather young to have a physicist for a son.  And I presume that since you're speaking in the past tense, the son is dead."

"Correct.  The boy died earlier this week, although the Soviets aren't yet aware of that fact.  He wasn't quite eighteen.  As for his age, your partner wasn't much older when he had taken most of the course work for his Ph.D. in quantum mechanics." 

Solo grimaced and Kuryakin shifted infintessimally in his seat.

"But you are correct on one point," Baker continued. "This boy was something of an idiot savant, gifted in nuclear physics, but less mature in other areas, at least from what we can ascertain.  The Soviets used that immaturity to control him, but he surprised them.  He was dissatisfied with the safety backups on the breeder that were designed by the mechanical engineers and refused to work on the project unless they were corrected.  Idealistic, but stupid, especially for a Soviet citizen."

Solo glanced at his partner, but although Kuryakin's eyes narrowed a bit at that dig, he let it pass.  He had probably heard far worse in his various interrogation sessions.  Solo cleared his throat.  "I'm afraid I'm not up on my nuclear physics.  Perhaps someone could explain what a breeder reactor is."

There was a brief silence around the conference table until Waverly prompted, "Mr. Kuryakin, you are best qualified to enlighten Mr. Solo."

Kuryakin sighed softly, but complied.  "Simply put, a breeder reactor produces more plutonium from uranium than it consumes in the fission process.  It is an ideal reactor if one requires high grade plutonium for weapons production.  But the engineering requirements are more stringent.  There are very few in existence, most small-scale experimental reactors, used for weapons production, or experimentation, rather than utility power."  He hesitated, then added, "There is one being developed for utility power purposes here in this country, but its testing is still in progress."

Solo glanced around the table, noting a slight frown had creased the CIA agent's brow at Kuryakin's knowledge of the American reactor, but no one added anything further.  Kuryakin, apparently regretting his last admission, had clammed up again. "And this reactor is different?  Is it the first Soviet breeder?"  Solo asked.

Peter Baker responded.  "Certainly not, but it is the first of this design and this power level.  Your Mr. Kuryakin is correct," again there was a slight shift in the CIA agent's tone that indicated he had made note of that knowledge, "that most of the 'fast breeders' were designed for experimental, military purposes, of small power.  This reactor is designed, ostensibly, for utility power purposes and is of a power level unprecedented in either Soviet or presently operating American breeders.  Of course, the level of plutonium production would be equally unprecedented, particularly if these reactors proliferate throughout the Soviet Union as major sources of utility power."

"And the boy discovered a design problem and refused to work on the project?"

"Exactly.  They reacted in a typical Soviet fashion, apparently with threats against himself and his father, if he continued to refuse." 

Kuryakin shifted uncomfortably again and Waverly frowned, while the CIA agent seemed oblivious to the atmosphere his statements were creating. 

"The boy, however, had access to the outside world via a crude computer network of physicists.  He smuggled a coded message out asking to defect, along with his father, before his computer access was detected and cut off."

"And did he defect?"  Solo asked.

"He tried to.  The father never made it out at all.  We're not sure if he was unwilling or just unable.  The boy's escape attempt encountered problems as well.  He was shot.  We recovered him still alive, but he subsequently died from his injuries.  The Soviets don't realize he was injured, though, and they are currently searching the area where he was last seen with a fine toothed comb.  Plus, they've upped security on all their borders.  They have good reason to want him back.  Now that they don't have the son to hold over his head, or perhaps in an effort to force the Soviets to retrieve the boy alive, the father is currently refusing to work on the reactor.  He's designed so much of it that handing the project over to another head physicist would set their timetable back considerably.  They want them both badly enough that they are willing to negotiate.  Or at least they are pretending to negotiate.  They are claiming they'll allow them both to defect if they'll complete their assignment on the reactor and familiarize the next chief physicist with their research."

"If the boy is dead, with whom are they negotiating?"

"With us, of course, under an appropriate cover organization, a society dedicated to the non-politicalization of scientific information.  The Soviets made a smart move, since this organization just doesn't have the resources to get the boy out of the country.  We know they don't; we have cover agents in that organization."  Baker met the Chief Enforcement Agent's eyes frankly.  "We want the plans for that reactor, Solo.  With the boy dead, we only have two likely possibilities.  Right now, the Soviets have the father under such tight security, we could never snatch him.  But the Soviets want the boy badly enough, that they made this counter-offer.  They are counting on the boy believing that offer, of course.  That's our way in."

"Except for the little fact of his death."

"We planned to send in a ringer, one of our own agents.  But we've run into a snag."

"How inconvenient,"  Solo murmured.

Baker ignored the sarcasm.  "Selecting the right agent is critical.  We need an agent who is fluent in nuclear physics, can pass for the subject, is extensively familiar with Soviet life, and who speaks Russian like a native."

"I imagine those last two criteria would be a bit of a problem for your agency," The CEA remarked caustically.

"Don't kid yourself, Solo.  We frequently have to work undercover in the Soviet Union, as you very well know."

"Then why are you here?"  Solo responded.

 For the first time, Baker looked slightly uncomfortable.  "This is going to be a precision mission and the success of it depends on obtaining the best agent, not merely the most convenient one for us.  Our organization has several agents who meet one or more of the criteria.  We have agents who can match this boy physically, agents with the nuclear physics background, agents with knowledge of Russian culture, agents who can speak the language, agents with experience impersonating others.  But none of our agents meet all of these criteria together well enough to make a successful mission.  We then did a routine check of all agents within affiliated U.S. agencies, the F.B.I, the Secret Service, some of the more exotic branches of the military.  That turned up several more possibilities, but in checking those out, they were also all eliminated for one reason or another.  Another computer search of agents in allied international organizations revealed several more possibilities." 

Baker shrugged almost casually.  "Your Mr. Kuryakin headed the list."

Solo glanced at the group around the table, but apparently no one else, his partner included, seemed inclined to react to this.  "Mr. Kuryakin," Solo said bluntly, "fails the criteria on one important point.  He's not eighteen, nor could he pass for that."

"None of our agents would, Solo.  We wouldn't use anyone that young anyway, this operation requires an experienced agent.  And unlike the KGB, we don't start training our field agents at age nine.  Or was it age four?"

That oblique reference to his partner's past sent a flush of anger to Solo's normally polished facade.  He glanced at Kuryakin, but the Russian hadn't stirred, still staring glassily down at the same spot on the conference table.

Baker went on.  "Physical features are what put Mr. Kuryakin at the head of the list.  The other criteria are more easily replicated.  Antipov's son is a blue-eyed blond, slight, 5' 7", just a little under Mr. Kuryakin's height.  His features are similar to your agent's."  Baker displayed a slide and they all studied the figure displayed. 

At a careless glance, Solo might have mistaken it for a slide of his partner, or a younger version of him. 

Baker then put up a file photo of Kuryakin next to it, so they could study the similarities and differences.  The blue eyes, the straight blond hair, the wide forehead and Slavic features were twins of the agent at Solo's side.  This boy's face was thinner, lacking Kuryakin's maturity; there was less steadiness in the eyes, more uncertainty in the posture.  He looked younger, frightened, Russian.  Not at all like the agent at his side, but disturbingly like the young man in a film Solo knew was in Waverly's files, a film of Illya when he first defected.  Looking young, frightened, and impossibly Russian.           

Baker let them look a moment.  "There are differences, as you can see.  But I'm told by our own experts the differences are relatively easy to correct, or conceal.  That's better seen with a more appropriate representation of your agent."  Baker replaced the slide of Kuryakin with another and for the first time the Russian reacted, straightening in his chair, a muted murmur of protest dying in his throat.

Solo could see why Illya was distressed.  The former slide had showed his partner in his typical black suit and severe expression, a look he seldom strayed from at HQ and one that lent his slight frame a touch more presence.  Apart from the disguises necessary to their work, Solo rarely saw him in casual clothes.  This picture was a candid shot of the agent, a surveillance slide.  The imprinted date marked the occasion as a Fourth of July picnic at the home of Norman Graham. 

The head of Washington U.N.C.L.E., Graham had 'adopted' Illya Kuryakin into his family when the Russian had first defected.  Graham's wife, Trish and stepson Tony had emigrated from Russia and Waverly had steered Illya toward them to give the then twenty-two-year-old some badly needed security and family life.  Four years later, Illya still spent most of his days off with the Grahams in Washington, relaxing there as he never did in New York.

This slide displayed an impromptu baseball game.  Illya, up at bat, squinted into the sun at the pitcher.  The worn jeans, sneakers and a faded team T-shirt were obvious cast-offs of Tony's.  Overlong blond hair, desperately in need of cutting, stuck out haphazardly from a baseball cap jammed brim backwards on his head.               Tanya Graham, laughing as she crouched behind in the catcher's position, might have been his twin, so alike were they in coloring and build.  Tony Graham, taller, dark-haired and stockier, jeering from the pitcher's mound, looked every inch the older brother, in spite of being Kuryakin's age. 

His partner seemed a different person than the cool, reserved agent in the file photo, both younger and unequal to his real position in U.N.C.L.E.. 

Solo frowned at the slide.  He had never known about his partner's 'adopted' family until the facts had come out during a case six months before.  Illya had never told him.  Not that the information was anything he needed to know, but he'd come to think of the Russian as something of a lone wolf: cool, aloof, untouchable, perpetually reserved with everyone, even, to a large extent, his partner.  It had been a bit of a shock to realize his lone wolf was somebody else's kid brother and wolf cub. 

One of the things that had first impressed Solo about the Russian was his reserved professionalism, as well as the lack of grandstanding so common in new field agents.  Kuryakin showed a compliant obedience to orders one usually only saw in those seasoned by a few years in the field, too often not even then.  Solo had congratulated himself on landing such an emotionally mature partner, especially considering he'd expected anyone with Kuryakin's undeniable field skills to have the ego to accompany them.  


Solo had teamed with him on a few assignments before he realized that Kuryakin's acceptance of the secondary role stemmed not only from a lack of ego but also from a very real lack of certain kinds of experience.  Kuryakin could shoot up the bad guys with the best of them, more than hold his own in a fight, and handle any technical issue with ease, but he frequently drew a complete and utter blank at dealing with people.  It was when he saw Illya interact with the Grahams that he noticed how much Illya's 'mature thirties' behavior started to look more like a 'well-behaved ten'.  It was a little disconcerting that his partner knew well how to fight, even was skilled at leading a group into a fight, but put him in a social situation with ordinary Americans, and he became silent and almost insecure. 

Solo was grateful his partner had the support of a family while he found his feet in American society.  But as time and familiarity began to show him glimpses of Kuryakin's acerbic tongue and occasionally mischievous spirit, he wondered what the future held in store for him as Kuryakin integrated his personal and professional selves.  Would Kuryakin instantly mature from tongue-tied ten to adult, or was there was a rebellious teenager somewhere buried inside, waiting to inflict itself upon his partner?  If so, Solo wasn't looking forward to it.

Considering what a riddle his partner was, it wasn't such a ridiculous thought.  Depending on the situation, Illya could seem like two different people.  It was hard for Solo to reconcile the cold, formal, emotionally distant agent from U.N.C.L.E. headquarters, who spoke the bare minimum for politeness, never touched, and rarely showed any expression, with the Illya he'd discovered at the Graham's home, who had his hair tousled and was kissed like a child and was -- too often, in Solo's opinion --  treated like one. 

Part of it was the openness of Russian emotions practiced in the Graham household.  Certainly, they could afford to indulge in that in a way that Solo, as Kuryakin's immediate superior, could not.  But Solo had noticed that Kuryakin's status in that family seemed to fluctuate from a position between Tony and Tanya, to between Tanya and eight-year-old Michael.  While U.N.C.L.E.'s number two enforcement agent seemed entirely comfortable with the dichotomy, Solo never quite knew how to deal with Illya on such varying levels. The Chief Enforcement Agent preferred to avoid the issue entirely, trusting Illya would continue to leave that part of himself either back with the Grahams or professionally buried. 

Solo definitely had some problems with the CIA trying to merge the two now.  "How did you get this?" he asked.

Baker brushed it off.  "Routine surveillance.  Your partner was still being investigated prior to his American citizenship.  Don't be ridiculous, Solo, Graham knows his residence and the attached U.N.C.L.E. Safe House are under routine surveillance by any number of agencies.  Privacy is a luxury we can't afford in our profession.  The point of this is not to outrage your outmoded notions of privacy, but to illustrate the difference clothes and setting can make.  A little plastic surgery will add to the effect."

"Plastic surgery?"

"Nothing major.  The removal of any noticeable scars or slight facial lines, adding or removing a mole or birthmark, if necessary.  We have physicians on staff expert in this sort of work.  Fortunately, they would not have to do much to make your partner convincing in the role."

"If you couldn't get the boy out the first time, when they weren't expecting it, how do you expect to get my partner out when the mission is over?"

"We weren't involved in the original defection.  Our department is working on plans right now to ensure Mr. Kuryakin's safety."

Solo glanced at his partner, but Kuryakin had gone back to staring fixedly at the desk top after his muted protest.  "Mr. Waverly?"

Waverly was fumbling, as usual, with his pipe, and took his time lighting it and puffing at it, until a wreath of fragrant smoke issued from the bowl.  "This would be a cooperative mission, not an U.N.C.L.E. operation, per se.  I am interested in hearing Mr. Kuryakin's opinion of being lent to the CIA in this effort."

"Mr. Kuryakin?"  Baker questioned, when it seemed as if the Russian would never speak.

He stirred slightly and looked at Waverly alone.  "I am an agent for the Command.  I will go where you send me, sir."

Waverly harrumped and sent more smoke issuing from his pipe.  "Very well.  Since you have declined to have an opinion in this matter, you are excused while further discussions take place."

Kuryakin pushed back his chair, rose smoothly from the table, and left the room.  Solo gaped from his exiting back to Waverly, who had turned to his communication console. 

"Ask Mr. Graham and Dr. Lawrence to come to my office immediately," Waverly requested.

Once the Washington U.N.C.L.E chief and the head of the HQ medical division were briefed on the assignment, Waverly came quickly to the point.  "While there is no question that Mr. Kuryakin can handle the technical aspects of this assignment, there is some concern on the part of the CIA that Mr. Kuryakin's prior experiences with their agency might impair his ability to function as an operative within their organization."

"Seeing as how they have been trying for years to implicate him as a mole and a traitor, and threatened at one point to permanently eliminate him as a risk, I can understand why,"  Solo said sourly.

"Mr. Solo, your comments will be solicited in due course.  Until then, please contain yourself,"  Waverly remonstrated.  "Mr. Graham, as well as being our primary CIA liaison, you perhaps know Mr. Kuryakin best."

Though it might be hard to determine which of the three U.N.C.L.E. men at the table had the most investment in the Russian-born agent, Waverly as an employer, Solo as a partner, or Graham, the latter's investment was largely personal.  After absorbing the young defector into his family, the Washington U.N.C.L.E. chief had become a quasi-father figure to Kuryakin.  Graham had listened to the summary with a slight frown on his craggy handsome face.  "I'm not sure what you're asking, Alexander.  Illya is a professional.  If he is lent to the CIA for this assignment, he may not choose to go out for a beer with them afterwards, but he'll do what he is told."

"That early KGB training must serve U.N.C.L.E. in good stead,"  Baker commented.

There was a frozen silence around the table and then Waverly said with quiet authority, "My agents also understand obedience, Mr. Baker."

"I was just making a point.  The CIA is not an international organization like U.N.C.L.E..  This operation is in the Soviet Division and there is no love lost between our agents and the KGB or the GRU, much as you probably have no love lost for Thrush.  Mr. Kuryakin is going to hear comments like that and worse while he is with us.  They won't necessarily be directed at him, nor will he be the only agent with some Russian background in our organization.  We require some agents capable of infiltrating the Soviet Union, as you would expect.  But we don't normally work with defectors, or former KGB agents.  We can't treat Kuryakin with kid gloves, or change the basic attitudes in our organization for his brief tenure with us.  If it will be a problem, we need to know."

There was no comment around the round conference table, until Graham sighed.  "Illya is a professional," he repeated again.  "He's not going to be affected by a few rude comments."

"Mr. Baker?" Waverly said.

Baker was staring at Graham, then nodded slightly.  "Very well.  I'll tell my superiors Kuryakin is available.  They'll make the final decision."  He glanced at Waverly.  "But you might as well start briefing him.  I'll be in touch.  Gentlemen."

Solo waited till the CIA man had cleared the room before exploding. "It's a suicide mission.  They've been trying for years to eliminate him.  Since they washed out trying to prove he was their mole, they've decided on this way to take him out."

"Mr. Solo, I have verified the facts in this case, as you should well have imagined, and I am satisfied as to its legitimacy.  While as U.N.C.L.E. agents you are all necessarily expendable, I draw the line in deliberately sending my agents on suicide missions.  I realize that as Mr. Kuryakin's partner, you have personal inclinations, but you are expected to keep those to yourself and give us the benefit of only your professional evaluations.  Information on this operation is presently being delivered to your office.  I anticipate receiving a more appropriate appraisal of the situation."

Solo glanced at the rest of the conferees, grimaced at the reprimand, and walked out.

 

 

Graham stood, looking resigned to the inevitable.  His office largely handled intelligence, rather than enforcement work.  But as a former Section Two agent, he knew better than to dwell on the risks, or allow personal considerations any weight in his decisions.  "If you don't need me further, Alexander, I have a plane to catch."

Waverly shook his head and waited while the Washington U.N.C.L.E. chief left, before turning to the head of his medical section. "You have been unexpectedly quiet, Samuel."

"You could hardly expect me to discuss this in front of the CIA."  The physician twirled a pen between his fingers.  "We agreed we were not going to do this to him."

The U.N.C.L.E. chief was silent in turn.

"The Soviets -- the GRU, the KGB -- used him too often this way in the past.  When he was fifteen he looked twelve.  When he was twenty he still looked sixteen.  The echoes from that past could still be deafening.  He has enough adjustment problems without us mimicking the exploitations of the very agencies he defected from."

Waverly made an abrupt gesture.  "He has been in the field almost two years."

"Really?  More like eighteen months.  And let's tally up that time:  Months off for the Rotterdam mess.  Another few months recuperating from various injuries.  And let's not forget the times you've had to restrict him from the field because the CIA was tailing him.  It adds up to less than a year, in my book."

"He was also two years in our labs."

"Regardless, we agreed we were not going to use him this way.  I don't like it.  The Soviet Union and the CIA together, in one assignment.  Plus the impersonation. This could tear him apart."

"He did not indicate any unwillingness."

"You knew he wouldn't.  Did you honestly expect him to refuse an assignment in front of the CIA?  His earlier training precludes challenging his superiors and you damn well know he practically worships you.  At the very time he lost his father he met someone doing what he considered to be the very same work.  You offer the closest to following in Nikolai Kuryakin's footsteps that he can get."

"You may recall I have heeded your advice in that regard."

"And Norm Graham is filling the personal gap very well.  I couldn't be more pleased with that situation, or his adjustment there.  But now we're talking about his professional mentors.  Are you sure this is really necessary?  I know the prospect of having the CIA this much in your debt is tempting, but you're taking a big risk.  You manipulated him into taking this assignment.  If you had really been serious about giving him a choice, you'd have spoken to him alone first."

Waverly neither denied nor acknowledge the accusation, remaining unpreturbed.  "That reactor must be destroyed.  At the very least, the CIA must have those plans.  I am in full concurrence with them on the impact a major proliferation in Soviet plutonium production would have on the arms race with this country. The danger to the free world is real.  And, on a more personal level, it is not just my debt the CIA will incur."

"Yes, they'll owe Illya, too.  I only hope the debt is worth what it's going to cost our agent.  You're pushing him too hard, Alexander.  He's not ready for this."  He shrugged in irritation.  "But I don't expect you to listen to me.  You didn't about the number two slot."

"Mr. Kuryakin has performed admirably.  And his qualifications--"

"I know how we evaluate agents.  I helped set it up.  Marksmanship, ordinance, technical skills, analytical skills, intelligence, professional degrees -- all quantifiable, and all things Kuryakin excels at.  There's no question he's brilliant, a scientist, and a highly skilled field agent.  But, despite our best intentions, he has only the barest notion of how to function as an ordinary American citizen.  Or any experience at normal life for that matter.  He's never had a stable family existence, never attended a normal school until his university classes.  He's seen everyone he's loved die, and he's been trained to kill -- and been killing people -- since he was four years old.  His adjustment with the Grahams and Solo's evaluations aside, he is still far from acclimated to American life."

"This assignment is in the Soviet Union."

"Don't be glib, Alexander.  It doesn't suit you.  I can tell when your mind is made up.  But I'm going to hold you to our prior agreement.  We've never let an agent get this far in the organization without a full psychological evaluation.  I've let him slide by with the basic tests -- as long as he was functioning well --  with the understanding that you weren't going to rattle his skeletons.  If you're going to break that agreement, then so must I.  When this assignment is over, I'm going to pull him."

Waverly sat back, his expression dark.  "I see no need for that."

"You've got a twenty-six-year-old defector functioning as Asst. Chief of Enforcement for U.N.C.L.E. North America.  The age factor alone is an issue; he's younger than the majority of agents in Section Two.  Most of our young agents begin in Section Three.  You dumped Kuryakin into Section Two, gave him serious cases from day one.  And then there's his personal situation.  He hadn't begun to adjust to this culture, had barely found his feet as a Section Two enforcement agent, when you dumped this additional responsibility in his lap.  His background leaves him nothing even remotely in common with the people he works with.  He is seriously deficient in his understanding of American culture and he hardly has time for even a crash course, considering his assignments.  Even the language still stumps him on a daily basis."

"Mr. Kuryakin is completely fluent--"

"I'm not talking about grammar, I'm talking the daily colloquialisms of American speech.  You don't socialize with him, so you don't see it.  When he can't avoid people -- and he doesn't have the nickname the Ice Prince for nothing -- he appears coldly formal.  He's still trying to figure out how to interact with people, what is permissible in the States.  Solo has become his personal cultural translator.  Without him, he'd be in much worse shape."

"Nonsense.  I have not been aware of any problems."

"All the degrees in the world won't help him understand locker room talk, or even the daily chatter in the cafeteria.  He's constantly being confused.  He knows your expectations; he's undoubtably frustrated every time it happens, whether he shows it or not.  He's has to be worried that his lack of understanding will someday cost him an assignment.  He's on a furious catch-up program with life or death the result.  And if you think he's not dealing with a fair amount of anti-Soviet feeling, you don't know your own organization.  Not even U.N.C.L.E. is immune to that, not in these times.  He's under a tremendous additional strain, on top of the stress just inherent in the job.  You're pushing him too hard.  I still think he needed another year or two to adjust to American life before you appointed him Number Two."

"Most of Mr. Kuryakin's assignments have been outside of the United States.  You might as well fault Mr. Solo for not speaking fluent Russian."

"And I would if you had Solo in charge of U.N.C.L.E. Moscow, if we ever get a branch there.  Most of the people you have Kuryakin supervising are Americans.  He's still unsure of the rules and you have him half running the show.  I've heard of sink or swim, but what you are doing to that young man is vicious, whether you realize it or not.  And it's going to catch up with him.  You've put him in a situation even the KGB couldn't rival.  You'd better watch out before he decides he has to defect from you."

"That's enough,"  Waverly said coldly.  "Mr. Kuryakin earned his position by virtue of his performance in the very criteria you assisted in establishing.  I see no reason to deny him the post due to mistaken ethnocentricism on your part.  His performance has been entirely satisfactory.  I have no grounds for any change.  As for this assignment, Mr. Kuryakin was informed it was on a voluntary basis and he accepted it with no reservations.  You've offered me nothing to convince me of his lack of fitness or ability to perform this assignment, beyond your own personal impressions, which I do not share.  If you have nothing further, then I have other tasks."

Lawrence stood.  "I have nothing further, now.  But when he comes back, if he comes back, I'm going to give him the full psychological evaluation he should have had at the start.  And then, Alexander, he'll sink or swim on my criteria."

 

CHAPTER 3

                                                                                                     ***

 

"I hate these technical assignments."

Kuryakin looked up at the sight of the Chief Enforcement Agent standing by the corner of his desk.  "Now you know how I feel when the assignment is largely political."

"That's crap, Kuryakin and you know it.  You may not have an intuitive knack for those type of assignments."

"As you do."

Solo didn't argue.   "And you may not prefer them.  But you can do them and you've gotten better at them.  There is no possibility of my ever understanding these technical specifications."

"It's not as if you have to impersonate this physicist.  You have nothing to do with the technical aspects."

"Tell that to the five feet of Atomic Energy Commission specs burying my desk.  Everything you never wanted to know about plutonium fast breeder reactors and were too bored to ask.  Why are they there?"

"Research is just being thorough.  Don't worry, anything you want to know, I can tell you.  I've already read those reports."

"This afternoon?"

"Of course not.  I am a physicist, Napoleon.  Covering AEC developments is part of my regular duties.  Commission proceedings can be great stuff for putting one to sleep.  Of course, it can give one the occasional nightmare."

"I thought the AEC was in charge of developing peaceful uses for the atom?"

"Yes, indeed.  They are both watchdog for safety as well as promoter, two tasks that occasionally come into conflict, with the promoter usually winning."

"Illya."  Solo was exquisitely patient.  "We deal with enough nasties trying to blow up the world.  Are you telling me that my own government, through an agency my tax dollars is supporting, is risking the same thing?"

"This is a very new science.  Why do you think the insurance companies won't cover losses from nuclear accidents?  They back only sure bets.  There is very little sure, yet, about nuclear power."

Solo stared at him and then wearily shrugged.  "Now I know I don't want to read those reports.  In fact, I wish we had never had this conversation.  Why don't you just tell me what I need to know for this assignment?"

"What do you want to know?"

"Frankly, as little as possible.  I'm no scientist.  Whatever Waverly wants me to know."

"How would I know what that was?"

Solo sighed and slouched gracelessly into Kuryakin's lone spare chair.  "Don't be difficult, Illya.  For a start, tell me about reactors, about breeder reactors, about why this one is different."

"How much do you know about physics?"

"I seem to recall that in high school physics class we played with magnets and feathers, though the reasons escape me.  I hated physics.  College philosophy majors don't take physics.  For my science requirement, I took an astronomy course so I could sail the Pursang by the stars.  Now that was a useful class.  A far cry from your Soviet nuclear subs and your Ph.D. in quantum mechanics."

Kuryakin shrugged.  "A nuclear reactor is simply designed to produce a controlled nuclear chain reaction.  This reaction generates heat.  In utility power reactors, the heat is usually used to boil water, to create steam, to spin turbines, which generate electricity."

"They use the nuclear reaction to boil water?"  Solo asked, startled.

"Yes, indeed.  Prosaic result for such technology, isn't it?"

Solo let that pass.  "How do you create a nuclear chain reaction?"

"To create a controlled or moderated nuclear chain reaction, such as is used for power production, one commonly uses enriched uranium, usually U-235.  Occasionally the more sluggish U-238 is used.  How much U-238 you can use depends on the design of the reactor, the coolant and the moderator."

"Let me guess.  The moderator is not some guy sitting at a conference table, introducing the speakers and keeping the panel members from a free-for-all?"

"Actually, that's a good description, if you need a human analogy for the process.  In a breeder reactor, for example, a core of enriched U-235 is surrounded by a blanket of U-238.  When the control rods are gradually removed, neutrons from the U-235 smash into the U-238 blanket and create plutonium-239.  Eventually, the plutonium will be recovered and used for weapons production or to replace the U-235 in the core of a new reactor.  The short term result of the reaction is tremendous heat.  The chain reaction is simple, controlling it is more difficult. Uncontrolled, the elements might combine too abruptly.  If too much heat is generated too quickly a disastrous situation can result."

"A nuclear explosion?"

Kuryakin shrugged.  "Not necessarily.  The pressurized water reactors, or PWRs, commonly used for power generation in the U.S., don't have the capability of creating a critical mass.  They call it a superprompt critical power excursion, by the way, or just a 'prompt critical', not a nuclear explosion.  The power industry tries to avoid that terminology.  If there was an uncontrolled reaction in a water reactor, the fuel would simply melt from the tremendous heat generated.  To prevent that, a coolant is used to carry off the heat of the reaction, usually air or water.  Then you need something to slow the free neutrons so they have a better chance of hitting the U-238.  That is the moderator and which moderator is chosen depends on the reactor type.  Graphite, boron, sodium, water, anything that soaks up the free neutrons and keeps them from hitting the U-238, will slow or poison the chain reaction.  Antipov's breeder reactor is different because it uses liquid sodium as a coolant and to moderate the chain reaction.  I can understand why Antipov would have been concerned with mechanical engineering flaws."

"Why is that?"

"Most reactors in this country are PWRs and use ordinary water as a coolant.  Cool water rushes through the main reactor core, carries the heat away.  It in turn is used to heat a secondary water source, which becomes steam.  The steam spins the electrical generating turbines.  Now, this water runs through pipes.  While the possibility of a major loss of coolant is a serious consideration, a small leak would not necessarily be a perilous problem.  A radiation hazard, certainly, if the leak was in the primary loop, but controllable if small.  There would be a backup system too, to cover any loss of coolant."

"And with sodium?  That's salt, right?"

Kuryakin grimaced slightly.  "Liquid sodium is a metal, actually.  It heats the secondary coolant, water.  The water heats a third water source which turns to steam and spins the turbines.  But liquid sodium will explode or flash into fire instantly on any contact with water or air.  Argon gas is used to keep the sodium away from the air.  But the smallest leak could result in an explosion, a fire and probably a meltdown situation."

Solo frowned.  "Meltdown.  When the fuel melts.  You mentioned that before.  That's serious?"

"Very serious.  With the coolant gone in a pressurized water reactor, the uranium becomes so hot from the unmoderated chain reaction that it melts through its containment structure, through concrete, through steel, through the earth, leaking radiation -- fallout -- all the while.  When it hits the water table, the steam explosion created would generate serious radioactive fallout.  It would travel downwind and according to a recent research report, would devastate an area the size of Pennsylvania.  Of course, the larger the reactor, the bigger the fallout."

"What would the fallout do?  Would it be the same as the fallout from a bomb?"

"In many respects it is worse, because there is much more fissionable material in a reactor.  Also, in a nuclear burst, the fission products are blown straight up into the atmosphere, whereas the fallout from a containment breach would just spread slowly along the ground, riding the wind, contaminating a larger area.  Without protection or evacuation, those in the immediate area would die fairly quickly, certainly within days.  In outlying areas, the fallout would kill more slowly, creating cancers, etc.  The nucleotides would enter the food chain, contaminate the milk supply, the animals, the crops.  None could be used."

"For how long?"

"It depends on how bad the contamination is.  Some fallout elements have a half-life -- that is, the period where half the radioactive contamination is gone -- of hours, some have a halflife of tens of thousands of years.  Much of the area under the fallout would be uninhabitable."  Kuryakin hesitated.  "While this would be the case with a pressurized water reactor, the situation would be slightly different with a breeder.   In this type of reactor, the fuel is more tightly packed.  If the coolant is compromised, or the fuel melts for some other reason, it can rapidly develop a prompt critical situation."

Solo stared.  "A bomb.  You're saying the reactor becomes a giant nuclear bomb?"

The Russian nodded.

"How big an explosion?"

Kuryakin shrugged.  "It depends on the size of the reactor.  Walter McCarthy, Hans Bethe --  they are working on the new Fermi reactor -- say that in the case of their reactor, it would be the equivalent of 500 pounds of TNT, which the Fermi containment is designed to withstand. There are those who say it could well be 50 times that.  It's rather difficult to estimate and of course it is not something anyone would empirically test."

One corner of Kuryakin's mouth lifted in the ghost of a grim smile.  "They chose 500 pounds because, above that, the cost of the containment structure ceases to become 'economically interesting'.  This is, of course, a profit-based industry." 

Solo shook his head, his mouth dry.  "An explosion that could be the equivalent of 25,000 pounds of TNT?  And a nuclear one at that?  This sounds like something Thrush would do.  Why would anyone build such a thing?"

"Napoleon, the idea of nuclear power is very seductive to engineers, physicists and investors.  It is true that breeder reactors can create more plutonium than they use.  The idea of a constantly renewing energy source is very attractive to investors.  At one point, this power source was predicted to be 'too cheap to meter'.  While the safety problems are extreme, many engineers are attracted by the challenge to develop the engineering solutions.  Many nuclear physicists, guilt-ridden over the destructive forces unleashed with the atomic bomb, want to legitimize their efforts by developing this peaceful, theoretically beneficial, application.  And, of course, the government wartime investment costs could be justified.  At the same time, breeders can help build a large stockpile of plutonium for defensive purposes.  So the reasons to develop nuclear power and breeders in particular, are many."

"You said this Soviet reactor has a twin in the U.S.?"

"The Fermi breeder reactor is currently fueled and under testing now.  It's been planned since 1951.  At full power it will produce 1000 megawatts."

"Where is that?"

"A town called Lagoona Beach, on Lake Erie, near Detroit."

"Detroit, Michigan?  You have got to be kidding!"

"Remember, Napoleon, nuclear engineers and the AEC believe the dangers can be reduced to non-existence with good engineering solutions." 

"Don't tell me any more."  Solo ran a hand nervously through his hair.  "A reactor being built near Detroit that can turn into a giant nuclear bomb.  Remind me to tell Waverly never to send me there.  I don't want to hear anymore about our reactors or reactor accidents.  Let's get back to this assignment.  So, Antipov got nervous when the engineers scaled down the safety systems and pulled out.  If sodium is so dangerous, then why use it?"

"For many reasons.  It does not boil until over 1600 degrees. That high boiling point allows for lower pressure in the piping.  It is also extremely efficient in thermal transfer."  Seeing Solo's blank look he added, "the exchange of heat."

"Right.  So, why does the CIA want these reactor plans?"

"There is concern that somehow there is a leak in security and the Detroit plans were passed to the Soviet Union.  It could be that this is an independent development.  But I am studying the Detroit reactor's plans to identify any duplications.  That's my job, to impersonate young Antipov long enough to either film the reactor plans or learn them well enough to be able to duplicate them.  Possibly compromise the reactor construction."

"They want you to destroy it?  Make a nuclear bomb reactor explode?  I know the CIA isn't your biggest fan, but isn't that a little drastic?"

"Napoleon,"  Kuryakin said patiently, "it isn't a nuclear bomb reactor but a liquid-metal fast breeder reactor.  And it isn't even that until the fuel is loaded.  This reactor is not yet at that stage.  The coolant systems have to be tested first.  And remember what I told you about liquid sodium."

"They want you to blow it up."

"Please,"  Kuryakin remonstrated, with a wicked smile.  "The correct AEC term is to 'dissemble the machine.'  They would never want to suggest that a reactor could 'blow up'.  Of course, the disassembly would be rather violent."  He shrugged, turning serious again.  "It would be a solution, of sorts."

"I hate this mission.  I always knew there was a reason I hated physics.  It was to avoid missions like this.  See what physics gets you into?  If you had gotten your degree in dead languages, we wouldn't be in this situation."

"I am sorry,"  Kuryakin said ruefully.

"Much good that does you now,"  Solo scowled.

"True.  If the CIA chooses to go ahead, I'm scheduled to tour the Detroit Fermi facility in a few days, followed by tours of appropriate experimental reactors.  So, if there is anything more you want to know, perhaps you should ask now.  I expect to be kept rather busy."

"When does the CIA fountain of youth start flowing?"

"I am to be scheduled for a surgical evaluation first thing."

"Hmmm.  I'll try to get free for that.  Can't wait to see how that works."

Kuryakin nodded, understanding Solo's offer of support.  "You know, Waverly knew me then.  It will be interesting to see how closely he believes they come to my appearance."

"Well, you know what you looked like.  What do you think?"

Kuryakin shrugged.  "I can't really judge.  It doesn't seem to me that this boy looked anything like me, but perhaps I am too close to the situation."

Solo looked his partner over.  Kuryakin had been told to let his hair grow and he'd been asked to lose weight to match the boy's more slender frame.  But like his partner, Solo noticed the differences even while he acknowledged the similarities.  "You don't have to look like yourself then, you know.  You just have to pass for this boy now."

"You mean as he was.  He's dead now."

Solo grimaced. "Right."

 

 

                                                                                                     ***

 

 

CIA Headquarters, Langley, Virginia

 

The group that gathered around the conference table didn't have a name.  Officially, they didn't exist.  Unofficially each had been tapped by the Director of Central Intelligence for this committee. 

There was no printed agenda.  A whiteboard held a scribbled list of items, a bottle of cleaner ready to send the list to oblivion the instant they were done with it.  The windowless room had a claustrophobic feel. 

The discussion around the conference table began with the first item on the list.

"Can Baker be mad, sending a defector into the Soviet Union?  And not just any defector.  This defector."

"The DCI approved."

"Yes, he did."

There was silence while everyone considered this.  "Obviously, we wouldn't have chosen to use this operative if there was a better alternative. But since he was chosen--"

"Come on.  Double agent, triple agent, or sleeper, this Kuryakin has his own agenda."

"The Russian agreed to the mission."

"Can he do otherwise?  He has to convince Waverly of the purity of his motives.  So he plays the good little spy, obedient to his mentor's wishes.  This time, maybe."

"But what can we do?  The CIA is committed as well."

"Yes.  But Kuryakin is not the only one with more than one agenda.  We want the plans for this plant.  And the plant itself, if Kuryakin will actually go so far as to take it out.  But wouldn't it be nice to take this Russian thorn out of our side, at the same time?"

"Not to mention taking Waverly down a peg.  And putting U.N.C.L.E. off-balance," another CIA officer commented.  "The DCI would appreciate getting something on that group.  He'd like them out of the country completely."

"I won't deny it would be nice, if hard to arrange.  Waverly's group has a lot of friends in very high places."

"They'd be less friendly if Waverly's group was a proven harbor for a Soviet double agent.  And I'm still not convinced that isn't the case."

"And now we have access.  And opportunity.  Something could be arranged to implicate Waverly's Russian."

"Let's not be hasty.  Kuryakin may compromise himself and save us the trouble."

"And if he doesn't?"

"There's always the possibility of helping him a little to that end."

"There may be a problem there.  Waverly is sending an operative along.  To supervise."

"Could it be he doesn't trust us with his little Russian?" someone asked derisively.

"One operative won't be a problem for us.  Who the hell is it, anyway?"

"Solo."

There was a silence around the table, broken only by someone swearing softly.

"Come on.  Doesn't Waverly have anything better for his Chief Enforcement Agent to do than babysit that Russian defector?"

"This puts a whole new light on this operation.  Solo's no fool."

"Not to mention the bastard has phenomenal luck.  Taking on the Russian is one thing.  Taking him out I'd agree with completely.  But with Solo in the picture--"

"He's just an agent, no better than any of ours."

"Come on, Abrams.  You know his rep.  And Solo and Kuryakin, together."  The CIA officer shook his head.  "I've read the intelligence reports."     

The man at the head of the table, chairman of the committee, raised a hand.  "Enough discussion.  For now, we watch.  The primary task is to get those plans.  Since we're pretty sure the Russians stole them from us in the first place, it won't cost Kuryakin anything to steal them back.  The test will be to see if he'll really blow that plant.  If he doesn't, or he can't for some reason, he'll come back under a cloud and maybe we can re-open his case."

"Why not just arrange a convenient accident?  The hell with Solo."

"And if Solo gets wind of it?" another questioned.  "Have U.N.C.L.E. howling to all the other Network nations that we compromised their agent?  We have our own reputation to consider.  Let's not give Waverly an advantage he doesn't need."

"Take Solo out too."

"No."  The chairman of the committee shook his head.  "Eliminating a Russian double agent is one thing.  But Solo is American.  And a war veteran.  Other than being a bodyguard for Waverly's defector, he's never done anything to compromise this country's security.  No deliberate action will be taken against him.  But if he gets in the way," the CIA officer shrugged slightly. "well, accidents have been known to happen even to the best of agents."

"How should we handle this?"

"Kuryakin's not the only double operative in the world.  We'll put someone sympathetic to this assignment in the contact team, to evaluate the situation. If an opportunity arrives, he'll be ready."  The committee chairman rose from the head of the table and with a solvent-soaked paper towel, wiped the first item on the agenda from the list.  "We won't discuss this again."  He threw the towel in the trash and meticulously wiped his fingers.  On the whiteboard, the solvent seeped down into the other items, creating droplets like black tears.  He seated himself.  "Next item."

 

                                                                                                     ***

 

U.N.C.L.E. Headquarters, New York City

 

The final orders came across his desk that afternoon.  Solo hadn't expected anything else, but he sighed a little anyway, before hitting the intercom button to the Section Two agents' offices.  "Who's there?   Nestor?  Send Kuryakin in to me."

"He's not here, Mr. Solo.  It is three o'clock."

"So?"

"So, at three o'clock, you're usually in a Section Heads' meeting and Kuryakin goes to the gym.  Guess the meeting was cancelled today, huh?  You want me to page him for you?"

"No, thanks.  I'll hunt him up myself.  Solo got as far as the gym floor before the attendant, flipping towels to agents and recording practice times for the agents' fitness requirement, stopped him.

"Uh-Uh, Mr. Solo.  You know the rule about street shoes on the gym floor."

"I'm not going to be here long enough to scuff it up,"  Solo countered, but he was slipping his shoes off even as his eyes searched the gym.

"Yeah, we haven't seen much of you lately, sir.  You're going to have Rather on your case for sure."

"I get enough fisticuffs in action, Jimmy.  You let me handle our head trainer."

"I don't know," the boy said skeptically.  "We see your partner down here, often enough, and he's looking pretty good for such a little guy.  Makes me think about trying out for field agent.

Solo turned and panned the youngster's skinny frame, estimated he was probably ninety pounds, soaking wet, and met his grinning eyes.  "You do that, Jimmy.  After you take out Kuryakin, I'll let you take me on and then you can be CEA."

"Sure, sir.  I figure sometime next week," Jimmy called after him.

Solo spotted his partner and wielded his way toward him, picking his way fastidiously among the sweating, sparring agents, carefully straightening his tie.  His statement about getting enough fisticuffs in action was true enough; he never quite understood his partner's fascination with the more obscure branches of martial arts. 

Only guilt, as the head of Section Two, made Solo take infrequent stabs at his daily fitness requirement.  Fortunately, Waverly largely regarded his agents as responsible professionals, who could monitor themselves.  As long as his CEA completed successful missions, filed the flood of reports, and didn't go too far over budget, Waverly let the appropriate Section Heads deal with such trivialities.  None of whom cared to call Waverly's chosen successor on such a minor lapse.

As Solo came up to the mat where his partner was practicing, he watched as the two agents grappled, then Kuryakin went sailing over the other agent's shoulder and landed in a heap on the mat.  Solo winced as the slighter agent, presumably stunned, didn't move.  What's the matter, Illya?  You don't have Thrush beating you up, so you get someone else to do it for them?  Crack a rib after Waverly's committed you elsewhere and our boss will not be pleased.

The instructor shook his head.  "You still don't have it right.  This isn't quite like the karate move.  You need to shift your feet more quickly as the weight crosses your center of gravity.  That position change should add more power to the momentum of your throw."  The man saw Solo and backed off a few paces.

Shaking his head in disgust, Solo crossed the mat to where his partner was still lying, eyes closed, apparently winded, and reached a hand down to pull Kuryakin to his feet.  The next thing he knew, he was lying on the edge of the mat, his own breath knocked out of him.

"Was that it?"  Kuryakin asked mischievously, bounding up from his own roll.  Then he looked in confusion from his sparring partner to the figure lying on the mat.  "Napoleon!"

Solo looked up into the face leaning over his, the bright blue eyes wide with shock.  He groaned, rubbing the back of his head, as the other Section Two agents gathered around, clapping and cheering.  On the edge of the crowd Jimmy gave him a thumbs up sign.  Solo ignored them.

"What are you doing here?"  Kuryakin asked.

"Being throttled by you, you cossack," Solo said sourly.  "Don't you at least look at the people you attack?"

Kuryakin shrugged.  "That's what you get for jumping on the mat in Brodart's place.  Why aren't you in your meeting now.  How was I supposed to know you'd sneak up on me?"  He gave his partner an uneasy look as Solo moved to a crouch and edged slightly away.  "I am sorry."

"You mean you're going to be,"  Napoleon warned.  Ignoring the press of his best suit, he launched himself at Illya.  After all, his image was at stake.

"Hey!"  Kuryakin ducked and twisted, avoiding Solo's first lunge.  But he stayed open, not countering with a defensive move, and succumbed to Solo's second.  The Chief Enforcement Agent had him pinned in an instant.  The fact that Kuryakin hadn't put up much resistance didn't dim Solo's satisfaction.  Seeing the fun was over, the other agents shrugged and went back to their sparring.

"I am not saying uncle,"  Kuryakin warned, struggling slightly to show that he might be down, but wasn't out, and wearing the scowl that indicated he meant business.

"Say CIA,"  Solo advised.

Kuryakin stilled, suddenly quiet under Solo's pinning weight, the expression wiped from this face.  "When?"

Solo edged back enough to meet his partner's eyes.  "They say you can never go home again," he said obliquely.  "I think you're going to put the lie to that very soon."

Kuryakin shivered slightly.  Sliding out from under his partner, he reached for his sweatshirt at the edge of the mat, and pulled it over his head.  "Come on.  Apparently, we have some work to do."

 

 

                                                                                                     ***

 

 

"You wanted to see me, sir?"  Solo let Waverly's door close behind him before approaching the circular conference table.

"Yes, Mr. Solo.  I thought you would find these educational.   Waverly sent a file folder spinning around toward him.

"What are these?"  Solo frowned.

"Contracts, Mr. Solo, contracts.  We have never, in your tenure as CEA, actually sub-contracted one of our operatives to another agency.  Naturally, there are conditions, codicils.  You may find you need this information in your future career."

"Yes, sir,"  Solo said slowly, paging through the document, noting Waverly's signature as well as that of the Director of Central Intelligence.  "It's very informative.  Thank you."  He raised an eyebrow.  "I imagine the CIA pays a free-lance operative pretty well for a job of this type.  Two hundred, five hundred thousand dollars, maybe a million or two if he blows up the plant as well as brings out the plans.  Illya might do well to think of a quick resignation from U.N.C.L.E."  He smiled, knowing it was no joke.

Waverly, typically, was not amused.  "This agency will be renumerated in another coin, Mr. Solo.  I wanted you to take special notice of the conditions under which operatives are lent in this type of situation."

"Yes, sir.  I will.  Can I study this in my office?"

Waverly gestured him away, clearly irritated with him.  Solo took the folder back to his office, read it, and debated the various unflattering uses to which he could subject the paper.  Too bad the copy was on special File-40 treated paper stock and he'd never get it out of the building.  He could think of some very unflattering uses.

 

CHAPTER4

                                                                                                     ***

 

 

Solo walked into U.N.C.L.E.'s infirmary section, raising an eyebrow at the crowd in the room.  Sam Lawrence, U.N.C.L.E.'s head physician, finished taking Kuryakin's vital signs, scribbled the results on a chart, and stepped back, letting Solo glimpse his partner.  Kuryakin wore only an infirmary gown, surrounded by doctors, his body language tense, his expression shuttered.  To Solo, he looked cornered and trapped, though it was hard to say if a stranger could interpret his carefully blank expression. 

Kuryakin was necessarily a frequent patient.   U.N.C.L.E. agents, especially those in Section Two, found injuries part and parcel of the job and became well experienced with the trappings of the medical profession.  In Kuryakin's case, familiarity clearly bred contempt; he was a poor patient at best.  The Russian hated hospitals and barely tolerated most doctors. Although he usually behaved himself with Lawrence, his cooperation with other medical staff could never be guaranteed.

Solo recognized Jack Mercer, the Washington, D.C., U.N.C.L.E. medical chief, talking with a physician Solo didn't know.  Flipping through the chart Lawrence handed him, a CIA insignia on his white physician's jacket, the stranger chatted with Mercer with the air of long familiarity.  He must be a Langley-based CIA physician.  Solo supposed it was too much to expect Mercer wouldn't be interested in what was supposed to be a revolutionary, highly classified technique, but he knew his partner wouldn't appreciate being the experimental subject on display. 

Peter Baker, as the chief CIA operative in this assignment, stood unobtrusively in the corner of the room.  Solo faded to stand beside him. 

The door opened again and another physician strode in, head down, flipping rapidly through a sheaf of photographs.  "Uh, huh.  Mmmm.  Yes, there are possibilities, here."

The CIA physician stepped forward.  "Edgar, you might want to see this chart."

The plastic surgeon looked up from his photos irritably.  "Hardly.  As I keep telling you, Simons, I'm not here to take his tonsils out.  Those details are all your concern."

Baker leaned slightly toward Solo and whispered almost soundlessly.  "Edgar Tomlinson.  Best plastic surgeon around."

Solo nodded, but frowned as Tomlinson walked up to the bed, the other physicians giving way like commoners before a king.  Without greeting or word, the physician took his patient's chin in his hand and turned it up, then looked over to glare at Baker, whom he had not so much as glanced at before.  "These photos you've given me aren't recent!"

Baker folded his arms across his chest, unimpressed.  "You knew the surveillance ones were older.  As for the rest, I told you he's been asked to lose weight to match the boy's frame."

Tomlinson flung the photos, which were still in the hand not holding Illya's chin, against the wall, where they crashed and slid down to the floor.  "Then get me recent ones.  Today!  Or are decent photos too much to ask from a bunch of spies!"

The ghost of a smile touched Baker's mouth, but he nodded calmly.  "You'll have them, sir."

Tomlinson glanced back at the face held in his hand.  Kuryakin hadn't moved, but was watching him with narrowed suspicious eyes.  "Stop frowning!  It exaggerates the facial lines.  Keep your face blank."  He looked around to the nurse that had followed him in and stood waiting, pen and notepad in hand.  "Well, what are you waiting for!  Hand me those damn photos!  I need the ones of the boy for comparison, you know!"

"Then why did he smash them into the wall?" Solo murmured to Baker.  He thought he had kept his voice at least as soundless as Baker's had been, but Tomlinson's head whipped up like a snake.

"Who the hell are you?"

"Napoleon Solo. Chief Enforcement Agent with the U.N.C.L.E."  Solo inclined his head slightly.  "And Mr. Kuryakin's field partner."

"This isn't the field, Solo.  I don't allow observers in my surgery clinics.  Since when do U.N.C.L.E. agents need someone to hold their hand when they see a doctor?"

Baker straightened slightly.  "I'm afraid, sir, that U.N.C.L.E.'s agreement to loan Mr. Kuryakin to us specified routine surveillance of this operation by one of their agents."

"I'm afraid you're stuck with me,"  Solo murmured.

"Then shut up.  Surveillance doesn't require a running commentary."  Across the room, Solo saw Kuryakin shoulders tense at this rudeness to his partner and he jerked his chin from the physician's hand.  The physician accepted the photos the nurse handed him and turned back to Kuryakin. "And you hold still."  He raised Kuryakin's chin again and brushed shaggy bangs back from the wide forehead, studying the face critically.  He motioned to the nurse and, turning the chin from side to side, compared the face in one hand to the photos in the other, murmuring notations which the nurse rapidly took down.  Finishing finally, he let go of Kuryakin's jaw and gestured to him abruptly.  "Lie down."  Untying the single tape of the hospital gown, he pushed it aside and his eyes bulged.  "Good god!"

"I told you you'd want to see the file," Simons said curtly.

"What the hell is all this, Lawrence?  Burns?  And does U.N.C.L.E. use him for target practice?"

"No, but Thrush does, on occasion,"  Solo murmured to Baker, but the CIA agent was frowning, not listening, and approached the exam table.

Lawrence was giving Tomlinson a running commentary.  "Scar from a bullet on the right shoulder, another on the chest just below the right collarbone.  Burns on the chest.  Another bullet scar on the hip.  Minor scar on right thigh.  A .22 chipped his skull, but his hair hides that."

Tomlinson jerked the sheet from Kuryakin's lower body and gestured abruptly.  "Turn over."  Kuryakin ignored the physician's earlier instruction to keep his face blank by scowling at him before rolling over.  Tomlinson stopped him halfway, with surprisingly gentle hands, to explore the hip scar.  Releasing him, he gestured Kuryakin to finish turning, and as Kuryakin did so, suddenly groaned.  "No one told me about this!"

"I told you to read the medical reports," Simons said again.

"Baker!"  Tomlinson expostulated.  "What the hell do you expect me to do with this?"

Kuryakin frowned, looking over his shoulder at the gathered physicians.  Across those shoulders, from neck to ankles, the scars from various beatings, like pale silver ribbons, flowed and interwound.  Plus several more bullet scars, some the larger ones from exit wounds.

"This is not minor scar damage," Tomlinson accused Baker.

"I didn't know."  Baker tore his eyes from Kuryakin's back, apparently shaken, but it was hard to say whether it was the evidence of past injury or the possibility of losing his agent that upset him.  "Are you saying we can't use him?"

"He barely has an inch of whole skin on his back!"

"Can you remove the scars or not?" Baker snapped, showing the first signs of impatience with the physician.

Surprisingly, Tomlinson did not react, his concentration once again absorbed in examining his patient.  "Most of this is recent?"  He glanced over at Simons, who nodded.

"Within the last two years."

Tomlinson shrugged. "Removing scars from adult skin is one thing.  Even bullet wounds, which are worse since they affect all the layers of the skin to the muscle beneath, even those I can get good results with.  The burns will be harder. But they're recent, too, and recent scars are easier to remove.  But these," he pointed to some of the ribbons.  "See how these have spread and faded.  These are old childhood scars, acquired before full growth.  And this," he took Kuryakin's wrist in his hand and traced a long scar up toward the elbow, "these scars may be permanent.  At best, my results will be incomplete."  He looked at Kuryakin's chart for the first time.  "The forearm scar was at age nine?"

"Yes."  Lawrence answered.

"Obviously never tended to.  I can improve it considerably.  If it had been tended and was still scarred, I couldn't promise as much.  But I can't guarantee to remove it."  He tossed the chart down.  "There's nothing here about the other childhood scars.  He glanced at Kuryakin.  "At what age were you first beaten as a child?"

Solo froze, his glance meeting Sam Lawrence's before darting to Kuryakin's suddenly rigid form. 

Lawrence waited uneasily in case the Russian responded, then took a hesitant step closer.  "Uh, Edgar..."

"The younger the child, the more likely long-term damage can't be removed," Tomlinson explained, as if Lawrence had asked a question.  "What age?" he shot impatiently at Kuryakin.  "Five, eight, ten, twelve?"

"Illya?"  Lawrence said tentatively, touching his shoulder lightly.

Solo couldn't see his partner's face, but Kuryakin's rigid shoulders suddenly relaxed.  "About twelve," the Russian said evenly.

"You weighed what, eighty, ninety pounds?"

"I really have no idea," Illya said coldly, as if Tomlinson had asked him a flagrantly improper personal question.

"Mmmm.  You're small enough.  More likely eighty.  How long did it go on?  Two years, three years, five years?"

"I was fifteen," Kuryakin's voice was tight.  With anger, Solo recognized, repressed but there.  The whole room echoed with it.

"Tomlinson, can you repair the scarring or not?" Baker suddenly exploded, slamming down the chart he'd been paging through.

Tomlinson looked up coldly from his fingertip examination of the scars in question.  "I'm not replacing a faulty carburetor, Baker.  Nor were your reports anywhere close to describing this situation.  But, yes, I can probably make some improvement to most of it.  He won't be perfect, but with luck they'll have to look close to see them.  An interesting case."  He ran his finger down a scar tracing one calf and then pressed his palm lightly over the heel of the Russian's foot.  "Barring this of course.  This looks recent, but there's not much I can do here.  My technique repairs fine tissue scars, not the calloused skin you find on the heels.  A crude but effective technique to punish or prevent a runaway.  Who whipped the skin off your feet, Kuryakin, Thrush or the KGB?"

Solo held his breath as Kuryakin pulled his foot from Tomlinson's grasp and rolled over. 

I wouldn't blame you, Illya, if you changed your mind about this assignment.  But please don't deck this pompous bastard.  Let me kill him instead. 

But Illya's expression was cool, with the touch of amused wickedness Solo had learned to beware of.  "Neither actually.  It was a CIA doctor who caught me trying to escape his bedside manner."

"Humph!"  Tomlinson scowled a little, then the hint of a smile twisted one corner of his mouth before disappearing at an answering quirk in Kuryakin's.  "Prep him," he ordered.  "I want a full set of x-rays, blood work, tissue samples."  His voice rose.  "And a set of decent photos I can work from, damn it!"

Kuryakin laid back wearily, to be caught by Lawrence's encompassing hands.  "Is it too late to defect back to Russia?" he asked plaintively.

"Sorry, buddy,"  Lawrence rubbed his shoulders lightly.  "The CIA has you surrounded.  Just relax and let the nice nurse take some blood.  None of this will hurt.  Much."

"I know you're a secret vampire, Sam.  Someday, you'll have all my high-test Russian blood and have to settle for Napoleon's poor low-grade Italian."

Solo grinned, grateful his partner's sense of humor let him deal with Tomlinson's unpleasantness and took a step toward him, only to be stopped by a hand on his arm. 

Baker jerked his head toward the door.  "Got a minute?"

Solo looked back toward his partner.  Illya's eyes were closed and a nurse was holding his arm, taking the first of what looked like a dozen vials of blood. 

Seeing Solo's questioning glance, Lawrence left Kuryakin's side and came over to them.  "We're going to need him for a few hours, Napoleon.  I'll be taking him to x-ray as soon as the blood work is done.  He'll be tired when we're finished, but he might want your company then.  Why don't I call you,"  Lawrence tapped the breast pocket where Solo kept his cigarette case/transceiver, "when he's free."  Solo glanced at Baker and over to the CIA doctors arguing with Mercer.  Understanding him, Lawrence smiled.  "Don't worry.  We won't leave him alone with the enemy."

Baker stiffened, but Solo didn't care.  It was how he felt.  "All right."  Lawrence turned back.  Solo tried once again to catch his friend's eye, but Illya was turned away from him.  "Let's go."  He said to Baker.

He followed the CIA agent through U.N.C.L.E.'s metal corridors, eyes narrowing when they arrived at the reception area.  "Where are we going?"

"To find a drink."  Baker leaned over to let the receptionist remove his badge and Solo shrugged and followed in turn.  "You must know somewhere around here."

Solo led him around the corner to a bar, run by an ex-U.N.C.L.E. agent, that was kept reasonably safe, swept free of bugs twice daily.  Baker ordered a scotch and stared into it.  Solo glanced at the bartender, ordering 'his usual' with a raised eyebrow and was given a ginger ale with a disguising twist. If the CIA was going to get drunk, he wanted to be sober to take advantage of it. 

"What's the matter, Baker?  Afraid you lost your pigeon?"

"In spite of what you think, Solo, I am not your enemy.  Nor am I Kuryakin's."

"No.  You'd just put out a contract on him if it was convenient."

Baker said nothing, neither denying nor confirming Solo's assertion, his eyes still fixed on his drink.  Solo sipped his ginger ale, grimaced, wishing for something stronger, and put it aside.

"I was a field agent for 15 years.  I've seen hundreds of field agents, some who've been in the business for fifty years.  I've never seen anything like that."  Baker looked at Solo, his face twisted with anger and Solo realized with a shock the anger was directed at him.  "I saw Kuryakin's medical files from Langley, when he originally defected, and they didn't indicate anything like this.  What the hell kind of an organization are you in, Solo, that let's its agents get torn up like that in two years?"

Solo frowned, uncomfortably defensive.  "Illya's seen a lot of action."

"Seen, hell.  I just read his damn medical chart.  With U.N.C.L.E. for an employer, he doesn't need Thrush or the CIA for an enemy.  I ought to recruit him for our organization.  He'd have a better chance of making it past twenty-six."

"You had no business reading his chart."

Baker studied him, eyes narrowed.  "I wondered at all that semi-paternal concern Waverly's shown about losing him.  Kuryakin's his disposable, right?  The one he sends when he has to risk losing an agent.  As CEA, I suppose you have to play along.  But how can you call yourself his partner with a straight face, knowing that?  God, I don't know how you sleep at night."

"You don't know what you're talking about."

"Don't I?  It must be nice to have a partner who takes all the heat and gives you all the credit.  I guess being CEA has its advantages.  Whose pigeon is he, Solo?  Let's count your scars and see."

Solo stood slowly, fury making his muscles rigid.  "Excuse me.  I suddenly remembered somewhere I have to be." 

He walked back to U.N.C.L.E. in a partial daze, wondering if Baker was trying to snow him.  But the shock on his face in the exam room?  The anger in the bar?  How could the CIA not know the physical condition of the agent they'd tailed for months?  But then why show any anger?  Illya wasn't even aware of Baker's supposed concern.  Was it for Solo's benefit then?  To convince him that the CIA didn't consider his partner a 'disposable'.  He'd never believe that.  It would take more than a bit of acting in a bar to convince him of the purity of the CIA's motives regarding his partner.

He entered the U.N.C.L.E. building, accepted his badge without a smile for the pretty receptionist, his feet winding their way automatically to his office.  He wanted to talk to Waverly, tell him the CIA's accusations, but he felt a moment's unease.  Suppose, just suppose, it was true.  His mind denied it, but his gut twisted in unease.  What if Waverly regarded his partner, even slightly, in some way as Baker implied?  No, he didn't believe it.              

It was true that Waverly considered them all expendable.  He told them so all the time.  But he told them all that, indiscriminately.   Waverly had read him the riot act a few times, chewed him out over his concern for his partner, but every partner heard that lecture from Waverly at times.  Waverly didn't have pigeons, or disposables.  U.N.C.L.E. didn't work that way.  Kuryakin was Number Two, Section Two, in line for Solo's job.  Waverly would never waste that spot, that training, on a 'disposable'.  Baker was wrong.

His phone rang and he answered it mechanically, his throat dry.  He thought of the drink he had abandoned in the bar, looked over at his coffee pot, empty but for a scummy film and sighed.  "Solo here."

"Mr. Solo, Mr. Waverly wants you in his office immediately," said Heather McNabb, Waverly's assistant.

"All right."  He nabbed some coffee on the way and, before long, was standing before Waverly's conference table.

"Ah, yes.  I would like to hear your report on the progress of the Reactor Affair."

"Um.  Yes, sir."  His thoughts whirled, unorganized.  He was finding them hard to pin down.

"Mr. Solo.  Are you quite all right?"

"Yes, sir.  Well, sir."  He paused, what he could say and what he wanted to ask raising conflicting words in his mind.

"Have you suddenly lost your ability to communicate coherently?"

Solo sighed.  "No, sir.  I'm not sure what you want to know.  Illya has been briefed on the boy he's to impersonate.  He's read all the AEC info already.  I don't think there's anything in that area that will be a problem.  The CIA physicians examined him today.  They seemed a little ... surprised at his past injuries, but think they can remove most of his identifying scars.  He's being prepped now for the surgery tomorrow."

"I see.  And you?"

"Me, sir?"

"What have your activities been?"

"Illya briefed me on as much nuclear physics as I seem capable of comprehending.  We've scheduled the reactor tours.  I detailed Abronski to go along on the surveillance duty; Illya recommended him as our best physicist.  I sat in on the medical consult."

"What else?"

Solo stared at him, confused and tired.  "Else, sir?"

"Have you studied the CIA's plans to extricate your partner?  Have you reviewed the Soviet operation in detail?"

"Not yet, sir."

"Then do so.  Your job has nothing to do with the technical aspects of this assignment, or with your partner's preparations for his impersonation.  Your job is to see that he is retrieved after the CIA operation is over.  See to that."

He suddenly felt on safer ground.  "Yes, sir."  He decided to call Waverly on a subject that was never very safe to call him on.  "Mr. Kuryakin is not expendable in this operation, is he, sir?"

Waverly looked at him from under his bushy eyebrows.  "You are all expendable."

He sighed slightly.  "Yes, sir."

"But, as I said from the beginning, I am not sacrificing one of my agents to a CIA operation.  Mr. Kuryakin is not expendable in this operation. Your responsibility is to ensure that he does not become so."

"Yes, sir."  Solo backed out of the room and then turned, absurdly grateful.  "Thank you, sir."

Waverly waited until the door closed behind him and humphed irritably, closing his transcript of the exchange in the U.N.C.L.E. bar.  "CIA fodder, indeed."

 

                                                                                                     ***

 

Solo entered the U.N.C.L.E. infirmary with a touch of trepidation, but the scene was innocuous enough.  His partner sat half-propped up in bed against several pillows, surrounded by top secret AEC reports, scowling down at the one he was studying through his reading glasses.  He was alone, or at least his only companions were routine security and medical surveillance monitors.

"Don't frown.  It'll spoil your youthful glow."

Illya looked up and smiled in delight.  "What did you bring me?"

Solo froze in the doorway.  "Bring you?"

"Napoleon!  You went out for dinner and you didn't bring me anything?  A pizza, a pastrami sandwich, a milkshake?  You left me here to starve on hospital food with doctors sucking my lifeblood away?  I want a new partner."

"For your information," the older agent said, entering the room, "I haven't had dinner yet myself.  Even a hospital one."

"Count yourself lucky.  It'll take me hours to recover from mine."

Solo grinned and sat down on the side of his partner's bed.

Kuryakin winced.  "Ow!"

Solo stood up quickly.  "Did I hurt you?  Should I call someone?"  He looked around for the call button.

"Ha.  Got you."

"You crazy Russian."

"All they took was blood and x-rays.  How could you possibly hurt me by sitting even your enormous weight down."

"Enormous weight my foot.  You just kissed your second dinner good-bye."

"I couldn't eat it anyway."  Illya sighed.  "I don't mind getting shot at as much as I mind starving for this stupid assignment.  I'm hungry."

"Good thing Thrush never discovered your most feared torture.  I'll try not to let on the next time I'm under the electrodes."

Kuryakin didn't respond, his fingers fiddling with his glasses. 

"You all right?"

"Yes.  Fine."  He looked up at Solo and shrugged one shoulder slightly.  His normally clear blue eyes had a cloudy, slightly unfocused look that suggested he hadn't succeeded in avoiding the usual pre-operative drugs, but were stubbornly narrowed as if he were trying to fight them.  "Maybe a little tired."

Solo stood.  "Get some sleep, then."

Kuryakin's eyes went from him to the clock on the wall.  "It's not even nine o'clock."

"So?  Sleep when you're tired, not when the clock is, dummy.  After all, you gave up quite a bit of blood today.  And tomorrow is going to come early."

"Napoleon?"

Solo sat down again.  "Yeah, partner?"

"What do you think about this surgery?"

"What do you mean?"

"I know it has to be done.  They might suspect something, do a physical exam, and at least the superficial scars should be gone."

Solo was confused.  "Superficial?"

Kuryakin frowned at him, blinking owlishly.  "If they take x-rays, nothing will disguise the bones I've broken."

"Oh.  Right."

"Fortunately my blood type is the same.  That's not unusual, considering I'm from the same part of Europe."

"Right."

"And they're not likely to have access to any more sophisticated tests."

"True,"  Solo agreed, having no idea what Illya was talking about.  He noticed his partner was running one hand up the old scar on his arm.

"I've worn a lot of disguises, Napoleon.  Here.  Back there, too."  Illya's voice was soft, meditative.  Solo realized he was talking about his days in the KGB and GRU, something Illya had never discussed with him.  "I've impersonated a lot of people, too."  Kuryakin shrugged that one shoulder again, dismissively.  "It's never bothered me.  I've even enjoyed it, when I could."  He rubbed the scar on his wrist slowly, repeatedly.  "But I've never changed me before.  When the assignment was over, I took the disguises off."

Solo suddenly understood.  "Your scars aren't you, Illya.  They're just things that happened to you."

"Yes."  Illya rubbed the faded line from his wrist up his arm again, as if trying to memorize it.  "Things that happened to me.  My experiences.  My memories.  My reminders."

It was a little shocking to hear Illya, who had an apartment virtually empty of possessions save for a record collection, who cared nothing for owning clothes, cars, guns, or any of the usual agent's toys, suddenly use a possessive three times in six words.  He'd always admired his partner's self possession, but he'd never heard him talk possessively, until now. "Removing the scars doesn't take the experiences or memories away from you.  And I can't see why you'd want to remember pain, anyway."

Kuryakin's pale blue eyes darkened.  "What right do you have to tell me what I should want to remember?"

Solo froze, startled at the angry response, and then reluctantly agreed.  What right indeed?  His memories of pain weren't important to him, but he hadn't lost his entire family, his entire adopted family, his country.  He hadn't seen his father murdered before his eyes at age nine, or been handed over to the KGB shortly afterwards.  Painful or not, Illya's memories were in many respects all he had left of his first 22 years.  "I'm sorry.  You're right."

"Damn you."  Kuryakin clenched both fists, the pajama sleeve sliding down to cover the incriminating scar.  "Why do you have to agree with me now?"

"Illya?" he said, shocked and puzzled.

"I don't want to be right,"  Kuryakin whispered fiercely.

Solo realized his partner couldn't be right.  He'd already committed to the assignment, to the necessity of the surgery.  He didn't need to be told his last minute misgivings about it were valid.  Solo wished suddenly for Sam Lawrence, or any of the other U.N.C.L.E. shrinks who would know the right words to say.  "Then you're wrong, my friend."

"Am I?"  Kuryakin whispered.

"Aren't you always?"  Solo tried a little harder.  "I was just trying to humor you when I told you that you were right before.  A little courtesy before you go under the knife."

Illya laughed harshly, but it sounded more like choking.  "You'll think I'm crazy."

"Don't I always?"  Bolder now that Illya was deferring to him.  The Russian's eyes were wide with worry and an unaccustomed fear.  But Solo found himself warmed by the trust reflected there, too, that Illya trusted him to have the answers.  Solo didn't know that he did or didn't, but it helped that Illya felt he did. Especially since Illya had given him a strong hint of what he wanted to hear, now that Solo had gotten it wrong the first time.  His confidence reasserted itself and he took charge of the situation without a thought. 

"Come here."  He slipped an arm around the slender shoulders and pulled the agent against him.  Surprisingly, Illya let himself be enfolded, slumping against Solo as if he were utterly drained.  Solo had expected more of a fuss and he frowned slightly at this unusual show of compliance.  Illya didn't usually like to be touched and certainly never unbent to this extent in HQ, even drugged.  Something was very wrong.  "Why are you crazy this time?  Illya?"  He shook the Russian lightly.  "Ve haf vays of makink you talk, Kuryakin."

Illya choked out another laugh, but Solo could feel him trembling.  "Tomorrow?  After the surgery?"  His breath was warm against Solo's shirt.

"Yes?"

"I feel a little like I am going to disappear, too.  Along with the scars.  I know that is stupid.  But I can not stop thinking about it."  His voice got even more hushed, even as his accent grew stronger.  He still held the AEC report clutched in his hands as if the staid facts were some sort of lifeline.  "They will take the past away from me.  All the reminders.  They will put a disguise on me I will never be able to take off.  And I said I would do this.  I must do this.  I promised.  Napoleon."  His voice was so soft Solo had to strain to hear it over the pounding of his own heart.  "Napoleon.  I am so scared."

He felt like his own heart was breaking a little, just from the force of his normally aloof, self-sufficient partner shaking in his arms.  But his voice was remarkably light when he answered,  "And so hungry."

Illya laughed a little, but Napoleon's shirt, where his partner's face was buried was suspiciously damp.  "That, too."

Solo tightened his arms reassuringly.  "You aren't going to disappear.  You might have slipped away from the KGB, but you can't hide from me.  I know you, Illya Nickovetch Kuryakin.  Through all of your disguises.  You do this job and I'll bring you home.  Then we'll go out for pasta and get you fattened up again."

Illya's eyes were tightly closed.  He was very still in the circle of Napoleon's arms.  But slowly, very slowly, Solo felt him relax.  "And kielbasa."

"Whatever you want."

Kuryakin sighed as if all the breath were leaving his lungs and the slight figure in Solo's arms became suddenly heavier.  "Thank you."

"My pleasure," he whispered in answer.  Solo waited until the sedatives won and Kuryakin was asleep before releasing him, tucking him securely under the blankets and clearing away the bulky AEC reports.  His eyes went to where the scarred wrist lay, securely tucked away, and he thought, for the briefest moment, of tracing the pale lines himself.  Then he cursed under his breath, leaned over and smoothed the untidy fringe of bangs covering Illya's forehead, and left.

"Solo."

The CEA turned irritably, to find Sam Lawrence's head poking out his office door.  The last thing he wanted to see was a doctor.  If it wasn't for them and their damn knives and drugs Illya wouldn't have been scared out of his mind tonight.  Solo refused to consider the fact that they'd saved his partner's life on several occasions.  And where were the damn shrinks when he needed the right words to say?  "What the hell do you want?"

"As a psychologist, I'd have to grade that an 'A plus'."

Solo stared at him and then the implication that every word of their conversation had been overheard propelled him into physician's office.  "You were listening?  The whole time?"

Lawrence gestured to the monitor.  "What do you think?  If you hadn't showed up, I would have had to talk to him myself."

"If I hadn't shown up?  Who's the damn shrink here?"

"I am.  And as 'the damn shrink', I'm telling you he needed to hear that from you.  And you handled it very nicely."

"You mean I stumbled through it by the skin of my teeth.  I had no idea what to say to him.  What if I said the wrong thing?  Damn it, I did say the wrong thing at first!"  He was infuriated as the physician laughed. "I'm no shrink.  I didn't have the faintest idea what to say.  I could have totally screwed him up!"

"What did you tell him?"

"I don't even remember!"

"What did he say in response?"

"I don't remember!"

Lawrence laughed again.  "You'll make a fine shrink, if you ever decide to give up being an enforcement agent.  Go home to bed, Napoleon.  You did good."

Solo stared, confused, and then shaking his head, started down the hall.  He stopped outside his partner's door and stared at it, then turned and went back to Lawrence's office.

"Sam?"

The doctor looked up from his paperwork.  "Yeah?"

"What did we say?"

Lawrence shook his head, smiling a little at Solo's obtuseness, but shrugged and complied.  "He told you he needed backup and you promised you'd be there."

"Oh."

"All right, now?"

"I don't remember that."

"Trust me.  That's what you both said."

Solo sighed.  "If you say so.  Surgery at 6:30 a.m.?"

"Right."

"I'll be there."

Lawrence chuckled, his eyes back on his reports.  "I know.  Night, Napoleon."

He was there at 6:15 a.m., but Illya was already drowsy from the pre-operative drugs.  He opened his eyes briefly when his partner called his name, but only smiled slightly, his eyes unfocused.

"Napoleon."

"Ready for breakfast yet, partner?"

"You...bastard.  Don't...torture me."

Solo chuckled, then paled a little as a circulating nurse taped several IV needles in Kuryakin's arm.  Lawrence touched Solo lightly on the shoulder.  "Tell him you'll see him later.  We're ready."

"Later, buddy."

"Don't forget, Napoleon."  Illya murmured, as the nurse chanted, "Four, three, two, one."  She checked under an eyelid.  "He's out, Doctors."

"Let's go."

"Sam?"

Lawrence turned back to the frozen CEA.  "He'll be fine.  I've got to go."

"What was I supposed to remember?"

"What?"

"Damn it, I need to hear the tape.  Last night?  When you were listening in your office?  What the hell did I promise?  A milkshake?  Kielbasa?  The latest Superman comic books?  I don't remember!"

"Backup, Solo.  Backup.  Remember?"

"That was it?"  Napoleon frowned, trying to remember the conversation.  "That was all?"

"For god's sake, he won't be able to read, eat, or drink for hours after he wakes.  Just show up with a smile.  Now, I've got to go!"

Solo wasn't needed to monitor the surgery, partly because it was being done in U.N.C.L.E. HQ, partly because only top ranking intelligence physicians would be present, but mostly because Kuryakin had a tube put down his throat seconds after being knocked out and wouldn't be able to talk through the surgery anyway.  Solo thought about breaking into Lawrence's office, finding the tape (he knew the room was monitored and conversations routinely recorded) and playing it, but his own memory was fairly intact, now that he had calmed down, and he couldn't remember promising his partner anything on waking up from surgery. 

He went back to his office and read up on the CIA's plan for extricating his partner, but it was incomplete.  He tried to read more of the AEC documents stacked in the corner, but the jargon and the equations gave him a headache.  He went down to talk to U.N.C.L.E.'s resident Sovietologist about the CIA's plans, but his mind kept wandering. Finally, he turned his attention to prosaic paperwork until his partner came out surgery and woke up.

Except his partner didn't wake up on schedule.  Solo was standing anxiously by, damning all CIA surgeons, as the minutes ticked by when Kuryakin was supposed to wake up from the anesthesia.  Lawrence pulled an eyelid, examined the results, checked Kuryakin's vitals, and shrugged.  "He was under a lot longer than we expected -- the reconstruction job was greater than anticipated.  It's normal for the recovery time to be longer with that much anesthesia."

"You didn't tell me about the bandages."

"Since when does surgery not imply bandages?"

"You've got him wrapped up like a mummy.  How do I know he's really in there?"

"He's not, Solo.  This is all a CIA plot to rob you of your partner."

"Don't joke.  You happened to be standing next to a trained assassin."

"More like a natural ass.  Come on.  It's time to awaken our sleeping beauty."

"Wrong story," Solo noted and turned to his partner.  If it weren't for the tousled mop of golden hair, he wouldn't have even been sure it was Illya.

"Hey, Peter Pan.  Time to wake up."

The Russian's eyes flickered, slowly opened and tried to track in the general direction of Solo's voice.  Solo was absurdly relieved to recognize their crystalline blue.

"Who?"

"Peter Pan.  You know, from the kid's story?"

"Didn't he want to become a real boy?"  Illya's voice was raw and raspy from the breathing tube.

"That was Pinocchio.  Who the hell had charge of your education?  Peter Pan never wanted to grow up, remember?"

"I don't want to wake up.  Go away."

"Sorry.  You've already slept too long.  Sam's kicking you out; you've overstayed your welcome."

Illya groaned.  "No.  Can't.  Have to sleep."

"How about food?  Milkshakes, ice cream, jello, anything your raw little Russian throat desires?"

"Sleep," Illya mumbled and his eyes closed.

Solo turned as the Lawrence came up beside him.  "He's out again."

"That's all right.  He's rational."

"Sam,"  Solo fixed the physician with a meaningful look.  "He was never that."

Lawrence grinned.  "You know what I mean.  You have to learn OX3, but I'm satisfied for the moment."

"OX3?"

"Oriented to person, place and time.

"He knew me.  And he was crabby as usual.  But when he turns down food..."

"He'll be fine.  We'll let him sleep; it's the best thing for him now."

"When do the bandages come off?"  Solo eyed his partner uneasily.

"Another day or so."  Lawrence followed the direction of his eyes and frowned slightly.  "You're not taking on his worries, are you?"

The Chief Enforcement Agent shrugged.  "I don't know.  You know I hate this impersonation stuff.  And Illya was pretty rattled before the surgery, himself.  How did it go?"

"Well, I think.  Illya didn't have much to correct, apart from the scars.  No moles, no birthmarks, just a few facial lines Tomlinson lessened.  The scars, of course, were the big problem and he thinks he got most of the them.  A better job than he expected on the old ones.  At worst, they'll have to look close to see them.  Hopefully, if they strip him for a physical exam, they'll miss what's left.  It's an amazing technique.  Classified, you know.  But someday, Tomlinson is going to make a bundle."

"It couldn't happen to a nicer guy," Solo said sarcastically.  "What about the scar on Illya's arm?"

"Tomlinson worked hard on that one, since it could be easily visible."

Solo nodded, remembering Kuryakin's fingers tracing the faded lines.

"Napoleon?  He'll be all right."

"Waverly has asked me to fly down to Washington to go over some things with the CIA."

"You're on this assignment?"  Lawrence asked in surprise.

Solo scowled slightly.  "First the CIA and now you.  I may not be a physicist or a Russian, but I'm the best U.N.C.L.E. has.  I think I can contribute something to this little junket."

"Sorry. I didn't mean to imply that you couldn't.  But I see the problem.  You did promise to be here when he wakes."

"An excuse that will hardly go over big with Waverly."

"How long?"

"Just a day."

Lawrence nodded thoughtfully.  "I don't usually do this, but I can keep him under that long.  No longer, though."

"Just twenty-four hours,"  Solo promised.  He glanced down at the sleeping figure and touched him lightly on the arm.  "Later, buddy.  And thanks, Sam."

 

CHAPTER 5

                                                                                                     ***

 

 

 

CIA Headquarters, Langley, Virginia

 

Solo wished he had spent more time practicing his Russian when he had the chance.   With Kuryakin, his chief tutor, recuperating for at least the next twenty-four hours, he flew down to Washington to join Baker at the CIA headquarters in Langley, Virginia, to follow up on Waverly's instructions and finalize the plans for the mission.  Solo wanted to keep a close eye on his responsibility, but his poor Russian was a serious drawback.  This was still a CIA operation and every agent on Baker's roster for this assignment had worked undercover in the Soviet Union in the last three years.  He could tell Baker considered him a liability, but the CIA agent was caught.  To get Kuryakin, they had to agree to an U.N.C.L.E. agent in a surveillance role and they didn't have the right to choose or refuse whomever U.N.C.L.E. sent.  Solo knew he didn't have any of the right qualifications for this assignment, except for two:  Waverly had personally assigned him and he'd also be damned if he'd be left behind.

Solo stood in the doorway of Baker's office.  "I want to review the exit plans.  These," he held up the folder Baker had left with him, "just don't cut it."

Baker glanced up, gaging the determination in the U.N.C.L.E. agent's face.  "How's your partner?"

"My partner is still recovering from his surgery, as you damn well know.  If he wasn't, you'd have someone shadowing him.  Let's cut the crap and get to work."

Baker carefully locked up the paperwork currently on his desk and rose.  "Come with me."  He led Solo down the Langley corridors and opened the door of a large conference room.  A half dozen men gathered around a map strewn table glanced up and then turned at their approach.  "Gentlemen, this is Napoleon Solo, from the U.N.C.L.E.  He'll be joining us on this assignment. Solo, the contact team:  Nelson, team leader;  Elsnic, power consultant; Hawkins, ordinance and electronics;  Markowitz, our physicist; Jackson, communications and medicine," Baker introduced them one by one.

Solo studied their faces, noting the lack of welcome, the careful scrutiny in each pair of eyes.  His own were probably similar.  He walked over to examine the maps and blueprints spread over the conference table, frowning at the Russian legends.  "I thought you needed Illya because you couldn't get anyone else in the complex to get the plans?"

There was a silence around the table and Solo glanced up to see the contact team eyeing Baker with expressions of incredulity or careful blankness.  

Baker cleared his throat.  "These aren't plans of the reactor, Solo, they're of the associated power plant.  The security and personnel for the two complexes are separate and we have been able to place some agents in the power plant.  The contact team will be replacing them and selected others we've made arrangements with, when the time comes."

"Baker, what do you mean 'Solo will be joining us'?"

"He means," the U.N.C.L.E. agent paused, studying the speaker, the leader of the field team, "I go where you go, as close to Kuryakin as I can get."

"Is he kidding?  A man who can't recognize the difference between a power plant and a nuclear reactor?  Jesus, it's even spelled out on the map."  Nelson tapped the Cyrillic characters with a heavy fist.  "How's your Russian, Solo?  When was the last time you worked undercover in the Soviet Union?"

"Nelson, enough.  As part of our agreement with U.N.C.L.E., Solo accompanies us."

"He's a liability, Baker."

"Without Solo, we don't get Kuryakin.  It's as simple as that."

"You're jeopardizing the success of this mission,"  Elsnic added.  "Not to mention our own lives.  It's bad enough we have to take the Russian--"

"Enough!"  Baker said sharply.  "Solo and Kuryakin are both critical to this operation and there will be no more discussion on this topic.  We don't have that long to finalize our plans.  Let's concentrate our efforts on that."

The tension in the room was palpable as Nelson glared at Solo.  The rest of the team members, some noticeably hostile, others glancing from one man to the next, waited for the outcome.  Nelson glared at Baker, swore abruptly under his breath and then turned back to the plans laid out on the table.  Baker gestured to Solo and they joined the group.

 

 

                                                                                                     ***

 

 

 

U.N.C.L.E Headquarters, New York City

 

The report was the last one on his desk.  He had deliberately left it for last.  Waverly read it, nodded, initialed it and tossed it in the out-bin to be filed with the rest of the documents for that case.

It was late.  Long past the end of both first and second shifts, though the head of U.N.C.L.E. couldn't be said to have the luxury of regular hours.  Still, he should be going home.

The corridors of U.N.C.L.E. HQ were slightly darkened, in deference to night and energy conservation.  The dictates of running an international security organization on handouts from rival and often mutually opposing governments meant some concessions to the scarcely populated shifts.  HQ never closed, of course and Security complained about the dimness, but Waverly's Scotch miserliness prevailed.

Only the electronic security system, tracking his badge as he trudged through the corridors, noticed his movements.  The Policy and Operations floor was virtually deserted.  In the infirmary section, recuperating agents were tucked up in their beds and the skeleton staff merely sat at their stations monitoring their conditions.  Security would also be monitoring the corridors, but the junior officers on shift wouldn't dream of challenging their chief, however unexpected his presence.  A good time for Alexander Waverly to go prowling, undisturbed.  A good time to check on an agent, undetected.

The agent in question didn't stir as Waverly entered the cubicle.  Waverly liked his agents to sleep with honed-edged nerves, but then again, this agent generally did.  The I.V. needle, slipping some concoction into his bloodstream, probably had much to do with his lapse.  Waverly stood, his face expressionless and studied the figure.

He really had no business being here.  He had a wife, children of his own, grandchildren, whom he neglected too much.  He had read the reports, signed them, conciled them to their oblivion in the files.  Had done his professional duty toward this one agent.  He gave too little to his own family and he certainly couldn't afford even the hint of partiality this visit might suggest toward a subordinate, an agent he sent regularly into danger.  And was committed to send again.

Illya Kuryakin stirred in his drugged sleep and turned toward the watching man.

He looked well, Waverly thought.  Better than he'd expected. Better than the reports indicated.  The bandages had been removed that evening, the agent due to be awakened the next morning.  The young Russian's face was flushed, as if with sunburn.  But then Kuryakin seemed to have a perpetual sunburn lately.  Too much going on in those volatile little jungle countries:  South America, Cuba, North Africa, the Far East.  U.N.C.L.E. was overstretched, trying to wield off both Thrush and the political brush-fires the major powers wanted to start in these areas. 

But Kuryakin could just as easily be flushed with sleep.  He looked relaxed and content, curled on his side, bright hair tousled across his brow, both arms hugging a pillow.  Apparently perfectly at home in the sterile little infirmary cubicle.

And well he should be.  He certainly spent enough time there.

Waverly shook his head, refusing that thought.  Agents for the Command got injured; it was practically part of the job description.  If Kuryakin caught more than most, it was to be expected that top agents encountered more dangers.  Youth and inexperience probably accounted for the rest.  Knowledge and maturity would take care of that.

Always assuming he survived long enough to earn them.

This was a bad idea, Waverly conceded.  Kuryakin was simply an operative, perhaps better than most, but one of hundreds he was responsible for world-wide.  He couldn't afford to stand over him like an anxious grandparent, speculating over his necessarily uncertain future.

As he turned to go, his transceiver trilled.

He caught it in a split second, hit the mute button, signalling a moment's delay.  But not soon enough to prevent the Section Two agent from being disturbed by the noise, the sound of the transceiver pulling him out of even his drug-enforced sleep.  Waverly turned back, frowning, as Kuryakin's head tossed on the pillow.  The blue eyes opened, slightly glazed from the sedative and regarded him sleepily. 

Caught.  And the head of U.N.C.L.E. North America, the head of Policy and Operations world-wide, Number One of Section One, didn't particularly care to be caught in a quasi-sentimental act. 

But Kuryakin closed his eyes again to half slits, sighing deeply, his body once again relaxing as he peered at the older man.

"Virtanen,"  he mumbled.

Waverly caught the corners of his mouth before a betraying smile was displayed to an otherwise empty room.

"Ja,"  he confirmed and Kuryakin's eyes closed completely at the reassurance.  The years flew back in Waverly's memory and he stood before another bunk where a tousle-haired boy slept, while a storm hammered the sides of a Dutch freighter.  As if it had a mind of its own, Waverly's hand reached out and gently smoothed the unruly thatch.  "Sleep, Nico."

"Goedenacht."  Kuryakin murmured.

Waverly paused outside the infirmary door and dealt swiftly with the Section Two agent who needed instructions.  Then he continued down the corridor, mentally chastising himself.  The problem with neglecting one's family for work meant one tended to get too involved with the agents.  Tonight's behavior was a clear danger signal.  His wife had been nagging him to take their grandchildren to the zoo.  Perhaps this weekend would be a good time.

 

                                                                                                     ***

 

 

He was asleep and yet not asleep, his awareness like the dim glow of a nightlight in a dark room.  He had an identity and he considered that, wondering where he was and why the darkness held him prisoner.  This time. 

Pushing back the darkness a little brought with it the touch of cool sheets, a familiar antiseptic smell, fuzzy garbled hearing and bright, bright lights.  He closed his eyes against them, retreating to the less painful darkness, but the awareness pursued him relentlessly.

He knew where he was.  His head ached abominably.  His eyes felt scratchy, his mouth was dry and everything sounded too loud.  Illya Kuryakin turned over in his infirmary bed, groaning softly at the headache that followed him.  He recognized the familiar signs of being drugged and wondered what he had done to deserve it.  It wasn't fair that these things kept happening to him while Napoleon blithely avoided most of them.

Napoleon.

He opened his eyes, bringing one hand up to shield them from the light and growled when he saw the I.V. needle taped to his arm.  Stupid needles.  He would have pulled it out, but Lawrence took a dim view of such behavior.  Kuryakin took an equally dim view of having his wrists tied, Lawrence's typical response.  As if a little tape and gauze could stop a determined Section Two agent.  But add an arsenal of nasty drugs and Lawrence was more than an even match.

Stupid doctors.  He could get well himself if they would just leave him alone.

"Easy, Illya."

Another hand covered his eyes and Kuryakin recognized the touch, the world righting itself a little.  If his partner was nearby, he would have an ally against the medical profession, someone who could spring him loose with ease.  If he could just stop the pounding in his head and talk to him.

"How do you feel?"

"Stupid question,"  Kuryakin answered thickly, trying to get control of his tongue.  He moved to sit up and Solo helped him, his arms the only stable things in a room that wobbled and spun.  Illya flinched at the icy shock of alcohol on his upper arm, squinted at the hypodermic being prepared and flung out an arm to ward Lawrence off.

"No more drugs," he said crossly.  Illya did his best to pull away as the shining needle approached, swearing in a combination of languages, but Napoleon was immovable, his disloyal partner holding him still for the injection.

"Would you rather have the headache?"  Lawrence queried, jabbing him.

"Behave yourself,"  Solo murmured.  "It's not nice to call your doctor names."

"I'm calling you names too, you traitorous cossack,"  Kuryakin said and called him some more.

"Why do I feel that I ought to wash your mouth out with soap?"  Solo asked.  "Here, drink this."

"No."  He attempted to knock the glass away and missed it by a good foot.  Scowling, he struggled to focus his eyes.  "No more drugs.  And let go of me, you--"  he added a few more names to his litany, switching to Italian to personalize the insults further.

"This isn't a drug.  It's just water.  Come on, wake up, we have to work today."

Kuryakin blinked at him owlishly.  He was working today?  He would get out of this torture chamber masquerading as an infirmary?  He drank the water compliantly and Solo sighed.

"You are a nasty vicious beast, Illya Nickovetch.  I can see why you are so good in the field, but it doesn't say much for your character."

"I hate you, too,"  Kuryakin said crossly.  "I think I always did and I especially do now.  And my head still hurts."

"A suitable penance for your sins.  Sam says the drugs will kick in a few minutes."

"I'll just bet," Kuryakin said darkly.  "I'll just bet they will.  I'll get you for this, Napoleon Solo."

"In your dreams.  I'm not CEA for nothing."

Lawrence laughed.  "Let me in there, Napoleon."

"Are you sure?"  Solo let go of his slightly swaying partner, who squinted at his physician.

"If you ask me how I feel, I'm going to do my very best to hit you,"  Kuryakin warned.

"Duly noted.  Lie back down."

"No."

"Illya,"  Solo warned, exasperated.  He looked over at Lawrence, "What did you give him?  He's not usually out of it for this long."

"He'll be fine in a few minutes.  As for you," Lawrence addressed his patient.  "Do you want to get out of here today?" he asked, playing the ultimate trump card.

Looking mulish, Kuryakin did as he was told and submitted to the quick thorough check of his vital signs, the routine only too familiar.

"How's your head now?"

Kuryakin considered whether that question fell into the same category as the hated 'How do you feel?' and whether it qualified for a punitive response.  But surprisingly his head did feel better, some of the cloudiness lifting as well as the headache.  He felt slightly ashamed of his childish behavior, but it was more than balanced by his awareness that Lawrence hadn't just given him an analgesic in that hypo.  His head was clearing too rapidly for that.  "What happened to me?  Why am I here?  And what did you drug me with?"

Lawrence sat on the edge of the bed as Solo approached behind him wearing an uneasy frown.  "What do you remember?"

Kuryakin studied his partner's worried face, rubbing his arm where the sting from the injection was slowly fading, even as his head cleared.  Then his eyes widened and he turned over the hand doing the rubbing, looking for a mark as familiar to him as his own face.  And found it gone.

"Illya?"

It was Solo's voice, but Kuryakin didn't pay attention to it.  He pushed back the sleeve of the hospital gown, looking for the tail end of the scar, but it was gone, too.  Faded like a footprint melting in the snow.  He pulled the skin taut, looking for the faintest trace--

"Illya."

Lawrence's voice now, a trace of warning in it.  The warning that said he was behaving unacceptably and unless he adjusted his behavior, repercussions would follow. 

And then he saw it, the slightest change in the grain of the skin that told him it was still there.  He was still there.  He let out his breath in a sigh of relief, surprised that he'd been holding it and looked up into two very worried faces.

"I'm sorry," he said reasonably.  "I remember now."

Solo glanced at Lawrence, then back to his partner.  "Are you all right, Illya?"

"My head is much better."

"That's not what I mean."

"I'm fine."  Kuryakin regarded him curiously.  "Are they all gone?  Do I look any different?"

"Well, they didn't change you into a handsome prince, that's for sure,"  Solo growled.  "I guess even the CIA has their limits.  Other than no longer passing for a Rand McNally road atlas,"  he added, "and the fact that you need a haircut and a few solid meals, you look the same."

"Leave my hair alone,"  Kuryakin said, crossly, rising predictably to the bait.  "I think I like it this way.  I may decide to keep it longer."

"Not if Waverly has anything to say about it."

"It's my hair.  I'll wear it any way I please."

"If you two are quite finished--"  Lawrence put in, "Mr. Kuryakin and I have some business."

"You said I could go back to work,"  Kuryakin accused.

"Yes, indeed.  After I give you a more thorough check, we have a little talk and you get a square meal."

"I would rather eat in the commissary."

"Illya, you haven't eaten in almost forty-eight hours.  You don't want to faint on the way there,"  Lawrence said reasonably.

"I don't faint,"  Kuryakin said scornfully.

"Oh, yes, you do,"  Solo affirmed.  "There was that time in Rome and again in Paris, and--"

"Shut up, Napoleon."

"Why don't I have any record of all that?"  Lawrence complained, crossing his arms.

Kuryakin fixed the CEA with a virulent glare and Solo rapidly retrenched his position.  "How about we compromise?  I'll bring you breakfast?"

"All right,"  Lawrence waived him away, while Kuryakin subsided in sulky silence.  "I'll call you."

"Are you sure you can handle him?"  Solo asked.

"No problem.  All you Section Two tigers become meek little lambs in here.  I have that ultimate weapon."

"And what would that be?"  Solo grinned.  "Thrush might be interested."

"It's called field certification.  Right, Mr. Kuryakin?"

"Oh, all right,"  Kuryakin grumbled.  "Anything to get out of here."

"Don't frown,"  Lawrence said, undoing the tape of the hospital gown.  "All those lines spoil your youthful glow."

Kuryakin's glare only deepened.

 

 

CHAPTER6

                                                                              Chapter Three: Mobilization

 

 

 

Kuryakin was scheduled to leave that afternoon to tour the commercial Fermi reactor in Detroit and visit another nuclear facility at Idaho Flats, where the Russian would get working experience with some smaller breeder reactors.  The operation was under the tightest CIA security.  The reactors at Idaho Flats were military research reactors and Solo guessed it hadn't been easy to get permission for a Soviet defector, even for an U.N.C.L.E. agent, to go on-site.  But Antipov undoubtably had personal experience with similar reactors and not knowing what the Soviets would throw at Kuryakin, they couldn't risk leaving the agent ignorant of actual hands-on experience. 

Yet Solo watched his partner meet the half dozen CIA agents detailed as his 'escort' with a rumble of misgiving. 

Kuryakin seemed well enough.  Once his head had cleared and he'd had a square meal, he'd become his usual self and had apologized to Solo for his behavior 'under the influence'.  Solo had shrugged it off, well aware that nothing made his partner crankier than being drugged.  In this case, Solo was guiltily aware that he was partially responsible for the drugging. 

Napoleon was a little disturbed that Illya seemed so at peace with the surgery results, particularly after the unusual revelation of his fears before the fact and his behavior when he first woke. It didn't seem possible that Kuryakin had resolved his misgivings between one moment and the next and yet that's exactly what he seemed to have done.  But Solo still had some doubts about letting his partner go into the field if he was not up to par.

U.N.C.L.E.'s best expert on nuclear physics was tagging along, but the man was a scientist, not an agent.  Kuryakin didn't have a field backup and it went against the CEA's grain to send an agent into the field without backup.  Particularly one recently under the weather.             

It's not a field operation, Solo, it's just a tour.  And the CIA are the good guys, remember.  At least, they're not supposed to be the bad guys... 

He stood lost in thought, his eyes narrowed, watching the interaction between the CIA agents and his partner, and then made a decision.  Sidling up next to Kuryakin, Solo offered the senior CIA man his most charming smile.  "I've changed my mind.  I've decided to come along.  I think I need to see a nuclear reactor."

The CIA agent frowned at this unexpected hitch.  "I'll have to clear this with my boss."

"You do that," Solo suggested and turned the charming smile on his partner, who was cultivating a complete lack of expression.

"Napoleon, I don't understand," Kuryakin whispered soundlessly as Solo turned them away from the CIA men.  "You don't like nuclear reactors."

"All the more reason for me to go," Solo said, still smiling.

"But--"

"Shut up.  I'm pulling rank."

The agent came back to them, looking aggrieved.  "All right.  If you're ready, Mr. Solo."

"I'm always ready."  Solo gestured Kuryakin ahead of him.  "Dr. Einstein, I presume."

Kuryakin gave him a brief withering look before moving out carefully ahead of their CIA escorts.

 

                                                                                                     ***

 

Lagoona Beach, Michigan, on the shores of Lake Erie

 

Kuryakin's words became a predilection of the tour.  Shivering in the chill wind whipping off the gray waves of Lake Erie, Solo studied the huge cooling towers of the Fermi Reactor.  Nothing in the sight dispensed his feelings of unease.  Inside the plant building, he tried to keep up with his partner, but he didn't understand most of what was being discussed.  He found himself lagging behind with the least of the CIA 'escorts', just soaking in the atmosphere.  And that in itself felt poisonous. 


This reactor, unlike the one Kuryakin was destined to destroy in the Soviet Union, was fueled and operating.  It was still being tested, still running at only a fraction of its ultimate 1000 megawatts of power, but standing in the reactor control room, staring at the hundreds, if not thousands, of gauges and instruments, the red panel which said REACTOR ON, feeling the enormous vibrations that hinted at the awesome power barely held in check, Solo admitted to a feeling he rarely allowed.  He was scared. 

He shouldered up with the experts and listened to the talk about safety features and sodium problems.  Listening to the terms 'rapid reassembly of the core' and 'superprompt critical power excursion', he knew they meant fuel melting and a potential nuclear bomb and felt angry.  He and his colleagues risked their lives to prevent disasters by hostile forces that in many respects couldn't begin to approach the disaster his own government, in conjunction with some power company, had decided to inflict on an unsuspecting populace.  Solo clenched his teeth, choking back fury, and listened while his partner -- his partner! -- as cool and unconcerned as if they were in a soap factory, traced diagrams with his fingers and asked reasonable questions in a pleasant tone of voice. 

They went over the safety features, particularly in regard to the sodium coolant, which Napoleon knew Illya hoped to use as the catalyst for an explosion.  The Fermi engineers were completely forthcoming.  There had been bad check valves in the sodium pumps that had been replaced with a new design, to keep the pumps from jamming as they had in prior tests.  There were auxiliary battery-powered pony motors that would kick in to pump the sodium if the electrically powered motors failed.  There were unexpected and unexplained cloggings of the nozzles in the fuel subassemblies through which the sodium flowed to cool the fuel pins.  There were sudden, unexpected increases in reactivity -- power surges -- that could escalate to a superprompt critical situation if the sodium coolant started boiling and the fuel melted as a result.  If the fuel melted and mixed with the sodium coolant, the result could be a sodium vapor explosion that could be more violent than a nuclear burst.

Kuryakin listened politely to the discussions of fuel accidents, trying to hide his impatience as he carefully steered the discussion back to the sodium coolant.  The reactor he would be dealing with was still unfueled.  He needed to arrange for a spectacular credible accident, hopefully one that would allow himself and his colleagues to escape while still 'dissembling the machine'.  But he did not need to worry about fuel implications.  He followed the path of the sodium, both on the plans and through the plant, from its journey inside the fuel subassemblies inside the reactor, through pipes to the steam generator building.  There the sodium, in closed piping, boiled the surrounding water and created steam.

An accident here could cause thirty thousand gallons of sodium to explode and flash into fire on contact with the water.  A burst safety valve, a faulty relief vent, or a crack in a pipe weld would get them the explosion and fire.   A few carefully placed and timed explosive devices, simulating any or all of the above, could get them that as well as time to extricate themselves from the conflagration.  He just needed the plans and the access.  They, and the Soviets, would provide the rest. 

As they walked through the plant, Kuryakin memorized the design and identified potential weaknesses to exploit.  He felt comfortable with his understanding of the technology and reassured that he had a reasonable opportunity for success.

Even as Kuryakin relaxed, Solo became more uneasy.  They left Lagoona Beach for the remote wastes of Idaho Flats and studied the experimental reactors there.  Most of them were tiny, some with cores no bigger than an orange crate.  Solo found the barrenness of the surroundings and the crudeness of the reactors depressing.  They looked over plans and toured the sites.  Kuryakin, sitting in the operator's seat, played with the tiny reactors, raising the control rods, watching the increases in reactivity and temperature, lowering the control rods, shutting the reactors down.  As if they were toys.  Prohibitably expensive, unusually dangerous toys. 

Napoleon knew Illya had to familiarize himself with them; Antipov undoubtably had worked with similar ones and all the physics degrees in the world wouldn't help Kuryakin when he was confronted with an actual control panel, or had to convincingly make his way around a plant.  But, necessary as it was, the incomprehensible jargon gave Solo a headache and he didn't care for being regulated, by lack of understanding if nothing else, back with the rest of the CIA agents. 

The Chief Enforcement Agent was glad when they finally headed back to New York.

 

                                                                                                     ***   

 

                                                                                                       

 

U.N.C.L.E. Headquarters, New York City

 

Waverly did not deign to notice his medical chief's entrance into his office.  After a moment, Lawrence slouched down into one of the chairs around the circular table.  At this unprecedented taking of liberties, Waverly did look up, frowning.

"I'm a shrink, remember, Alexander?  Your agents may stand quaking before you when you play these power games, but I'm immune."

"Indeed.  You are also interrupting my work.  I did not send for you."  Waverly returned to his folders, tacitly dismissing his head physician.

"No, I came on my own.  I understand you're sending Solo into the field with Kuryakin."

That did bring Waverly's head up.  He stared at Lawrence for several moments.  "As they are field partners, that should not be a surprise to anyone."

"It surprises me.  I thought this was a CIA operation."

"You thought correctly."

"Well, what exactly is Solo's role?"

"I fail to see why that is any concern of yours, Doctor Lawrence."

Lawrence leaned back in his chair, steepling his fingers and frowning slightly. Waverly's formal tone and use of his title was a clear indication of his displeasure, but Lawrence expected it.  They clashed often, but never more so then over Waverly's Soviet acquisition.  In part, Lawrence knew it was something of a knee-jerk reaction on his superior's part.  The U.N.C.L.E. chief had fought almost overwhelming odds to get Kuryakin into the Network as a Section Two agent.  Any criticism of the Soviet agent, or aspersions against his competence or allegience always raised Waverly's ire.  "Come on, Alexander.  We both know Solo is a virtual liability on this operation.  His Russian is poor -- and I'm not talking about Illya," he said with a smile. "He knows nothing about nuclear physics or power plants.  His technical skills are indifferent.  He has no official role in the logistics of the operation.  As for tactical skills -- we both know they can't shoot their way out of the Soviet Union -- their only hope lies in being undetected.  So why are you sending Solo?  He doesn't have the slightest purpose in being there."

"Are you now trying to dictate field assignments?" Waverly asked frostily, closing one folder and opening another.

"So I stepped on your turf earlier, with Kuryakin.  Admit it, I had some valid points."

"I admit nothing.  And as I have said before, you are interrupting my work.  If you are quite finished--"

"Not yet.  There's only one reason why you'd send Solo.  You don't trust our Langley friends, do you?"

"You are dismissed."

Lawrence sighed.  "I will concede that I was a bit out-of-line.  It's your organization, Alexander and your call.  But you can't hire me to do a job and not listen to what I have to say.  We need to work together."

Waverly said nothing, his face impassive.

The physician returned the stare, the two of them locked in a silent contest.  Lawrence sighed in frustration.  "All right.  I'll give you Kuryakin.  I won't pull him.  If his tests on return from this mission are comparable to what he's been running all along.  Satisfied?"

"For the present," Waverly said, scarcely mollified.  "You may go, Doctor."

"Not just yet.  Back to the only scenario that makes sense: You don't trust our friends at Langley with your agent.  So you send his partner, whom you've chewed out numerous times for retrieving him in difficult circumstances against your orders, knowing said partner will go out of his way to bring him back."

Waverly sighed.  "Very well.  You are correct.  Mr. Solo's primary task is to see that Mr. Kuryakin returns without undue incident -- a situation this organization can ill afford."

"Is it U.N.C.L.E. you're worried about the CIA framing, or just Kuryakin?"

"It scarcely matters.  If Mr. Kuryakin is detected, the situation will be disastrous for both this organization and our agent."

"Kuryakin will be shot as a traitor; U.N.C.L.E. will lose face in the world community and its relationship with the CIA will be seriously damaged."

"Precisely.  Sending Mr. Solo is minimal insurance against that."

"Does he know that's his mission?"

Waverly looked astonished.  "Of course."

"Solo is going to have trouble functioning in the role you've given him.  After being Chief Enforcement Agent for what -- three years? -- he's going to be little more than a bit player in this assignment."

"I trust Mr. Solo will manage,"  the head of U.N.C.L.E. North America said acerbically.  "Good for his ego, to be superfluous once in awhile."

"I don't think Napoleon will agree, but you're probably right.  And you are right to send him, Alexander.  If something does happen to Kuryakin on this mission and he doesn't come back -- well, Solo's relationship with the CIA -- as Chief Enforcement Agent, as well as your successor -- will be seriously impaired unless he's sure in his own mind that the CIA didn't frame his partner and that everything possible was done to retrieve him."

"My thoughts exactly.  I cannot afford not to send Mr. Solo."

"Well, you might have shared that with me, instead of making me puzzle it all out on my own."

"To what purpose?"

Lawrence snorted and rose to his feet.  "Reprimand noted.  I'll try to state my concerns regarding your agents a little more tactfully."

"That would be wise.  If you wish me to believe you know your own profession."

"Ouch.  I think I'll leave while I still have a little skin to my back.  Afternoon, Alexander."

Waverly waited until the doors closed behind his head physician before breathing a satisfied sigh.

 

                                                                                                     ***

 

CIA Headquarters, Langley, Virginia

 

Several meetings and several crash sessions in Russian later, Solo found himself hating this assignment even more than when he'd first stood in the Section Two agent's office and stated that opinion.  He'd have liked to talk to Kuryakin about it, but though Illya was at Langley, he was otherwise occupied.  Not to mention being almost unrecognizable, although not from a physical standpoint.  His partner's abrupt change of hats from agent to physicist disconcerted the CEA.  Though Kuryakin had started in U.N.C.L.E.'s labs, Solo had scarcely known him there.  He thought of Kuryakin as an enforcement agent.  Though younger and slighter than most, Kuryakin had a dangerous air about him, on assignment or around U.N.C.L.E. HQ, that caused others to regard him with justified wariness.  Solo didn't recognize and didn't particularly care to see Illya fall back into his mild-mannered, slightly eccentric scientist's persona.  He found it one more reason to dislike this assignment. 

Kuryakin had spent the last two days in one of the larger conference rooms, surrounded by plans of various breeder reactors, and deep in technical discussions Solo couldn't follow with physicists who regarded Solo and the CIA agents, when they noticed them, as sharing the same intellectual plateau as traffic cops.  Solo didn't appreciate being sneered at by people who couldn't even speak English properly, when they spoke understandably at all.

The CIA had gathered experts to speculate on the possible configuration of the Soviet reactor and familiarize Kuryakin with what they thought he might find.  Many of the experts had been immigrants themselves, some brought for the Manhatten Project, and the babble of languages and broken English was as thick as the formulae scrawled on the whiteboards.  Kuryakin was interested to the point of forgetting his usual reserve, swept up in what amounted to a nuclear physicists' equivalent of a 'jam' session.  Arguments raged hot and heavy between 'pro' and 'anti' breeder reactor sides.  No less than Hans Bethe, the Nobel Laureate and Cornell physicist, was presiding, along with Walter Cisler's group from the Fermi Reactor in Detroit, and representatives from the Advisory Committee to the AEC on Reactor Safeguards. 


Illya seemed perfectly at ease in this high-powered 'study group'.  Napoleon frowned at seeing yet another side of his multifaceted partner and wondered.  Was Illya really content with his switch from the labs to Section Two enforcement?  Weren't his skills with a gun and in hand-to-hand of less importance --  and more easily replaced -- than this ability to walk into a room and hold his own with some of the top nuclear physicists in the world?  Especially when he usually spent his days alternating between being shot at and writing up reports about being shot at?  Would this experience -- this glimpse of what he could have -- make him reconsider?  Waverly had warned him to bring Kuryakin back.  But Solo began to wonder if he had to worry about more than bringing Illya back from Russia.

Kuryakin was alone in the conference room as Solo and Baker entered.  The physicists had all departed, leaving behind the debris of their passage -- scribbled, half-erased formulae and diagrams on the walls, on scraps of paper, and even on napkins by the ravaged coffee service.  Half-empty cups of coffee and tumbled files, AEC reports and textbooks littered the table.  The slight Russian sat studying a sheaf of notes and papers, the dimmed lighting making a halo of his hair.  He didn't look up as the two agents entered and Solo felt a touch of worry at this lapse.  Time to switch hats back from physicist to agent, Illya.  God, how I hate this game sometimes.

"Hey, partner.  How goes the neutrons?"

Kuryakin looked up from his notes abstractedly, started to smile at Solo, and then the smile froze as he noticed the CIA agent, his face sliding into the blank emotionless mask that was as much a part of his professional wardrobe as his Walther.  "They go well.  I have studied the designs of every existing liquid metal fast breeder reactor.  Even if it proves impossible to get copies out of the actual reactor plans, I should be able to identify and document any deviations of interest.  Between the plant tours and the last two days of study, I believe I can impersonate Antipov's knowledge.  And I have several possible locations pinpointed for the potential sodium explosion."

Solo nodded, absurdly reassured that Kuryakin had stayed so focused on his assignment.  What did you expect?  That he'd forget it all to play physicist with the boys?  Illya's less distractable than you are on assignment.  But then, he's never been tempted by my usual distractions.  This is the first time he's had a serious temptation.  "You're ready."

"Yes."

Baker had stopped in the doorway, studying the interaction between the two men.  "Come along then, Mr. Kuryakin.  I think it's time you met the contact team."

"Oh, great," Solo muttered under his breath, as the CIA agent ushered the other agent out the door.  "He's probably safer in the Soviet Union."

Solo hung back while Kuryakin was introduced to the members of the team, watching their expressions as each of them sized up the young Russian.  Kuryakin was at his professional best, his eyes and movements guarded.  The team themselves were equally wary, but Solo noticed most thawed visibly when Kuryakin showed complete familiarity with the layout of the power plant, asked intelligent questions, and began to make suggestions about the placement of the agents near the coolant loops, where the heat was exchanged between the liquid sodium, water and the steam that would drive the turbines.

Kuryakin looked startled as a conversation broke out in Russian between Markowitz and Hawkins.  They asked him a question in Russian, received an answer in Kuryakin's careful English, and continued their discussion.  As they slipped deeper into their technical conversation, Kuryakin followed them into the language.

Solo had noticed this team had worked undercover together so frequently in the Soviet Union, they tended to slip into Russian, and the closer they got to deployment, the more they did so.  The conversation descended into a babble of intermixed Russian and English that Solo followed with difficulty.  But Illya had relaxed, accepting a cup of tea from one of the team members, his fingers tracing the plant diagrams as he explained something. 

Solo glanced over at Baker, who had, as usual, faded to a corner of the room where he sat evaluating the situation with his usual inscrutable silence.  Solo looked back to the group, but he had lost the thread and with it the meaning of the conversation.  His Russian was too flawed to follow the rapid, technical shorthand of the discussion.  He frowned, focusing his concentration, latching on to a few American sounding words, and missed the swish of the opening door until he heard a gruff voice announce, "My God!"

Illya froze at the whiteboard, his eyes narrowing at the newcomer approached him.  Kuryakin held his ground but his shoulders tensed as the man took the Russian's chin in his hands.  "I can hardly believe it.  He looks just like Antipov."

The Russian jerked backward slightly, removing his chin from the huge hand.  In spite of massing not much more than half that of the huge intruder and lacking a good six inches on him in height, the U.N.C.L.E. agent equalled him in presence.  His manner was as haughty as if the man had interrupted a classroom lesson.  "Illya Kuryakin.  And whom might you be?"

"I know who you are."  The man stepped back.  "This might just work after all, Baker."  He tossed a glance to the CIA chief and then looked back to Kuryakin.  "Sam Nelson.  Operations team leader.  I'm the guy who's going to get you in and out of that plant."

Illya's eyes narrowed and he scanned the room, dismissing the team members, searching for Solo.  His eyes connected with his partner's briefly, before looking negligently back to the CIA agent. "I'll get myself in and out.  But you and your team can help."

Nelson snorted, reluctant admiration mingling with censure at the bravado.  "I've read your file, Kuryakin.  KGB, GRU, and MI-6.  And now Number Two in U.N.C.L.E.'s North American enforcement section.  Everyone's little golden boy, aren't you?" He ruffled the Russian's overlong fair hair in deliberate insult, his eyes pointedly raking Kuryakin's slight 5'8" frame.  The expression on his face was now more a sneer than a smile.  "From toe-shoes to Cambridge physics doctorates to U.N.C.L.E.'s assistant chief of enforcement.  And now you've got the CIA running to you.  I'll bet you think you're hot stuff."

"Not as hot as plutonium," Kuryakin said grimly.

Nelson's eyes met the Russian's even stare and nodded in acknowledgement of the job and the ending of any games.  Solo realized the taunting had been a deliberate test of Kuryakin's professionalism.  "Right.  Let's get back to work.   Markowitz showed you the layout?"

The agent in question nodded.  "Yes.  Mr. Kuryakin had several valid suggestions regarding placement--"

"Just a moment," the Russian interrupted and as one, the CIA agents turned toward him, the silence suddenly hostile as they realized Kuryakin might not have accepted Nelson's laying down of the gauntlet.  The Russian sighed and looked down at his slender frame, where his suit hung loosely.  "I realize starving myself has been part of the preparation for my cover.  But it's 8:00 and I haven't eaten since this morning's skimpy breakfast.  Do you suppose I could have some dinner brought in?"

"Dinner?"  Nelson's eyes widened and his shoulders relaxed as the rest of the team let out held breaths.  "Jesus God, yes.  What the hell do you want Kuryakin?"  Nelson grinned suddenly, disarming his insinuating tone.  "Kielbasa?  Chicken Kiev?"

"I'm afraid I'm going to have to settle for whatever low-calorie mess your doctors have prescribed."

"Baker, you heard the man.  Make yourself useful and get him some food.  Order us a few pizzas, too."

"Bozhe moi,"  Kuryakin groaned.  "I'm starving and he dangles pizzas in front of me.  I always knew CIA tortures surpassed those of Thrush."

"Buck up, Kuryakin," Nelson said, unsympathetically, half-bowling the Russian over by a clap on his arm.  "We've got a job to do.  You can pig out after we pull off this job."

"Promises,"  Kuryakin muttered darkly.

 

                                                                                                     ***

 

Solo hated not being in charge of a field operation.  Much as he often grumbled to himself about the weight of his responsibilities as Chief Enforcement Agent, he'd much rather be in charge than in the trenches.  He'd been CEA long enough that it felt unnatural to not be giving the orders and organizing the men and materials. 

He didn't necessarily care for the way the CIA handled the tasks he had performed so often.  Not that there was anything wrong with their ways, at least, not that he could tell.  But they weren't U.N.C.L.E's ways and they weren't his.  He'd worked on collaborative missions before, but always with his own team, responsible for one part of a larger mission.  This was his first experience of being 'lent' wholly to another organization.  He felt the lack of authority and power keenly.  Though he was a good enough operative to keep his unease from developing into resentment of Nelson, he was anxious about how he would react if things went wrong.

In contrast, Illya, over whom everyone had worried about lending to the CIA and upon whom the success of the whole operation depended, was infuriatingly calm.  After he and Nelson had settled their little issue of dominance and Illya had proven himself not only able to submit to orders but to keep his cool under insults, the two had worked out a professional relationship similar to his with Solo's:  Nelson drew up his plans, listened to suggestions from Kuryakin in relation to the Russian's operation, but called the final shots.

While there was no question who was in charge, there was also no question that the team leader was seriously committed to making Kuryakin's part go as smoothly as possible.  Nelson also had the whole operation to consider, smuggling them into the country, placing his operatives in the power plant, organizing their escape.  Solo could see he was a good operative, organized and thorough, and clamped down firmly on his frustration at his own awkward place in this scheme. 

Consider it a learning experience, Solo.  Now you know how your own agents feel at times, especially the top ones in the local offices who get transferred to HQ.  At least he's intelligent and a good operative.  I don't think I could handle it if I had to knuckle under to some asshole.

He walked over to the tiny cubicle where Kuryakin was being quizzed on his cover by the CIA's resident Sovietologist.  Of all the facets concerning this operation, Solo found the impersonation aspect the least controllable and thus the most disturbing.  Part of his unease, he knew, stemmed from the fact that he had little experience in impersonation.  He played roles at times, all agents had to, but real impersonation was not one of his skills.  Nor was it one he was much interested in acquiring.  His own talents didn't lend themselves to such assignments.  His own personality, dominant almost to a fault, was galled at the thought of being sublimated to that of another's.  Solo didn't find that a problem in itself; no agent attained the CEA position by lacking drive.  Certainly there were others better suited to assignments that required such skills.

Whether his partner was one of those others Solo found somewhat difficult to reconcile.  As someone who routinely evaluated the 'up and coming' enforcement agents, he'd learned to identify the differing personality types of agents and who was likely to succeed in certain types of assignments. 

It was part of his job, part of his training, to eventually take over Waverly's duties of matching agents to assignments.  He'd come to expect top enforcement agents, the agents likely to be after his job, the ones tapped for the Number Two slot, to have the same drive and confidence as himself.  They were the type to be attracted to the tactical enforcement assignments. 

There was always a need for other types of agents: those who could fade into the background, those who could sublimate their personalities in disguises, work undercover with impunity, or handle the largely technical assignments.  But those agents rarely rose high in Section Two, never seemed to aspire to be section leaders, team leaders, or the Chief Enforcement Agent position.  They were useful to Section Two, indispensable, in fact, but not his competition, at least not in his opinion. 

Yet, to a great extent, that description fit his partner.  When Waverly had tapped Kuryakin for the Number Two position, no one had been more surprised than Solo, unless of course, it was Kuryakin himself. 

Kuryakin delighted in disguises; the more outlandish the better, whereas Solo found working in disguise uncomfortable.  Kuryakin loved gadgets, not just using them, but developing them, something most of Section Two looked at askance.  Kuryakin started in the labs, unlikely as that seemed.  While an occasional enforcement agent might retire to security, communications, or administration, very few ever retired to the labs.  Certainly nothing much was expected of a field agent who came from such a background.  The gulf between the field and non-field operatives was wide and virtually uncrossable.  The fact that Kuryakin crossed it routinely discomfited many on both sides. Including Solo himself at times. 

Kuryakin's success disconcerted many in U.N.C.L.E..  Some agents had trouble enough with Kuryakin's Soviet background.  The fact that this Russian didn't fit their standards of a proper Section Two agent only further alienated them.  Illya was the only field agent with his own lab.  He was the only agent Solo had ever known who was a natural in enforcement, but enjoyed, almost preferred, what Solo considered the secondary assignments involving disguises, gadgets and tools. 

Solo didn't know how to categorize his partner.  He was pleased at Illya's promotion, but Waverly's move made him reevaluate his own standards for what constituted a top enforcement agent.  He had no idea how Kuryakin would handle the CEA position when he finally came to it and felt sometimes at a loss deciding how to train a subordinate for his position who was so obviously different than himself.

Standing at the back of the tiny cubicle, Solo listened to the faultless answers for a while, a frown across his face, before finally interrupting, "What happens if they ask you something you don't know?"

"Then I tell them I don't remember,"  Kuryakin answered with placid equanimity, not at all flustered by Solo's hovering.

Typically, that exasperated Solo even further.  "Great.  What if it's something you should remember?"

"Look, Mr. Solo--"  The agent cuing Kuryakin had been irritated since the U.N.C.L.E. chief had entered the room and rose, apparently intending to put him out. 


Kuryakin stopped him with a raised hand, the slight gesture as effective as a shout from the quietly controlled agent.  "No, it's all right, Sergei.  Napoleon, people are mysteries, even to themselves," Kuryakin explained patiently, "and double mysteries to those around them.  People can remember the most insignificant things from years past and conversely, forget important tasks they assigned themselves the day before.  The human memory is incomprehensible.  The critical thing to remember about impersonating someone, after you have learned all you can about them, is never to lie.  Ignorance must always be freely admitted, when it cannot be concealed.  You can be caught in a lie, you see, but no one can ever really be sure about what you don't remember.  The trick is to know most of what they think you should.  No one remembers every detail of even their own lives."

Solo nodded slowly, noting the CIA agent's reluctant admiration of his partner's insight.  "I still don't like it."

"I've done this before."

"Maybe.  Impersonating other people, not this person.  You don't know this person.  He's dead." 

"We have as a complete a dossier as we can on this man.  We have archived copies of every message Antipov sent to his foreign physicist contacts.  We know his worries, his paranoias, his technical abilities and his limitations.  I have a good idea of the range I can operate in given his character.  The rest is playing it by eye."

"'By ear'."

Kuryakin frowned.

"Look, Mr. Solo," Sergei rose, "I'm sure you have better things to do than make your partner nervous--"

"Am I making you nervous, Illya?" Solo questioned, a little snidely.  Still frustrated and unable to take it out any other way, Solo indulged himself with a small diversion, even one at his partner's expense.

Kuryakin was unimpressed by Solo's bad temper.  "You used to, but now that I know I can out-shoot and out-fight you, you just irritate me."  Illya's frown changed to a scowl, his eyes unfocused in thought.  "Are you sure it isn't 'by eye'?  I thought it was a reference to sight-reading music.  You're not a musician, perhaps --"

"The only place you can out-fight me, tovarich, is in your dreams," Solo said, stung.  He'd reconciled himself with the fact that Kuryakin was the better marksman.  But the comment about out-fighting him nicked his professional pride.  Not that it wasn't occasionally true. 

Kuryakin, for all that he was small, could be a formidible opponent.  Though Solo outweighed the Russian by twenty-five pounds, even in Kuryakin's best condition, they were more evenly matched than first glance would tell.  Still, he didn't appreciate his partner bragging about it in CIA headquarters and he went for the jugular in one of Kuryakin's few vulnerabilities.  "As usual, you misread it or misheard it.  The phrase has nothing to do with reading music--"

The CIA agent, wide-eyed at this seeming escalation of hostilities, rose and took Solo by the elbow.  "If you're not making him nervous, you're making me nervous.  Please just get the hell out of here."

Solo let himself be kicked out, realizing he wasn't doing himself or Kuryakin any good fretting over a situation he couldn't prevent and one his partner could handle better on his own.  And picking a fight with Illya about that was really immature.  He checked in with Waverly, updated his superior on their situation, and wandered into the team room. 

Nelson was sitting at the conference table, half the team hanging over his shoulders while he read something. The agent looked up at Solo's entrance, then he went back to the report.

"What's up?"  The U.N.C.L.E. agent had seen that look before on his own face in the past.  He knew it didn't auger well.  "Bad news?"  Maybe they got the plant operational without Antipov.  Maybe the KGB has discovered he's dead.  Maybe the plant blew up on its own.  Whatever it is, let it be something that calls this mission off.

"Antipov is dead."

Solo frowned.  "We know that.  Do you mean to say you had him alive somewhere, injured maybe, and that Illya was just a --"

"Not the son, damn it.  The father.  The stupid bastard!"

"What happened?"

"The fool tried to make it out on his own.  God knows what set him off.  We couldn't risk getting in touch with him; we didn't know where his loyalties were, and the kid was too dead to ask.  Some of those idiot physicist friends of his tried to spring him.  Jesus, God, Solo, these people earn a doctorate and then think they're smarter than everyone else.  The stupid bastard was discovered as he was being smuggled out.  He panicked and ran.  Some peasant plant guard was supposed to shoot to wound, I guess, and missed.   Probably the first time he fired a gun at a person."

"Are you sure?"

"Our source saw half his head blown off.  Two physicists have been charged with treason.  And the guard who shot Antipov senior was arrested and executed by the KGB.  Suspicion of conspiracy, though I think our Soviet friends just killed the poor bastard out of frustration.  Someone is getting damn nervous over there.  I understand they are supposed to have the plant on-line by October.  The anniversary of their revolution is a big Soviet holiday.  They like to have tangible symbols of their 'progress' to report on.  That doesn't give them much time to get ready.  We've got to move fast; they'll have to replace Antipov as chief physicist."

Solo closed his eyes at this litany of death.  "I don't like this.  Nelson, are you sure -- are you very sure -- we can get Kuryakin out?"

"Don't go paranoid on me,"  Nelson snarled.  "I've got too much to do.  Where the hell is your partner, anyway?  Get him in here.  He needs to hear this."

Solo bristled at being ordered around like a flunky and one of the CIA agents quickly slipped out the door to fetch Kuryakin.  Solo bit back his retort and moved to pour himself a cup of coffee from the pot on the table.  He had been in Nelson's place many a time, revising a plan when the situation had abruptly changed.  There wasn't time for worries and second guessing.  He would have responded just as abruptly if he had been Nelson and someone had made the comment he had.  But it still took him a full minute and some blistering coffee to calm down. 

Keep your temper, as the caterpillar said to Alice.  It's as good advice here in CIA-land as in Wonderland.  The trouble is, I've never committed to this mission.  I could care less if that plant is taken out, or if we get the plans.  I don't care because it's not my mission, not even an U.N.C.L.E. mission.  But it is Illya's mission and it's Illya's life.  And there's a good chance the continuance of one depends on the success of the other.  So I've got to care.

Solo watched carefully as an impassive Kuryakin listened to Nelson's explanation of the new situation.  Solo would have thought that hearing the news that the man whom the Soviets needed so desperately had been killed would have given Kuryakin pause, but he couldn't see any sign of additional anxiety in his partner.  It sounded like people were getting damned trigger happy at least.  When Kuryakin didn't broach any reservations, Solo decided he would.

"Perhaps it's time to reconsider the dangers here--"

"No, Napoleon.  This is good,"  Kuryakin interrupted.

"Good?!"

"Well, it is better, then.  While I regret that Antipov died, it means I do not have to worry about the impersonation quite so much, with no close family around.  And I can possibly use the fact of his death to some advantage as well."  Kuryakin turned to Nelson, "They are keeping news of it under a blackout?"

"Every guard on that shift disappeared.  We had a hell of a time getting the information smuggled out to us."

"And the KGB is still negotiating with your contacts for both my and my father's release?"

Solo blinked, a little shocked at how deeply in character his partner had slipped.

"They're still playing games, yeah."

"Good."  Kuryakin smiled a little.  "They will have a secret then, that they will be afraid I will discover.  Their worry about it will possibly blind them in other areas. I will make demands they cannot possibly fulfill, so they will make concessions in other areas.  This gets better."

Nelson frowned a little.  "You seem pretty confident about your ability to second guess the KGB."

"You forget, comrade."  Kuryakin smiled again, the predatory, slightly mad smile Solo rarely saw and one that made him distinctly uncomfortable.  "I am the KGB."

"Illya--"  Solo glanced around the room, acutely aware the team members were staring at