Friendship among spies, Gregory Von Linden once said, was as impossible as honor among thieves, but Ivan Popovich never believed such foolishness. Von Linden too often played the cynic. In espionage, one was simply obliged to choose one's friends more carefully.

 True, it'd been difficult finding suitable comrades among his plotting, paranoid colleagues in Beria's NKVD. But then, Popovich had met Stefan Lenski of the Polish Resistance during a Balkan operation, and a bond of trust and mutual admiration was formed almost instantly between them.

 They'd spent the next nine years fighting side by side, first against the Nazis, and now, against Thrush. But Nazis, Thrush, what difference did it make? Evil was evil. What mattered was living among men you loved and respected. And dying among them, too, if it came to it. Popovich's only regret in joining U.N.C.L.E. was that, as a field agent, he was forced to spend too much of his time working alone.

 So it was with considerable pleasure and anticipation that Popovich proceeded to his rendezvous with Lenski that warm evening in early autumn. He found his friend browsing through the secondhand bookstalls that line the Seine. All around them, soft breezes rustled yellowed pages and plucked at postcards displayed in metal racks. In the background, the spires of Notre Dame soared against a rose-colored sky.

 "Here you are, in the world's most beautiful city, filled with the world's most beautiful women, and all you can think about is books!" Popovich laughed with good-natured exasperation. Lenski shrugged and smiled self-consciously. Even during the war, he'd carried a book under one arm and his assault rifle under the other.

 "You should take care. All this reading is destroying your eyesight," Popovich said, gesturing to Lenski's wire-rimmed spectacles, a new addition. Popovich wasn't surprised to see them. He'd noticed his friend squinting over a train schedule the last time they'd worked together, almost a full year ago.

 "And you look like Joe Stalin with that mustache," Lenski observed. Popovich was Georgian, with dark, almost Asian features, and though his mustache was as thick and black as his hair, it was also faintly tinged with gray.

 We're both getting old, Lenski told himself.

 "Nonsense. I've been told the mustache makes me appear more dashing. You don't agree?"

 Lenski shrugged again, uncharacteristically at a loss for words. He seemed sullen, preoccupied, and Popovich knew the reason why. The  Russian wrapped an arm around his wiry friend, who was at least a half foot shorter and forty pounds lighter. They began to walk west along the river.

 "Tonight Stefan, we shall --- how do the American tourists say it?  Ah, I remember: We shall 'paint the town red.' Appropriate, yes? Drinks at Shéhérazade. Dinner at Maxim's. And then on to the Lido for the late show. I know a girl there. She will be perfect for you. She has large eyes and small breasts --- or maybe it's the other way around. No matter. And she's Jewish, too! You should be grateful to me. Do you know how difficult it is to find a Jewish stripper in Paris?"

 "No, but I can guess," Lenski agreed, with a smile. Popovich never failed to lift his spirits, and this time was no exception. "I suppose she's a good Party member, too."

 "But of course, my dear tovarisch!"

 Lenski shook his head, unpersuaded. "But Ivan Vasilevich, surely you didn't summon me all the way from Algiers just to fix me up with a date."

 "I heard of your accident. I thought you might appreciate some diversion."

 "It was no accident," Lenski shot back angrily, "and anyone who told you otherwise is a damn fool."

 Popovich's black eyes danced with amusement. Ah, this was better. This was more like the feisty little resistance fighter he knew so well.

 "Those brakes were tampered with. It was attempted murder, pure and simple --- and it wasn't the first time, either."

 "If you're quite certain of that, then I think I know who is behind it." Popovich paused and took a breath before adding softly, "I think it's Louis."

 Lenski halted in his tracks, thunderstruck. "You've seen him?!"

 "No, but I may know where to find him."

 "Have you informed Waverly yet?"

 Popovich shook his head, ruefully. "Everything is very vague, very confused. I wanted to hear your opinion first. Come: we should find a quiet place to talk."

 He led Lenski along the quay, expertly weaving through crowds thick with tourists. They'd almost reached the place St. Michel, where atop the Second Empire fountain, Michael the Archangel remained locked in perpetual combat with the dragon. Students clustered around in chatty groups while elsewhere in the plaza, people with easels did their best to avoid the people with cameras.

 The Russian enjoyed living here, in the Latin Quarter. He'd always fancied himself an artist, sketching portraits and forging documents with equal aplomb, so he had no trouble fitting in with the locals.

 "I know a good cafe on the boulevard . . ." he told Lenski.

 Perhaps if he'd felt less comfortable in his surroundings, Popovich might have noticed the assassin sooner. But as it was, his guard was down. The dagger seemed to appear from nowhere, a sudden flash of steel that raced, like a bolt of lightning, straight for his friend.

 "Stefan!" Popovich cried.

 He lunged instinctively, elbowing Lenski out of harm's way, and was caught in the path of the blade himself. Thrown off-balance, Lenski twisted just in time to see the dagger that'd been meant for him, drive deep into Popovich's broad chest. Grasping the hilt was a hand, knobby and square, which belonged to a stranger in a beige trenchcoat. But then, in the next moment, the hand was gone and so was the stranger, melting away, into the crowd.

 Popovich staggered backwards and collapsed with a gasp, dragging Lenski down with him.

 "Help! Au secours!" the Polish agent shouted from the pavement to the gathering onlookers. "Appelez un medécin, vite! Someone call an ambulance, quickly!" he said, even while he knew it was hopeless. He could hear the blood gurgling in his friend's lungs.

 "Don't try to speak, Ivan," Lenski whispered, but Popovich persevered. Seizing Lenski's wrist in his weakening grip, the dying agent rasped:

 "Louis --- svinya."

 Svinya, of course, was Russian for pig. But Lenski also knew that, among those who worked for Soviet Intelligence, it had another, more particular meaning: traitor.

 It was the last word Ivan Popovich ever uttered.

 Ever since her mother's death left her sole owner of the inn, Sabienne Boissard had spent every Wednesday exactly the same way. She rose early and put on one of her three best dresses. Today, it was the blue one. Then, leaving old Mrs. Thiers to manage the inn, she climbed into her battered Citroen and set off alone, for Toulouse. It was a long drive --- some three and a half hours --- with almost half of it spent negotiating rugged mountain roads.

 She usually arrived in the city around nine, just as the shops were opening. Despite the temptation they represented, business always came before pleasure. And so, after depositing the week's receipts at the bank, the rest of the morning was devoted to paying bills, placing orders and arranging for the delivery of new supplies at the various wholesalers. Depending upon the week, that meant visiting the pork butcher at place St. Etienne's; the baker on rue St. Pantaléon; the cheesemaker near the marché des Carmes, and of course, the wine merchants located at the very center of town.

  After that, the rest of the day was hers to do with as she pleased. She always visited St. Sernin's to say a prayer for her dead parents, lighting one candle for each. Then she ate lunch at a good cafe --- a different one each time --- where she studied the menu, searching for dishes that might be adapted to her own kitchen at the inn.

 The few hours left were usually spent at the museum or window-shopping. Sabienne liked to walk. When she was young, she'd felt self-conscious about her limp and cried when the village boys teased her on the way home from school. But her mother had explained that the American president, Monsieur Roosevelt, was also a victim of polio, so there was no reason to be ashamed.

 "Besides," her mother said, "when you are grown, you will be so beautiful that people will forget your leg and notice only your face. You will see."

 And Sabienne did see. Nowadays, she was hardly aware of her limp at all.

 By the time the brick buildings of Toulouse began to glow blood-red in the fading afternoon, she was ready for the long trip home. It'd been a Wednesday like any other --- with one exception. Before she left the city, she stopped at the main post office and dropped a letter into the slot. A very special letter.

 Then she drove out to the main highway, which followed the Arìege River south, and headed back to the mountains.

 "Grandpapa! Grandpapa!"

 Auguste Delage looked up from where he was kneeling. His grandson, eight-year old Guillaume, was waving to him from the other end of the vineyard. There was something clutched in Guillaume's small hand.

 Delage squinted, but his eyesight wasn't what it used to be. The boy was shouting something, too, but Delage couldn't quite make it out. Working in such close proximity to explosives, first with the French Resistance, then with the U.N.C.L.E., had robbed him of his hearing in one ear. Although he was only fifty-three, Delage already felt like an old man.

 He began to gesture to Guillaume to come closer, but before he could, the boy broke into a forward run. Delage sighed. Heavily, he lowered himself back down to the pebbly ground and returned to his vines. It was the first week in November. The harvest was in, the festivals were over, the tourists were gone. It would be a good vintage year and judging by the new wine, perhaps even a great one. Not much to do now but push the earth back against the stocks to protect them against damaging frosts, and fertilize the soil for the season to come.

 Grape-growing had long been an occupation of the Delages. This particular vineyard had been owned by the family for over three generations. Some of the vines, like the one he was working on, were as old as Auguste himself. After every harvest, he needed to touch each individual vine, showing his appreciation for a job well done and tucking them in, like children, for their winter sleep.

 "So what is all this excitement about?" Delage asked as Guillaume arrived. The boy was puffing hard.

 "An important letter for you, Grandpapa."

 Delage eyed him slyly. He loved this grandchild more than the others, perhaps because this one was the first. He turned his head slightly, so that his good ear was toward the boy.

 "And how do you know it's important?"

 "Grandmama said so. She said to bring it to you right away."

 As the older man struggled to his feet, Guillaume surrendered the letter. It was plain and white and unopened. There was no return address, but it was postmarked Toulouse. Delage wondered why his wife would think it a matter of such consequence. No friends or members of their family lived in Toulouse. Still, she may have recognized the handwriting.

 Watching his grandfather inspect the letter, Guillaume murmured, "Who is Cousin Louis?"

 "Why do you ask?"

 "Grandmama said something about a Cousin Louis."

 "That's impossible," Delage replied absently. "Louis is dead. He died the year you were born."

 But then again: there was something familiar about the handwriting. The backward slant. The way the writer crossed the t's too high.

 It couldn't be. . .

 Delage ripped open the envelope. Inside, on a single sheet of neatly folded paper, there was one scribbled line:

 "Grandpapa?" Guillaume cried in alarm. His grandfather's ruddy face had gone as white as the stationery in his hand.

 "My God," Delage said, after a moment. "It's him."

 "To everything there is a season, and a time for every purpose under heaven. A time to be born and a time to die; a time to plant and a time to pluck up that which is planted . . ."

 Nate Cassidy's voice trailed off. He closed the borrowed bible cradled in his lap and leaned back in the chair, thoughtfully.

 ... To pluck up that which is planted...

 "And you say there was nothing else in the letter --- only the citation?"

 His boss, Alexander Waverly, nodded. "For reasons of security, when Louis Delage went deep cover with Thrush, his cousin, Auguste, was to be his only contact. They arranged a code. That particular passage was to be Louis' request for extraction."

 "But can we be sure the letter is genuine?"

 "Our handwriting analysts in Section Four believe it is. Of course, it has been a while . . ." While Waverly fiddled with his pipe, stuffing a pinch of tobacco into the bowl, Cassidy considered.

 "Twelve long years," he muttered. Waverly changed the subject.

 "You worked in the south of France during the war, Nate. Ever been to Toulouse?"

 "No, I never operated that far west." The agent grinned. "Though somehow, I have the feeling I'm about to visit the place, momentarily."

 Charm and good humor came easily to Cassidy. He'd grown up in that rarefied world of the very rich --- a world in which men were glib, women were thin, everyone dressed for dinner and no one raised his voice. After breezing through Yale, Cassidy had done his postgraduate work at the world's fashionable casinos, studying the finer points of roulette wheels. During the war, his colleagues in the OSS found him refined but not snobbish, utterly incorruptible, (because money meant nothing to him), and uncommonly brave. The only thing Nate Cassidy ever feared was boredom.

 If Waverly heard the joke, he chose to ignore it and went on:

 "The letter was posted from Toulouse. Two of our agents from the Paris office spent the better part of a week, checking the city for Thrush infiltration. No trace, nothing."

 "And the surrounding area?"

 "They scoured the region, as far west as Bordeaux and east to Narbonne. Still nothing."  The U.N.C.L.E. chief touched a match to his pipe and puffed experimentally. Cassidy waited. He'd worked long enough with Waverly to recognize a dramatic gesture when he saw it. With his pipe working to his satisfaction, Waverly reached for a manila folder.

 "However, a reconnaissance flight that circled south of Foix, over the foothills of the Pyrenees, yielded this ---."

 Inside the folder was a sheaf of photographs. Waverly selected one and carefully placed it on the table, in front of Cassidy. The aerial shot revealed a small, rural village huddled against the snow-capped mountains. It didn't look like much. Cassidy could make out a church steeple; the roofs of a few houses, none over two stories high; rows of fences marking the boundaries of several outlying farms.

 "The village of Autier," Waverly intoned. "Estimated indigenous population, two hundred or so. Nothing particularly suspicious. That is, until we looked closer ---."

 In place of the first photograph, the chief substituted a 12 by 16 inch glossy enlargement. It was the same picture except now, one might discern the square silhouettes of barrack-like buildings, carefully camouflaged and clustered close to the foot of a nearby mountain. There were also specks that looked like vehicles and fuel supply tanks.

 "A military base?" Cassidy wondered aloud.

 "The locals claim it's a school for ski patrol police. However, we have reason to believe otherwise. Quite likely, it's the European training camp for those newly recruited to serve in Thrush's private army."

 Cassidy whistled softly. Waverly passed him yet another photograph. This one showed a structure that looked like a castle, situated on the summit of the mountain, high above the village. The peak was formed by an outcropping shaped like a sugar-loaf and the sides leading to it were sheer and steeply angled. The castle appeared to be totally inaccessible, except for a cable car line that stretched between the jagged summit and the village below.

 "What is this?" Cassidy asked.

 "Just what it appears to be. But perhaps, I should allow an expert to explain." Waverly touched his the buzzer on his intercom and said, "Miss Richards? Send Father Andolino in, please."

 The office's recently-installed steel doors slid aside and a young man wearing a black suit and a Roman collar appeared. Waverly made the introductions.

 "Father, this is Nate Cassidy, of our Enforcement section. Nate, this is Father Dominic Andolino of Vatican Intelligence."

 "A pleasure," Cassidy said, shaking the priest's cool, dry hand. Next to U.N.C.L.E., the existence of the Vigilanza or "Little Vigilance" was the world's best-kept secret. During the war, Cassidy had crossed paths with a number of Vatican undercover agents --- or Holy Spooks as they were called by the less reverent members of the espionage community --- so he was not surprised to meet this one.

 Andolino took a seat next to Cassidy at the conference table. A serious, even austere man, the priest had no inclination toward small-talk and plunged ahead with the briefing.

 "You are looking at L'Abbaye de St. Germier," he said, indicating the photograph in Cassidy's hand, "located on the summit of Montsalat, near the river Salat. That's about twenty kilometers southwest of Foix, as the crow flies. The peak rises 300 meters high, and except for a narrow, exposed path on the western flank, the climb is straight up."

 The priest allowed himself a small smile. "Medieval texts refer to Montsalat as La mansarde diabolique --- "The Devil's Attic" --- and for good reason. The place has a rather colorful --- some might say, notorious --- history. It was one of several châteaux built at the end of the twelfth century by Raymond of Pereille, the Count of Foix. It wasn't an abbey originally, of course. Raymond was a Cathar."

 "Cathar?" Cassidy asked.

 "A heretic. The Counts of Foix were leaders during the Albigensian revolt."

 Cassidy wasn't quite up on his French history, but he let it pass. Andolino continued: "Near the end of the war, the last of the Cathar rebels escaped to their refuge on Montsalat. Forces loyal to the French king and the Church laid siege in 1244, but as you can see, the fortress was built to be impregnable."

 "And was it?"

 "Very nearly. Unfortunately for the Cathars, there was a traitor in their midst. Someone opened the gates of the castle and in the ensuing battle, all the Cathars was massacred."

 "Every crowd has a spoilsport," Cassidy said.

 "Afterward, the Church assumed control of the castle and gave it to the Cistericians as an abbey. It was known as St. Germier for the next five centuries, until the French Revolution. At that time, the region was in the grip of intense anti-clericalism. The monks were forced to abandon the abbey, but before they could flee, someone let the mob in, this time through a secret passage in the mountain. Once again, the residents were massacred down to the last monk."

 "Are we seeing a pattern here?" Cassidy inquired dryly.

 "St. Germier remained more or less deserted for the next century and a half," Andolino went on. "The Resistance used it as a base for their southern operations during the Vichy regime. However, when Vichy collapsed in '42, the Germans planned to set up their own intelligence headquarters there. They were the ones who installed the cable car system, but they never stayed long enough to use it. As you well know, the Allies invaded in '44. St. Germier lay abandoned for the next nine years."

 At this point, Andolino stopped and Waverly, who'd been chewing thoughtfully on his pipe, picked up the story.

 "Around 1953," he began, "a Swiss entrepreneur tried to refurbish the place as a ski resort. He repaired the cable car system --- got it running, in any case --- but he went bankrupt before he could accomplish anything else. Three years later, the castle was taken over by a corporation which currently claims to be developing another ski resort."

 "But it's a dummy corporation --- a front for Thrush," Cassidy said, way ahead of his boss. Waverly smiled.

 "It appears so."

 Cassidy turned to Andolino. "What's the Vigilance's interest in all this?"

 "Well, pragmatically, St. Germier is a valuable property that the Church would very much like to reclaim. In addition, recent historical research has also led us to suspect that the abbey may contain some very important sacred relics."

 "I see," Cassidy said, even though he wasn't sure that he did.   "Thank you for the briefing, Father," Waverly said. "It's been enlightening. We'll be in touch."

 Andolino nodded, shook hands with each man and left. When he was gone, Cassidy turned back to Waverly.

 "What's really in that castle?" he asked.

 "We don't know."

 "Is Louis up there?"

 "It's quite possible, but of course, we don't know that either."

 "Louis could be trying to tell us something --- trying to draw us in."

 "Again, who can say? Our contact with Mr. Delage ended abruptly in 1951, four years after he joined Thrush."

 "Unless you count that incident in Paris in '52," Cassidy said. Waverly dismissed the comment with a wave of his pipe.

 "Speculation and hearsay. There was never a shred of hard evidence that Louis Delage was responsible for Mr. Popovich's death."

 "Stefan Lenski believed he was."

 "Do you?" the chief asked.

 Instead of answering, Cassidy shook his head helplessly and made a sound deep in his throat. Waverly was right: no one really knew for sure if Louis had fingered a fellow agent and probably, no one ever would. Lenski had died the next year before finding any proof.

 "I want you to go to Autier, Nate," Waverly said, his gaze drifting toward his office windows. They were the only windows in the entire U.N.C.L.E. complex, a fortress that seemed, at the moment, as impregnable as St. Germier's. "See if Mr. Delage is still alive. Re-establish contact, if you can. Bring him out, if you must. And if at all possible, find out what's in that castle."

 "That's a lot of if's, Alex," Cassidy said. His voice grew even softer than usual. "You know, this could be a trap."

 "There's that distinct possibility. That's why I've chosen you for this mission."

 Cassidy chuckled. He leaned back in his chair and crossed one well-tailored leg over the other. "I didn't realize I'd become that expendable."

 Waverly eyed his friend and subordinate, a man he'd known for almost sixteen years. "Let's just say I trust your instincts," he said.

 Nate Cassidy returned the next morning to finalize plans for the mission. It was going to be a dangerous one, no doubt about it. Over a working breakfast in Waverly's office, the two men discussed possible candidates for the small infiltration team.

 "I suppose Auguste will want to go," Cassidy observed as he stabbed a slice of bacon with his fork. Despite his years in England, he'd never developed the same taste for kippers that Waverly had.

 "No," Waverly replied. "As a matter of fact, he's already declined the invitation."

 Cassidy arched one eyebrow, surprised. Then his face melted into a self-confident smile. "Oh, he's just being his usual obstinate self. I'll go to France. I'll talk with him."

 "You're welcome to try, though I don't think it will do much good."

 "Well, there should be at least two of us from the old days who can recognize Louis on sight, just in case anything happens to me. Louis may not look much like his personnel photos anymore."

 "I'm considering assigning Mr. Von Linden --- ."

 Waverly waited to see Cassidy's reaction, but the agent continued to eat, seemingly unconcerned. Only Waverly called Von Linden by name. To everyone else, the German would always be Herr Major. He was a difficult, complex man with complicated loyalties. The son of an aristocratic count, he'd served in the elite SS only to witness his father's execution for plotting to kill Hitler. Disgraced, the younger Von Linden was transferred to the Eastern front and attached to the command of General Reinhard Gehlen. Ironically, it was a lucky move. As a member of Gehlen's network, he'd managed to survive the war.

 " --- He's expressed an interest in the affair," Waverly went on, "and he says he visited the castle twice when it was in Nazi hands."

 "You don't say?" Cassidy remarked, still casual. If he had any reservations about working with Von Linden, he wasn't showing it. "Okay, he can ride shotgun. Considering this is supposed to be a training camp, though, the rest of the team should be young."

 Waverly opened a file folder and leafed through the pages. "London has a man named Christopher Peyton-Smythe. A year out of survival school."

 "That's too young."

 "They say he's bright and very promising."

 "All right, but I don't want any more agents that green."

 "Brian Morton's available."

 Cassidy shook his head. "He's a good man but he's too damn tall. Sticks out like a sore thumb. We'll have to blend in with the crowd on this assignment."

 "How about Mr. Wescott?"

 "Too obnoxious. He gets on my nerves." The agent sipped his coffee, thoughtfully. "Since Auguste may not be coming along, do you have anyone on that list who's a bang-and-burn expert?"

 Waverly checked the file again. "There's Illya Kuryakin."

 "Beldon's Red?"

 Waverly nodded. "He's almost as young as Peyton-Smythe --- class of '56. A bit of a loner, too. But he's certainly capable and experienced with explosives. Mr. Cutter kept him an extra six weeks to instruct the demolitions class."

 Cassidy laughed. "I would never presume to argue with Jules Cutter. Okay, he's in."

 "Paris says it can loan you an agent named Jean-Pierre Joubert. He's a native of the Languedoc region and he can speak the local dialect."

 "Fine." Cassidy finished his coffee and set the cup down on the saucer with a decisive click. "And I'm going to need a ramrod. I want Napoleon."

 Waverly frowned, sourly. He'd known this was coming. "This mission is too delicate ---."

 "C'mon Alex, he's good and you know it.

 "Mr. Solo is too --- cavalier."

 "You once thought the same thing about me. "

 "I still do," Waverly retorted. "Why do you think I chose you to lead this mission?"

 "Napoleon's confident."

 "He's too sure of himself."

 "He's ready to take risks."

 "Too bloody ready. He's reckless."

 "He's lucky."

 Waverly held out his hands in defeat. "All right," he sighed, "but don't say I didn't warn you."

 Cassidy smiled. "You know, Alex, someday, that boy will be the linchpin of your entire operation, here."

 "God help us all," the chief said, rolling his eyes heavenward. Cassidy pushed back his chair, preparing to leave.

 "Well, I guess that's it. Thanks for breakfast."

 "Ah, one last thing ---," Waverly cut in. "You'll also be taking Father Andolino."

 "The priest? Why?" Then, Cassidy began to nod to himself as the reason dawned on him. "That was part of the deal, wasn't it? They help us, we help them. One hand washes the other?"

 Waverly didn't need to answer. With breakfast over, he was already searching his pockets for his pipe. "Apparently, Father Andolino has studied some old maps of the castle so he knows the general layout. Frankly, I think he knows even more than he's telling us. He might be useful."

 "Might be," Cassidy agreed with a shrug. "What did he call this place anyway? The Devil's Attic?  Think we'll meet the devil, Alex?"

 "Perhaps a reasonable facsimile," Waverly remarked absently, as he found his pipe. The meeting was effectively over. Cassidy took his leave, knowing that his superior's mind had already moved on to other matters.

 It was a picture-postcard day --- not too warm and not too cool. Buttery sunlight washed over the stony slopes and soft, temperate breezes stirred the withered leaves in the dormant vines. You'd have to look at a calendar to know it was the middle of December, Nate Cassidy told himself. He unbuttoned his overcoat and sighed. If only Auguste Delage could be half as agreeable as the weather.

 But the old Frenchman was acting even more difficult than Cassidy had expected.

 "I want no part of this affair," Delage was growling even now, as he stalked through his vineyard with Cassidy dogging his every step.

 "Be reasonable, Auguste ---."

 "This has nothing to do with reason. The man is a traitor!"

 "We don't know that for certain."

 "I do. I spoke with Stefan a week before he died. There was evidence --- nothing that might stand up in a court of law, but evidence nonetheless. I listened, and believed. Louis betrayed Ivan Popovich. Possibly, he betrayed Lenski as well."

 "But, he was playing a double game," Cassidy pointed out, trying another tack. "Maybe he was forced to do what he did. Maybe he had no choice.

 "There are always choices."

 "But we really can't judge him until we know the extenuating circumstances."

 "I can ---."

 As they reached the end of a row of trellises, Auguste abruptly halted in his tracks. He turned to confront Cassidy, who took a step backward. Auguste was not a man to be trifled with when his Gallic temper was up.

 " --- And I say to hell with your circumstances!" the Frenchman spat. "That is what those who collaborated with the goddamn boches always claimed ---."

 Suddenly aware that he'd used the Resistance's contemptuous word for the Nazis, Delage glanced over at Gregory Von Linden. The German agent had been standing nearby, silently watching the scene.

 "No offense intended, Herr Majeur."

 "None taken," Von Linden replied coolly. A bit more subdued, Delage turned back to Cassidy.

 "Consider: Louis loved beautiful things, and one needs money to buy beautiful things. It is not difficult to see why he deserted U.N.C.L.E. for Thrush. Alex Waverly is sending you on a fool's errand. Worse: into what we called in the old days la souricière --- a mousetrap."

 "But he's your cousin for God's sake!" Cassidy protested. "You grew up together, fought together during the war. Surely, blood must mean something."

 "Ah oui, bien sûr. It means everything." Delage held out his right hand, palm up, displaying the thin scar that paralleled the lifeline.

 "Perhaps you have forgotten, but I have not. When we swore our  oath together, our bloods became one. And so, when Popovich was murdered, it was also my blood, and Herr Majeur's --- and yours, too --- that was spilled on the banks of the Seine."

 Delage put a conciliatory hand to Cassidy's shoulder. "Listen to me, my friend. More than friend: brother. It is your face I see, but it is Alexandre Waverly's words I hear. He is not one of us. He will never understand. We must forget Louis. Louis is dead. And if he is not, he should be."

 Cassidy shook his head. "I can't forget about this. I have a job to do and I intend to do it, with or without you. I'm sorry."

 "I am sorry, too," Delage agreed. There was nothing more to say. He watched as Cassidy slowly walked away.

 "Sometimes orders are not enough," Delage remarked to Von Linden, who remained motionless at the end of the trellis row. "You know that better than anyone, eh Herr Majeur?  Nat', he is too much l'américain, I fear. He does not listen to his heart, as we do."

 "Come now, Auguste," Von Linden said matter-of-factly. "You know that I have no heart." For the first time that day, Delage smiled.

 "C'est bon. Then, when the time is right, you will kill the bastard traitor --- for all of us."

 Von Linden tipped his chin once, though there was no emotion in either his voice or his clear, blue eyes.

 "You have my word on it," he said.

 The pension was comfortable rather than fashionable, and a little off the beaten track --- the sort of place a guidebook for sophisticated travelers might recommend. Still, it didn't seem to be lacking in holiday guests, sophisticated or otherwise. The lobby was packed, and it took several minutes to attract the attention of the desk clerk.

 "Oui, Monsieur?"

 "Eh, Monsieur Napoléon Solo, s'il vous plaît. Quel est le numéro de sa chambre?"

 Quickly, the harried clerk ran an index finger down the register book. "C'est quarante-neuf. Au quatrième étage."

 "Merci, beaucoup."

 "De rien," the clerk said, already moving on to his next customer.

 Illya Nikolaevich Kuryakin turned from the lobby desk and checked his watch. It was 5:40 p.m. He was twenty minutes early, which left him two options: he could go up to the room, or wait here, in the lobby. Just then, an overweight matron in a flowered dress picked up her suitcase and swung it too wide, neatly clipping him across the shin. Kuryakin jackknifed, but managed to swallow the curse before it came out.

 "Oh! Excusez-moi, mon cher garçon!"

 Her mouth, heavily rouged with lipstick, widened into a flirtatious smile. He could read it in her eyes: Such a nice boy, she was thinking.

 If she only knew.

 He gestured to indicate that no damage was done, and the woman, still smiling, moved on. Kuryakin leaned back against the lobby desk, and a moment later, felt an anonymous elbow jab him in the ribs. This time, there was no apology.

 That did it. Enough was enough. Kuryakin angled his way through the crowd and headed for the central staircase.

 As he climbed to the upper floors, the traffic thinned, then disappeared entirely. He found the fourth floor hallway entirely deserted. Most of the rooms lay vacant, awaiting their guests.

 As Kuryakin scanned the doors, ticking off the numbers to himself, he slowly became aware of a woman's voice. Faint and whispery at first, it grew louder as he approached the end of the hallway. In fact, it was coming from the very room he sought.

 "Oh, Monsieur," she was saying, "avoir pitié, s'il vous plaît."

 Her voice sounded plaintive, strained, almost breathless. The small hairs on the back of Kuryakin's neck prickled. Something was very wrong here.

 He knocked on the door. There was no answer.

 "Please, I can't bear it. Please . . ." she cried in French.

 Kuryakin knocked again, harder this time. "Mademoiselle?" he called out. Still no answer. He rattled the ancient doorknob.

 Locked.

 Inside the room, her voice rose in pitch and intensity. Now, it was almost a thin, drawn-out scream.

  "Oh. . . I shall die . . . oh, please . . ."

 Alarmed, Kuryakin slid his hand under his jacket and pulled the U.N.C.L.E. Special from his holster. He took a step backward.

 "Oh, I am dying . . ."

 He aimed his foot.

 "Oh dear God. . . oh. . . oh. . !"

 He kicked out, hard. The lock gave way with a sharp, metallic clunk and the door burst inward. Gun drawn and ready, Kuryakin rushed into the room. The woman suddenly shrieked and a man cursed aloud, and in that instant, Kuryakin realized his mistake.

 "Bozhye Moy," he groaned to himself, staring down at the couple in bed. The woman was obviously in no distress. Quite the contrary. It was also painfully clear that he'd interrupted them at the worst possible moment.

 "Eh . . . vous vous appelez Napoléon Solo?" Kuryakin stammered.

 "Yeah, and who the hell are you?!"

 Solo was twisted into a firing position, balanced on one elbow, a twin of Kuryakin's Special aimed straight at the Russian's heart. The young woman beneath Solo whimpered, and ducked her head under the sheets.

 "My name is Illya Kuryakin," the blond agent said, switching to English as smoothly as he could. Judging by the name, he hadn't expected an American. His hand, which still held the automatic, dropped limp at his side. "I'm your, um, colleague. From U.N.C.L.E. I believe I'm supposed to accompany you to our meeting at six."

 "You're early."

 "I know. I'm sorry."

 "So am I."

 Solo stuffed his Special back under the pillow with a disgusted sigh. "Tout va bien, mon chérie," he muttered to the woman under the sheets. Then, to Kuryakin, he said, "Give us a few more minutes, would you, please?"

 "Of course."

 Sheepishly, Kuryakin holstered his own automatic and shrank back across the room. As he reached the doorway, Solo called out from the bed: "And could you do me one more favor?"

 "Yes?"

 "Shut the goddamn door!"

 "Certainly."

 Kuryakin grasped the knob with both hands and pulled. The damaged door closed behind him with a solid thump.

 At exactly six o' clock, the couple emerged from the room, in considerably better spirits than he'd left them. Waiting at the far end of the hallway, Kuryakin didn't know if they'd finished what they'd begun and truth be told, he didn't want to know. When the woman smiled conspiratorially in his direction, and wriggled her fingers at him, he blushed. He turned away as the couple kissed, but when she passed him in the hallway, Kuryakin noticed the woman walked with a noticeable limp.

 "I'm really very sorry," Kuryakin apologized again as Solo joined him.

 "So you said." Solo shrugged amicably. "Forget it. It was only business."  They left for their meeting, Kuryakin falling into step behind Solo, while the latter led the way.

 It was a diverse group that assembled that evening in the private rear diningroom of a snug little restaurant on the Rue Ninau. Kuryakin took a seat between Jean-Pierre Joubert, the pock-faced baker's son from Armagnac and Christopher Peyton-Smythe, the green-stick nephew from London.

 Joubert was tough and dependable, but temperamental. Peyton-Smythe was eager, extroverted, and unrepentantly ambitious. He also fairly reeked of good family, good schools, and good breeding. Kuryakin knew them both through personal experience, while the other agents present he knew only by reputation. The priest from Vatican Intelligence, of course, he didn't know at all.

 "This is our destination," Father Andolino said, after the brief introductions were done. He placed the twelve by sixteen glossy enlargements of Autier and St. Germier Abbey in the center of the table, then launched into an abbreviated version of the briefing he'd delivered in Waverly's office the month before.

 Kuryakin glanced around the table at the others, feeling outclassed and distinctly uncomfortable. After all, sitting opposite him was the legendary Texan, Asa "Ace" Carpenter, who'd trained every U.N.C.L.E. pilot worth his wings. On Carpenter's right, the notorious Major Gregory Von Linden tilted back in his chair, silent and watchful, sucking smoke through a silver cigarette holder, his square-jawed, Teutonic face as impervious as if it'd been cut from stone. On Carpenter's left, the equally renowned Nate Cassidy brushed a speck of stray lint from the cuff of his Saville Row suit. Soft-spoken and impeccably tailored, the senior agent reminded Kuryakin of the lead actor he'd seen in a recent Hitchcock film, an American movie star whose name he's couldn't remember.

 Despite the fact that he was well past forty, Cassidy was at the pinnacle of his long career. He referred to Waverly as Alex --- even in the Old Man's presence, it was rumored --- which was the equivalent to being on a first name basis with God. By now, the senior agent should've been Chief of Enforcement at New York Headquarters, the most coveted position in the entire organization, and he would've been, too, if he hadn't turned down the promotion four times.

 For Kuryakin, the only truly unknown quantity in the group was Napoleon Solo, who was hunched forward next to Cassidy, studying the photos as Andolino droned on. Kuryakin had heard Solo's name repeated over and over again during his own stint at the U.N.C.L.E. survival school. Apparently, Solo, who'd graduated three years before Kuryakin, had been Jules Cutter's favorite pupil.

 Such a superior reputation didn't quite square with Kuryakin's rather disappointing first impression of the man. Choosing tonight to squeeze in a quick romantic tryst was certainly sloppy tradecraft, and Kuryakin's embarrassment had already given way to indignation.

 The Russian agent had also revised his estimate of Solo's nationality. Unlike an American, Solo spoke French with the facility of a native, yet his accent was worse than provincial, and haltingly enunciated rather than smoothly slurred. The only other time Kuryakin had heard the language similarly spoken was by an agent from Montreal, so it was reasonable to assume that Solo originally hailed from Canada as well.

 "Enough of this history lesson!" Joubert announced suddenly. "Please, mon père, what is the point of all this?"

 Andolino blinked in surprise. He was barely halfway through his narrative.

 "Patience, dear boy," Von Linden hissed from the corner of his mouth. "On this assignment, where we are going ist nearly as important as why."

 "Je suis désolé, Herr Majeur, but I am a practical man. Again, I ask: what is the point?"

 "The point," Nate Cassidy cut in smoothly, "is that tomorrow night, we are going to infiltrate one of history's most impregnable fortresses, made even more so now by the presence of several hundred Thrush soldiers. It will be a wham-bam-thank-you-m'am operation: quick in and quick out. And we have just one objective: to bag this man."

 Cassidy produced a yellowed snapshot and placed on the top of the pile of photographs at the center of the table.

 "Who is it?" Peyton-Smythe asked.

 "His name is Philippe Bernier and we believe he is one of the most powerful men in Thrush. He may even -be- Thrush."

 There was a sharp intake of breath followed by soft whistles from the younger agents. The elite members of the great shadow conspiracy were rare prizes, indeed. Few, if any, were identifiable, so opportunities to capture one came few and far between.

 "And that's why he must be taken alive --- at all costs. Is that understood?"

 There were nods all around.

 "Good," Cassidy said. He turned to Andolino. "Please, continue Father."

 There were no more interruptions. After his narrative was finished, the priest moved on to a detailed physical description of the abbey and surrounding countryside that he'd gleaned from medieval writings. Von Linden, who'd visited the place twice during his SS days, updated Andolino's research where he could, then Cassidy rounded out the briefing with U.N.C.L.E.'s latest intelligence.

 "We've confirmed what we suspected from the early photographs: Autier is being used as a Thrush training installation. We've also learned a bit about their schedules, procedures and day-to-day operations --- what they're uniforms are like, for example.

 "We know that the security is extremely tight and that most of the villagers are being paid to keep quiet and collaborate. Finally, we know Bernier is definitely in charge of the operation and that he spends most of his time up in the abbey."

 "But how can we know all this?" Kuryakin protested.

 "Napoleon has been operating here for weeks ahead of us, cultivating a source."

 It was then that Kuryakin recalled Solo's words, earlier that evening: It was only business. Of course! So that explained the girl. Cultivating a source, indeed!

 Mollified, the Russian watched as Cassidy patted Solo's shoulder, indicating a job well done, and Solo grinned. Kuryakin could see there was a bond between the two men, and he understood. He'd felt the same way about his old mentor, Viktor Mikhailovich, in his days before U.N.C.L.E. It made sense, too. Cassidy and Solo were like two coats cut from the same cloth, even if Solo had to work harder to conceal the seams. Although the younger agents of the team were supposed to be equals, Kuryakin now realized that some were more equal than others.

 "There's going to be a New Year's Eve celebration at the village," Cassidy continued. "We're hoping security will be more lax than usual. Tomorrow evening, Mr. Carpenter will fly us to a point two miles northeast of Autier. We will parachute in, wearing Thrush uniforms and carrying Thrush I.D. Bernier is expected to put in an appearance at the party. If he does, it will save us the trouble of trying to drag him down from that infernal abbey."

 "And if he doesn't?" Peyton-Smythe asked.

 "Then we'll play it by ear." Cassidy smiled. "Keep your fingers crossed."

 After another recap of the plan and a few words of encouragement, Cassidy wrapped up the briefing. Father Andolino and the younger agents were sent on their way with instructions to rendezvous again at eighteen hundred hours the next day at Blagnac Airport, located outside the city. When they were gone, a waiter appeared with three servings of cassoulet, a savory regional stew, and several bottles of a local wine. The senior agents settled down to their dinner.

 "I noticed you didn't tell 'em much about the girl," Carpenter drawled, uncorking the wine. As the owner of the village inn, Sabienne Boissard had proved a cooperative and valuable fount of information. A Thrush request to stock extra cases of wine and beer had alerted her to the planned New Year's Eve celebration.

 "Nor that Philippe Bernier is actually an U.N.C.L.E. agent named Louis Delage," Von Linden pointed out.

 Cassidy shrugged. "They know all they need to know. The chances of getting collared on this mission are pretty high. This should make things easier for the boys and harder for some Thrush interrogator, if it comes to that."  He accepted a glass of wine from Carpenter and took a sip. The wine was dark and full-bodied, and packed an agreeable kick. Cassidy sighed contentedly.

 "As for Louis," he said, turning his attention to the stew, "we don't know whose side he's on. If he's been turned, they'll be prepared. If he's cooperative, well, so much the better."

 Carpenter poured another glass of wine, this one for Von Linden. He passed it to the German and asked, "So what's botherin' you?"

 "I don't like the priest," Von Linden said, scowling. "There was another Andolino, an archbishop, involved in Operation Paperclip after the war. Possibly, a relation. He smuggled Reich scientists through the Vatican. I'll wager this one's a fascist, too."

 "Well, y'all were a fascist once, and we don't hold it against you," the Texan laughed. Von Linden snickered grudgingly.

 "Winds of change are blowing through the Church, Major," Cassidy allowed. "It's not like the old days. Don't you read the papers?"

 "I don't need a newspaper to tell me what I see. That man has the look of a zealot."

 "Well, zealot or not, we're stuck with him. So let's make the best of it, shall we?"

 "How's ol' Bert Sully doin'?" Carpenter inquired, changing the subject. Cassidy's face clouded over.

 "Not well. After that botched affair last year, Alex transferred him down to Section Four. He hasn't been the same since."

 "And what 'bout our boy, Nino?"

 "The blackouts are worse. He's got a steel plate in his head now and he's in and out of the hospital at least once a month."

 Carpenter shook his head, sadly. "So much talent wasted ---."

 "--- Or lost, altogether," Von Linden observed.

 "It looks like we're all that's left, gentlemen," Cassidy agreed. He waited as Carpenter refilled their glasses, then he raised his.

 "To old friends," he said.

 "To old friends," the other two echoed as they clinked glasses. Then, after a pause, Von Linden growled, "Goddamn them all."

 His colleagues just laughed.

 The tersely worded, five-line message from Thrush Central came in at 10:14 p.m. It was decoded from 10:15 to 10:22, then rushed to the desk of the garrison commander, Colonel Ellipsis Zark, at 10:23. By 10:25 p.m., a little less than two hours after the U.N.C.L.E. agents ended their meeting, Louis Delage --- alias Philippe Bernier --- knew they were coming for him, exactly who was coming, and when.

 "Well, well, well. Cassidy, Carpenter and the Major," Delage said, reading the message by the light of a kerosene lantern. The electric generators were down again. "No doubt they'll wish to raise a glass to auld lang syne."

 "You know these men?" Zark asked, mildly surprised. Delage noted the absence of the word "sir." Although the Frenchman was Undersecretary for Internal Affairs, one step away from sitting on the council itself, Zark never paid him the proper respect. Delage couldn't decide whether his subordinate was acting deliberately insolent or he was merely rude by nature. Certainly, there was no love lost between the two men.

 "Ah yes, I knew them once," Delage replied, enjoying the opportunity to one-up Zark, "but that was in a previous lifetime." He scanned the transmission again. "I see there's no mention of Monsieur Coltrane's little project here?"

 Zark nodded. "No mention. You are definitely their sole target."

 "Good. Perhaps we can clean this up before Monsieur Coltrane returns from his visit to Central, yes?"

 Zark shrugged to indicate that it was possible.

 "And what about this, eh . . . this informant?"

 "Difficult to say. It could be any one of the villagers. Shall I pursue it?"

 "Not immediately. Perhaps, after tomorrow night, it won't be necessary. We shall see." Delage struck a match, touched the flame to the message and watched it ignite. "That's quite an efficient mole we have in U.N.C.L.E." he observed. "Any guesses as to who it might be?"

 "Don't you know?"

 "Only the Council member responsible for counter-intelligence knows and you can be sure he's not telling anyone. Who can say? Perhaps there's more than one mole, eh?"

 Zark offered no opinion either way. He watched as the last of the message was consumed by the flame. Delage tossed the blackened cinder into an ashtray and delicately brushed his fingertips together.

 "You may begin your preparations for tomorrow night. However, I should like to lead the welcoming committee myself."

 "Whatever you say. It's your party."

 Ah, that insolence again, Delage thought. He really hated Zark's hard, reptilian eyes and insinuating purr. Although only in his thirties, a rare childhood disease had left Zark completely bald. Delage considered him not only boorish but also physically grotesque, and was more than happy to dismiss him.

 For his part, Zark was equally happy to be dismissed. He'd heard the rumors about his superior's "previous lifetime," and he had nothing but contempt for the Frenchman, his position as undersecretary notwithstanding.

 Once a traitor, always a traitor, Zark told himself as he headed back to the radio room. Durand, the night man, had just come on duty.

 "I wish to send a message to Thrush Central," Zark said to the radio operator. "Text as follows: 'Follow-up query on U.N.C.L.E. mission. Please clarify objective and specify: termination, apprehension --- or retrieval?'"

 "Is that all, Colonel?"

 "That should be enough. Notify me immediately when you receive a reply. I'll be in my quarters."

 "It might be several hours."

 "You may wake me if necessary."

 The operator said that he would. Zark began to leave and then, as an afterthought he added, "Oh, and Mr. Durand? I'd appreciate it if you kept this strictly confidential. Don't mention it to anyone --- not even to Mr. Bernier. D'accord?"

 "Pas de problème," the operator said through a toothy grin and touched a finger to his temple. Zark returned the salute and left. He had plans to be make.

 Asa Carpenter was waiting for them at the rear of the airfield, in a corner tucked away behind the air cargo hangar. Except for the pre-flight activity around their own plane, however, this end of the airport stood as silent as a graveyard. Because of the holiday, all freight operations were shut down and only a skeletal maintenance crew was on duty.

 Head tilted back, Carpenter studied the evening sky. Behind him, two members of an U.N.C.L.E. ground crew finished the refueling and moved on to perform the usual routine checks.

 "Front's comin' in," the Texan observed laconically. "Gonna be a bad night." Cassidy, who was the last to arrive, couldn't see anything beyond the runway lights, but he took Carpenter's word for it. After almost two decades of flying together, he was convinced that his friend could see in the dark.

 "Rain?"

 "Clouds are too flat. Looks like snow." He sniffed the brisk air, musty with moisture and heavily laced with gasoline fumes. "Smells like it too."

 Cassidy noted the pilot's appearance --- the lanky frame wrapped in a leather aviator jacket, the white silk scarf carelessly knotted at the neck, the full head of silvered hair blowing in the breeze --- and he couldn't help but laugh.

 "Bit theatrical, wouldn't you say?" Cassidy remarked, fingering the scarf. Carpenter shrugged, unapologetic.

 "Gotta look the part. Tends to inspire confidence in my passengers."

 "Ah, so that's been the trick all these years?"

 "Yup, that's it. Ready to join your team? They're already on board."

 Carpenter gestured to the waiting plane, a twin-engine, prop-driven Lockheed L.14 Super Electra. The low-wing plane was painted a dull, gunmetal gray and looked a little sad next to the larger, sleeker aircraft.

 If this plane were a human being, Cassidy told himself, it'd be old enough to apply for social security.

 "I expected a DC-3," the senior agent commented. Douglas DC-3's had been the military's preferred all-around transport during World War II and Eisenhower himself maintained that he couldn't have won the war without them. U.N.C.L.E., as well as several airlines, still kept a few in service.

 "Overrated," Carpenter said, dismissively. "The Electra's smaller, and lighter." A knowing grin crept across his face. "And it's a mite faster, too."

 Cassidy wasn't about to argue, though he secretly hoped that Carpenter's preference for vintage aircraft wouldn't be their undoing.  Nearby, the members of the maintenance crew finished their chores and withdrew. As the two agents walked to the plane, Carpenter reached into his pocket and produced a small homing device that looked like a steel bar of soap.

 "You see this gadget? When you're ready for pick-up, just push this here switch. That'll activate an electronic beacon."

 "Check. What's the range?"

 "Don't worry. I'll find ya. But just remember: between the time you throw the switch and the time I reach you, it's gonna be twelve minutes."

 Cassidy chuckled confidently. "I think we can manage that."

 "Never you mind. Twelve minutes can seem longer'n the wait at a two-whore cathouse on a Saturday night when you got the enemy breathin' fire up your ass --- as I'm sure y'all will. So don't cut it too close, okay?"

 Cassidy promised he would try and followed Carpenter through the  cabin door in the rear. As an ex-military plane, the Electra's accommodations were spartan, offering little else but twelve metal seats bolted to the floor, six on each side of the aisle. Even with five seats empty, the narrow cabin seemed cramped. It was uninsulated, too, but the agents didn't seem to mind. They were dressed in snow parkas over winter-weight Thrush uniforms and were carrying two parachutes and several pounds of gear each.

 Leaving Cassidy with the others, Carpenter continued on to the flight deck and settled himself into the pilot's seat. His co-pilot was a sober-eyed, red-headed lad he'd trained two years ago. The boy hadn't bothered to offer his name to the rest of the team, and no one had asked for it.

 The take-off was relatively smooth and uneventful, and after they were airborne, Cassidy unbuckled his seat belt, stood up and called for attention.

 "I don't have to tell you, this is going to be a tough one," he began, his soft voice barely audible over the thrum of the Wright- Cyclone engines, "but I know you've all guessed that, already. This is the belly of the beast, gentlemen, and we're going in for some exploratory surgery.

 "Now I know what you've been taught --- that your individual lives are worthless, that everything must be sacrificed for the mission --- and that's true as far as it goes. But if this thing blows up in our faces, I want you to abort the mission immediately, and to get the hell out of there. Repeat: Immediately. Is that understood?"

 There were hesitant murmurs, followed by a nod or two. Cassidy glanced deliberately in Solo's direction, but the latter was staring out the window, as if there were something of interest in the opaque blackness beyond.

  "Please remember that you're more valuable to U.N.C.L.E. as a survivor bringing back vital intelligence, than as a prisoner of Thrush or worse yet, as a corpse. All right?"

 This time, there was heartier agreement. Even Solo nodded, though his attention remained fixed on the window.

 "All right, then. Good luck to us."

 "And the Lord protect us all," Father Andolino said, by way of benediction, and made the sign of the cross. Cassidy returned to his seat opposite Von Linden.

 "I liked your little analogy," the German said. Cassidy didn't answer. He was never quite sure when Von Linden was being sarcastic and when he was not.

 "It ist a kind of surgery, ya? Like cutting a cancer from a man."

 "Rather the reverse, I should think," Cassidy replied. Just then, Carpenter's voice broke in over the intercom.

 "We're comin' up on 'er now, boys. Five minutes to drop."

 "Let's get ready," Cassidy said, and they did.

 Illya Kuryakin never cared much for jumping from planes. He'd do  it, but he didn't enjoy it as some agents apparently did. There was an element of chance involved, a strong sense of being out of control, that Kuryakin's cautious nature couldn't appreciate. During jump training, they usually spent an hour explaining how safe it was, and the next six describing all the things that could go wrong.

 Even more, he didn't like using a parachute he hadn't packed himself. The deployment of this one, however, had been smooth. First came the pilot chute, then the main canopy blossomed, and finally, he felt the characteristic jerk as his body was plucked from freefall. Kuryakin squinted in the dark, checking the parachute above him as best he could. The lines were straight and untwisted. He turned his attention to landing.

 The target was a small meadow, situated just behind a stand of evergreen trees. Because he was one of the last of the team to exit the plane, Kuryakin found himself a little too long, and tried to compensate by running with the wind.

 But the elevation and the weight of the U.N.C.L.E. gear accelerated his descent. Kuryakin's canopy grazed the crown of an evergreen, caught, and redirected his drop. Fortunately, he crashed all the way through the tree and ended up hanging less than a foot from the ground.

 "Are you all right?" someone asked as the Russian agent released his harness and hopped to his feet. It was Solo. The priest was with him.

 "I'm fine," Kuryakin said, unable to hide his annoyance. With Solo's help, he dragged the parachute down from the branches and buried it. The snow cover was thinner than he'd expected, no more than three or four inches at the most. In this part of the Pyrenees, Mediterranean winds moderated the effects of the higher altitudes, and deep winter didn't arrive until January. With the parachute properly concealed, they trudged through the trees to join the rest of the group.

 Once the entire team was assembled, Cassidy ordered a quick weapons check. Each U.N.C.L.E. agent was carrying a modified M1 carbine assault rifle, the Thrush camp's current weapon of choice, as well as his own silenced U.N.C.L.E. Special tucked away under layers of clothing. The only exceptions were Von Linden, who preferred his own custom-made, ivory-handled Luger, a souvenir from his SS days, and Father Andolino, who chose to carry only an old style Mauser-type Special loaded with sleep darts.

 "Okay, let's get moving," Cassidy said when all was in order. The team headed southwest, walking single file, keeping parallel to --- but well back from --- the main road.

 "Do you hear something?" Solo said, after they'd gone about half a mile. Cassidy, who was in the lead, halted to listen.

 "What ist wrong?" Von Linden hissed from the rear.

 "Shhh, Major."

 Von Linden elbowed his way to the front of the line.

 "What is it?!"

 Cassidy held up his hand for silence. Through the stillness of the mountain night, drifted voices, laughter and the clink of metal.

 "It's coming from the direction of the road," Cassidy said.  He motioned to Solo. "Napoleon, take a look."

 Solo scuttled away in the darkness and was back within minutes with a surprise.

 "There's a truck broken down. Looks like a flat. I could make out four guys. I can't be sure, but I think they're Thrush soldiers."

 "What bloody good luck!" Peyton-Smythe exclaimed with a grin.

 "Not luck --- Providence," Andolino corrected. Beside him, he heard Von Linden harrumph scornfully.

 "You don't believe in Providence, Major?"

 "I believe in nothing," Von Linden muttered.

 "All right, all right," Cassidy broke in, clearly irritated. "If they're fixing a blowout, it's not going to take them all night. C'mon."

 The agents moved ahead to a low rise, then flattened themselves, belly-down, to peek over the edge. Solo had been right. Two hundred yards below them, a pair of Thrush soldiers leaned against the hood of a covered transport truck, talking and smoking cigarettes, while their two companions struggled with the right rear tire.

 "Can't pick them off from here," Cassidy observed, thinking out loud.

 "I might be able to, sir," Kuryakin said.

 "Maybe, but let's not take any chances. And we can't lob a grenade at them, either. We'll want that vehicle intact." He turned to Peyton-Smythe. "You look harmless enough. Go down there, talk to them, distract them, get in close. And take Mr. Joubert with you."

 "Yes, sir."

 The two agents left. They backtracked, circling wide so that they could approach the truck from the direction of the village. As they walked casually up the road toward the two loitering Thrushmen, Joubert noted a fifth man sitting in the cab, behind the wheel.

 "Beware the driver," Joubert whispered to Peyton-Smythe before switching to French to address the Thrush soldiers. "Bonsoir, mes amis. Comment ça va?"

 One of the soldiers smoking cigarettes looked up. "What'd you say?" he asked in English, with a heavy Yorkshire accent.

 "Eh, I asked what was happening here," Joubert said, quickly  shifting languages.

 "Where'd you two come from?" the other Thrush, an American, wanted to know.

 "From Autier," Peyton-Smythe volunteered, his young face as innocent as a choirboy's. "They said you chaps were overdue and they sent us out to look for you."

 "We've a bloody puncture," the first soldier explained, but his companion wasn't quite so ready to accept their story.

 "Who sent you?" the second soldier asked suspiciously.

 "The colonel," Peyton-Smythe lied, taking a chance. He and Joubert were almost in swinging range.

 "Oh yeah? Where'd you come from? I didn't hear no engine."

 "No? Well, it's right back there."

 "Where?"

 "There, down the road," Peyton-Smythe said, pointing. And then he hit him.

 Reacting on cue, Joubert rushed the other Thrush soldier. He grasped the soldier by the hair with both hands and slammed the head hard against the grill of the truck. From the corner of his eye, Joubert saw the driver throw open a door, scrambling from the cab with a weapon. Suddenly, there was a loud pop. The door window shattered and the driver fell back into the front seat, a bullet embedded above his right ear.

 At the other end of the truck, the soldiers who'd been fixing the tire, jumped to their feet. One lifted his rifle, ready to fire, while the other barely managed to unsling his. Two more pops from another direction and they were both lying dead on the ground.

 "Good shooting, Major," Joubert complimented Von Linden, who'd killed the driver. The German nodded and walked over to inspect the soldiers that Peyton-Smythe and Joubert had knocked unconscious.

 "These two are still alive," Von Linden declared. He sounded almost indignant, like a meticulous housekeeper who discovers an unmade bed. Without a second thought, he aimed his Luger and shot both Thrushmen in the head.

 "La Madonna!" Andolino cried.

 "You have a problem, Mein Herr?" Von Linden responded evenly. Unlike the others, he refused to address the priest as Father.

 "Yes, I have a problem!" Andolino began, but Cassidy moved quickly between them, taking control of the situation.

 "Major, take Mr. Kuryakin and Mr. Peyton-Smythe with you and get these bodies buried --- pronto. Go with them, Father. I'm sure you'll want to say a few words." Behind him, Joubert and Solo were hard at work on the tire.

 Fifteen minutes later, the agents working burial detail rejoined the truck and climbed into the van with Solo. Joubert was already behind the wheel. Cassidy sat in the cab beside him.

 "This transfer order is for five men," Joubert observed, scanning the top sheet on the driver's clipboard.

 "Make the five into a six," Cassidy said. "We'll bluff our way through and tell them you aren't included in the count."

 Joubert found a ball-point pen on the dashboard and did as he was told. Then he rolled down the broken window, threw the truck into gear and pulled away. In the rear van, the rest of the team jerked forward slightly with the motion.

 "You shouldn't have shot them," Andolino murmured to Von Linden, who was sitting beside him on a bench.

 "You would have preferred if they awakened to warn the others?"

 "No, of course not. But we might have secured them to a tree. In their condition, I don't suppose they were going anywhere."

 "This way was more merciful than leaving them to freeze, or perhaps, to bleed to death in the snow." Von Linden looked across the aisle at Kuryakin. "You agree, don't you, tovarisch?"

 "I didn't think mercy was a particular concern of yours, Herr Major," the Russian agent replied softly. Von Linden chuckled, unperturbed at the insult. He lit himself a much-needed cigarette. When he exhaled, his breath mingled with the smoke in the frosty night air.

 "You don't like me very much, do you, Herr Russe?"

 Kuryakin declined to answer. Von Linden studied him thoughtfully. "You sound like Oxford by way of Moscow, but I also hear Kiev in your speech. So: which one was it?"

 The truck lurched as it hit a bump. "I beg your pardon?" Kuryakin asked, genuinely confused.

 "Which one of your parents was slaughtered by Nazis? Father?"

 Kuryakin's pale face colored visibly. "My father is a retired colonel ---."

 "Ah. Mother, then. My sympathies."

 Kuryakin found himself unable to respond. He choked back words that lay half-formed and bitter in his throat, and looked away. The others avoided his gaze in silent embarrassment, except for Solo, who stared at him frankly, taking in the scene. Veiled by the shadows of the van, Solo's expression was unreadable but just for an instant, Kuryakin thought he saw a flicker of empathy in his fellow agent's face.

 A fine, wet snow was falling by the time they reached the first checkpoint. Because this was, after all, a public road, the sentries were hidden. Without identifying insignias, their non-descript gray uniforms resembled those usually favored by utility companies. Joubert didn't notice the sentries until he turned a curve and one flagged him down with a flashlight, accompanied by garbled warnings about road problems ahead. Once the Thrushman peeked into the cab however, and saw the agents' black berets, the pretense dropped and his manner turned all business.

 Carefully, he read through the orders twice. He circled the truck, inspected the van, counted the agents sitting in the back, checked the orders again. He inquired about the discrepancy in the numbers, directing his questions to Cassidy, who wore a uniform with captain's bars on the collar. Cassidy offered his rehearsed lie about Joubert being merely a driver who wasn't scheduled for transfer, himself. The sentry listened and said nothing. He examined the van again, playing the beam of his flashlight over the agents' stoic faces. Somehow, he missed the extra U.N.C.L.E. gear crammed under the benches and returned to the orders yet a third time. Finally --- satisfied or not, Cassidy couldn't tell --- the sentry waved them on.

 "If the next guy is any more conscientious than that one," Cassidy commented to Joubert as they drove away, "this mission will be over even before it begins."

 The second checkpoint was located at the far end of a bridge crossing over a tributary of the River Salat. This one had a permanent gate and sentry box, but surprisingly, the guard was more congenial, even friendly. When he accepted the clipboard, Joubert caught a whiff of wine on his breath.

 "Where are you coming from, comrade?" the guard asked conversationally in heavily accented French. He sounded East European, probably Polish. Cassidy was struck by the international mix of the Thrush infantry they'd encountered so far.

 "North," the senior agent replied simply, not knowing what else to say. The point of origin on the order had been printed in code.

 "Then you must be cold and very tired after so long a drive," the guard said. He handed back the clipboard without bothering to check the numbers or inspect the van. "If you're not assigned immediate duty, try the inn. The wine is good and the owner is pretty. And there's going to be a little celebration there, tonight. It's New Year's Eve, after all."

 "Happy New Year," Joubert said, feigning weariness, as the Thrushman waved him on.

 The road angled right and dipped sharply, heading downward, into a valley. The snow continued to fall, crackling like grains of sand against the windshield. Far ahead, twinkling pinpoints of light appeared, earthbound stars seemingly attached to nothing. Cassidy leaned forward in the passenger seat, straining to see through the blurred glass.

 "There it is," he whispered finally. The pinpoints had swelled to form a glowing halo over Autier, which floated, remote and isolated, like an uncharted island in a sea of inky blackness. As they drew closer, Cassidy began to distinguish the village from the Thrush training camp, the camp from the mountain, and the mountain from the surrounding Pyrenees. Autier had about fifty buildings in all, including a church and what looked like a town hall. The barracks, supply shacks and other structures that formed the Thrush encampment beyond, ringed the base of Montsalat like a collar.

 "The cable car system appears to be operational," Joubert remarked. In Autier's reflected light, they could see a tiny oblong box edging its way upward, suspended from a thick, steel thread. Cassidy's eye traveled ahead of it, along the line to the terminal point.

 Somehow, perched on its bleak, lonely summit, St. Germier's looked more sinister and far more forbidding than it had in the photographs. Unlike the fabulous castles of Bavaria, it had no graceful turrets, no soaring spires, no gingerbread ornamentation reminiscent of a fairytale or theme park. The architecture was stark, humorless, ugly --- squared, massive walls with one unadorned tower that loomed belligerently over the landscape. And, because it had been built with Montsalat's black stone, the abbey didn't appear man-made at all, but seemed to rise, organically, from the mountain itself.

 That Swiss entrepreneur was doomed from the start, the senior agent told himself. He could never have transformed this into a ski resort. It's a terrible place --- cruel, wicked, cursed --- and it will never, never be otherwise.

 There were lights on in the abbey. Was Louis up there? Cassidy wondered idly. Perhaps, even at that moment, the Frenchman was looking out a window, watching the progress of their truck and knowing it was them.

 "There's the inn," Joubert said as they entered Autier's main street. He pointed to the left, to a modest two-story building with a sign that said Boissard's. The cobblestone walk in front was crowded with people, many dressed in Thrush uniforms. The inn's windows overflowed with light, music, and laughter.

 "Let's find a nice deserted alley, if we can," Cassidy said. They passed the inn, turned a corner, and headed down a quiet side street. Eventually, the truck pulled to a stop next to a car repair garage housed in a converted barn.

 No one else was around. Cassidy and Joubert hopped down from the cab and circled back to the van. The other agents were already climbing out.

 "All right," Cassidy said, keeping his voice to a whisper. "Mr. Joubert and Mr. Peyton-Smythe, you're in charge of transportation. Stay with the truck. If you're ordered to move it, do as you're told. Try not to arouse any suspicions, but stay within sight of this vehicle. We'll need it for a quick getaway. Understood?"

 The agents nodded.

 "Mr. Kuryakin, do you have your explosives pack with you?"

 "Yes sir."

 "I want you and Mr. Solo to fix up a suitable diversion for us. No doubt we're going to need one later. Look around the village. Maybe you can get near those fuel tanks we saw in the reconnaissance photos. The Major and I are going to the inn to try to get a lead on Bernier."

 Cassidy checked his watch. "It's 7:30. We'll rendezvous back here in an hour and compare notes." He turned to Andolino. "Father, you'll stay with me. Now let's get moving."

 After the group dispersed, the senior agents and the priest retraced their route back to the inn. A festive, party atmosphere pervaded the main streets and everywhere they went, they saw soldiers in black berets laughing and mingling with the locals. Thrush had, quite literally, overrun the town and no one seemed to mind.

 "It reminds me of the war," Von Linden said with disgust as he watched a young Thrush soldier steal a kiss from an auburn-haired beauty. "The French are such cowards. They will sell their souls and their women to anyone with a gun who comes along."

 Cassidy said nothing. He was concentrating hard, studying the passing faces, searching for one that might look particularly familiar.

 When the agents reached the inn, they found the celebrating crowd gathered outside had grown even larger, forcing them to elbow their way through. Inside, the situation was even worse. Every seat was taken and the patrons at the bar were packed shoulder to shoulder. A choking cloud of tobacco smoke filled the room to the wooden rafters, while a group of English-speaking Thrush soldiers were clustered around a piano, singing at the top of their lungs and contributing to the general din.

 At the sight of Cassidy's captain's uniform, some of the younger recruits stepped aside. Near the bar, a pair even willingly vacated a table. The agents and the priest slipped into the empty seats. Von Linden positioned himself with his back to the wall so that he had a clear view of the door.

 "What would you like, gentlemen?" a women asked in French, as she materialized out of the haze. She had full lips, creamy cheeks, wavy jet-black hair and the most gorgeous violet eyes Cassidy had ever seen. Although he recognized Sabienne Boissard immediately from Solo's description, the senior agent's tone remained perfectly neutral.

 "A bottle of Jurançon wine --- the best you have."

 "The best was consumed hours ago," Sabienne replied with an easy smile. If she knew who the agents were, she was not letting on. "How about the second-best?"

 "Only if you promise to deliver it, personally."

 "But of course," she laughed and was gone.

 Cassidy settled back and casually scanned the room.

 "Is Bernier here yet?" Andolino asked.

 "I don't see him."

 Over in the corner, near the staircase, a Thrushman with sergeant's stripes was taking considerable liberties with a waitress. Nearby, the soldiers around the piano had begun a drunken chorus of "Auld Lang Syne".

 "We should mix with this scum, I suppose," Von Linden sneered. "Find out if ---."

 Suddenly, his words were cut off by a crack of gunfire. Two shots. Then three. Then two more, followed by shouts and the wail of a warning siren. The piano music ceased in mid-chord and a rumble of surprise rolled through the crowd.

 "Uh-oh," Cassidy said, through clenched teeth. He pushed back his chair, preparing to make a quick exit, but it was too late. The shouting outside in the streets was already very loud and very close.

 His eyes still focused on the inn's doorway, Von Linden motioned discreetly to his friend to sit back down. Just as Cassidy did, the door burst inward.

 "Ecoutez, s'il vous plaît! Achtung! Attention please!"

 A Thrush soldier appeared, bellowing orders in three languages. "There has been a breach of security! Please stay calm. Remain where you are!"

 In response, the crowd parted, leaving a clear path down the center of the room, and sucked in a collective breath. The Thrush soldier stepped aside to reveal two more. They were holding a slightly bruised Peyton-Smythe propped between them.

 "They have our English boy," Von Linden told Cassidy, who dared not turn to risk a peek.

 The captured U.N.C.L.E. agent was dragged aside to reveal yet another man in a Thrush uniform. This one's collar was stamped with gold bars, and gold braid decorated the fighting bird symbol above the peak of his officer's cap. He surveyed the inn, acting as if he owned the place.

 "Gott in Himmel," Von Linden rasped. His expression froze, then went blank as ice.

 He watched as the man, who was obviously in charge, marched into the room. Flanked by two subordinates armed with M1's, the Thrush chief circled the patrons, inspecting each one. He took his time, weaving in and out among tables, progressing slowly but surely towards the bar. No one spoke to him. No one moved. The room was absolutely silent.

 Cassidy remained pinned in his seat, unable to watch the little drama playing out behind him. Still, he could hear the rustling of the Thrushmen's movements and when they halted abruptly, he could sense their presence just beyond the range of his vision.

 "Well, what have we here?" someone said in accented English. Cassidy recognized the voice, and felt his stomach drop to his boots. He twisted in his chair. Louis Delage --- or something that used to be Louis --- was staring down at him with a death's head grin.

 "Allô, Nate," the thing said. "Long time, no see."
 
 
 
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To Proceed to Part Two
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