So this is what treason does to a man, Nate Cassidy thought to himself as the car crept slowly along the cable.

 Though he was growing accustomed to this new Louis, it required some effort. The first sight of his old friend had come as a shock, and the Thrush uniform, flaunted so shamelessly, was only a small part of it.

 Louis had gone gray, all gray, the color of cigarette ash --- not only his hair and mustache, but also his eyes, his cheeks, his lips, his skin. Cassidy was reminded of an agent named Bryce during the war, who'd been slowly poisoned by his Nazi-sympathizing mistress. Near the end, Bryce had looked as if he'd been bled dry then embalmed, more a waxworks figure of himself than a living, breathing human being. Delage looked like that, too.

 If the initial encounter had been disturbing, the journey to the abbey was downright surreal. It was strange to hear Louis, the once jaunty boulevardier, sternly ordering the Thrush soldiers to strip the prisoners of their weapons and hustle them from the inn. Outside, the agents were confronted with Joubert's bullet-riddled body, dumped on the ground in front of them like a sack of potatoes.

 "He was a hot-headed fellow, wasn't he?" Delage commented, before he motioned to the guards to drag the body away.

 Poor Jean-Pierre, Cassidy thought. You deserved a better epitaph --- and a stone to carve it on. But there was no time allowed for mourning. There seldom was.

 Now, on the ride up to the abbey, accompanied by several armed guards, Delage proudly showed off his uniform. "The right costume is nècessaire in the theatre of war. The SS knew that, eh Herr Majeur?"

 Von Linden refused to dignify the question with an answer and continued to stare out the window of the cable car.

 "It's just for the benefit of the troops," the Frenchman admitted, turning to Cassidy. "I hold no military rank, though I do serve very close to the Council. But of course, you know this, yes?"

 Cassidy didn't know. He'd lied to the junior agents during their  briefing the day before. He really had no idea exactly how Delage was positioned within the Thrush hierarchy, but he filed this scrap of information away for future reference.

 At the header station at the top of the mountain, they were met by more armed Thrush soldiers. Delage introduced Colonel Zark, the garrison commander, a loathsome creature as bald as a cue ball with a supercilious sneer and eyes like black marbles.

 "I've just received word from the village," Zark reported. "No more infiltrators have been found."

 "Tell the men to keep searching," Delage replied, annoyed. "U.N.C.L.E. agents are like roaches. When you find one or two, it means there must be others crawling in the woodwork." Then he gestured to his captive guests, the soul of hospitality once more.

 "This way, gentlemen, s'il vous plaît."

 The knocking was light and barely audible, tapping out a shave-and-a-haircut rhythm. As soon as she heard it, Sabienne Boissard hurried to the rear of the inn and ripped open the door. Solo and Kuryakin were waiting outside, flattened against the side of the building.

 "Sacre bleu!" she exclaimed. "Don't you know they are searching for you everywhere?"

 "Yeah," Solo replied ruefully, "we know." The night was filled with the echoes of roving security squads and their barking guard dogs.

 "Come, come. Inside --- quickly!"

 As the agents slipped past her, Sabienne stole a last cautious peek before shutting the door behind them. She led them into a small stairwell behind the kitchen.

 "Down to the wine cellar?" Solo asked. They'd switched to English in case the kitchen help was listening.

 "Non, too obvious. That is the first place they will look. This way --- to the attic."

 Single-file, they ascended a crooked, narrow flight of stairs. The second floor of the inn contained four modest guestrooms, all vacant, and a large, dusty storeroom filled with crates, barrels and several steamer trunks. With some difficulty, Sabienne upended one of the trunks, climbed on top and pressed her fingertips against the ceiling. A panel, invisible to the eye, slid aside to reveal an opening to a secret garret under the roof.

 "My father was a maquisard," she explained as Solo helped her down from the trunk. "He had this built during the war. I will hide you here this night."

 "Thanks. Do you know what happened to our friends?"

 Sabienne nodded. "Two of them --- the two with le camion, the lorry --- they were discovered first. One resisted. He was killed. The others were captured here, at the inn."

 "How did Thrush find them?"

 "Monsieur Bernier, he knew your friends on sight. I heard him call one by name. They have all been taken to St. Germier's."

 Solo squeezed his eyes shut and murmured, "So it was a trap ..."   "Trap? What are you talking about?" Kuryakin asked, but the other agent ignored him.

 "Sabienne, is there another way into the abbey besides the front gate?"

 "Mais oui, the mountain, she is riddled with passages. Do you have climbing equipment?"

 Solo shook his head with real regret. Most of their gear had been left behind in the truck. No doubt by now, it'd been discovered and confiscated, as well.

 "It does not matter," she consoled him. "The entrances to the caves, they are difficult to find. In the dark, in this weather, it would be impossible. En plus, the soldiers are everywhere, all around."

 "I don't care. I have to get into that abb ---."

 He stopped to listen. Old Mrs. Thiers was calling Sabienne's name from the bottom of the staircase. The young woman frowned. "It may be soldiers returning to search again. Quickly: into the attic!"

 At her urging, the agents scrambled up the steamer trunk and through the hole in the ceiling. After they replaced the panel, Sabienne pushed the trunk aside and hastened to answer Mrs. Thiers' call.

 The hiding place was extremely cramped for two grown men dressed in bulky parkas and carrying rifles. The roof hung too low to allow them to stand, so the agents crouched opposite each other, with knees drawn up. A sharp, icy wind whistled through a frame of ventilation slats. Solo peered down at the village, the light from below painting zebra stripes across his face.

 Kuryakin watched his companion until he was unable to contain himself any longer. Pitching his voice just above a whisper, the Russian said, "I understand the information about this mission is available only on a 'need-to-know' basis, but considering the current situation, I think I need to know. You mentioned a trap. Could you please fill me in?"

 Solo didn't respond at first. Kuryakin wondered if he hadn't heard the question at all, before realizing that a decision was being made. Patiently, the Russian agent gave him time, and finally, Solo spoke.

 "Philippe Bernier is an U.N.C.L.E. agent --- or at least he was."

 "What?"

 "His real name is Louis Delage," Solo went on, in the face of Kuryakin's incredulity. "Nate knows him, Carpenter knows him. All the senior agents do. Delage was one of the original seed team.

 "Twelve years ago, he went undercover with Thrush. Four years later, he broke contact and was never heard from again. That is, until last November, when U.N.C.L.E. received a coded message from Delage requesting extraction. Mr. Waverly sent a reconnaissance team in to check it out. They found Autier --- and the Thrush base."

 "Is that where you came in?" Kuryakin asked.

 "Not quite. The team kept the village under regular surveillance. They noticed that Sabienne left every Wednesday and drove to Toulouse on business. When Nate took charge of the affair, he sent me in to make contact with her, casually. You know: strike up a relationship, find out what I could, maybe win her confidence --- the usual thing. As it turned out, she was unhappy with the village's collaboration with Thrush. Her parents had fought with the Free French, and she agreed to help us.

 "Over the next few weeks, she gave me what information she could. She described the chief of the operation, even identified him from an old photograph. Of course, I never told her his real identity, but it was Delage, all right. When we heard about the New Year's celebration, Mr. Waverly thought it might be a good time to go in. And here we are."

 "But now you believe the message was a trap," Kuryakin observed.

 "Nate warned me that it might be."

 "But why draw us in? For what purpose?"

 "I don't know," Solo admitted, "but a more important question is this: even if it was a trap, how could they know we were coming --- and when? There was no further contact either way, yet obviously, Thrush was prepared for our visit."

 "What about the girl? Perhaps she's playing both ends against the middle."

 Solo looked surprised. "Sabienne? Well maybe, but I don't think so. I trust her."

 Kuryakin didn't share his colleague's confidence. He tried to put it as delicately as possible. "Are you certain that your feelings aren't influencing that judgment? Perhaps you've fallen a little in love with the girl."

 "I don't fall in love --- not even a little," Solo snapped back. Then, more reasonably, he added, "It's hazardous to my health."

 Unwilling to argue, Kuryakin dropped the subject. The next instant, they heard a rap against the panel. Kuryakin reached down and moved it aside to allow Sabienne to poke her head through the opening.

 "I must leave you now. I've been summoned to St. Germier's," she told them. "Monsieur Bernier wants me to cook dinner for him and his guests."

 "Sort of a last meal for the condemned?" Solo cracked.

 "Perhaps. Le seigneur is known for his peculiar sense of humor."

 "Are you going up by cable car? Think we might hitch a ride?"

 "That will be difficult. The soldiers ---."

 "You leave the soldiers to us," Solo assured her. "Just let us know when you're ready to go."

 "D'accord."

 Sabienne retreated and Kuryakin set the panel back in place once more. "Mr. Cassidy ordered us to abort this mission if anything went wrong," he reminded Solo soberly. "Going to that abbey is suicide."

 "I'm not leaving here without the others."

 Solo looked through the ventilation slats again, his jaw set with grim determination. Kuryakin sighed, resigned to the inevitable.

 "Then I suppose I'm going with you."

 There was an awkward pause.

 "What's wrong?" Kuryakin asked. He narrowed his eyes as it dawned on him. "You don't want my help, do you?"

 Solo hesitated.

 "Is it because I'm Russian? Because I'm Soviet?"

 Solo took a deep breath, then reluctantly plunged on. "Peyton- Smythe told me that when he was at the survival school, he heard rumors about you. That you resisted the initiation the night before graduation . . ."

 "That's true," Kuryakin replied flatly.

 "And that you refused to take the oath. Or make the mark."

 "That's untrue."

 The Russian agent held out his right hand, palm up, as proof. In the dim light leaking through the ventilation slats, Solo could see a hairline scar paralleling the lifeline.

 "All right," he said.

 And in that moment, though neither man was even remotely aware of it, a bargain was struck, one that would affect everything they did for the rest of their lives.

 "It's a complicated story," Kuryakin added, by way of explanation.

 Solo cocked an interested eyebrow. "Someday, you'll have to tell me about it."

 The buildings of the abbey were arranged roughly around an oblong courtyard and completely surrounded by high parapets. To the north was a large, cruciform-shaped church, its nave pointing westward, toward the well-protected main gate. Along the eastern wall lay the cloisters, dormitories and guesthouses; on the western side, the gardens, offices and storehouses. The cable car system connected to the mountain on the southern face and between the station and the central courtyard, were the stables, kitchen and refectory. At the southeastern corner, stood a formidable round stone keep about six stories high.

 "What's in the tower?" Cassidy asked casually as he tried to mentally map his surroundings.

 "The past --- and the future," Delage replied with an enigmatic smile.

 The prisoners were herded into the refectory. After they were ordered to sit at a long trestle table near an oversized fireplace,  their Thrush guards dispersed to take up positions beside the room's four doorways. In the welcome warmth of a blazing fire, the agents watched as Louis Delage acted the role of congenial host.

 "Would you like coffee?" he asked. "Something to eat?"

 "No."

 This, from Von Linden, who hadn't spoken a word since the inn.

 Delage gestured toward Peyton-Smythe's battered face. "Perhaps a steak for the boy's eye."

 "I'm fine," the young British agent announced gamely, though his right eye was discolored and puffy.

 "Then, later perhaps. I've sent for a cook. The night, she is young. We still have four hours until midnight." The Frenchman began to pace, slowly circling the table. "So how has life treated you these long years, Nate?"

 "Not bad. Yourself?" Even when he wasn't sure of the rules, Nate Cassidy could never resist playing the game.

 "Obviously, quite well, or you would not have come here to kidnap me. To be the target of such a mission, it is very flattering."

 Cassidy noted there'd been no mention --- not even so much as a hint --- of the mysterious letter requesting extraction. Indeed, Delage seemed totally unaware of its existence.

 But if Louis didn't send the letter, who did?

 "I'm surprised to find that Auguste did not come with you," Delage mused aloud. He produced a pack of Gauloises, offered one to Von Linden, and lit it with a pocket lighter. "How is my dear cousin?"

 "He wants to see you rot in hell," Von Linden replied, exhaling a long stream of smoke. Delage sighed.

 "Auguste was never a sentimentalist." No one else wanted any cigarettes. He moved on.

 "And you must be the one called Peyton-Smythe, eh?"

 "I'd rather not say, actually."

 Delage clucked his tongue against his teeth and shook his head. "So young, so idealistic . . ." He looked across the table to Cassidy. "Still recruiting crusaders, I see."

 "Just can't help myself," the senior agent admitted with a good-natured shrug. Delage didn't seem to hear. He paused for a moment, studying the high ceiling, the wooden rafters, the wrought-iron candelabras rewired with electric light bulbs, as if he were seeing the room for the very first time.

 "Do you know what this place used to be?" he asked.

 "A cafeteria for monks?" Cassidy guessed.

 "No, no. I mean before that, before the abbey. This was once a great chateau, a citadel, one of the last strongholds of the Cathar heretics."

 "So we've heard."

 Delage smiled indulgently. "Ah, yes. Your Vatican priest there, he must have told you."

 Cassidy exchanged glances with Andolino, trying to disguise his rising alarm. How could Delage know so much? From the girl? But she hadn't been privy to the names of the individual agents, unless Napoleon had told her, and Cassidy doubted that. There had to be someone else --- someone working as a mole, deep within the U.N.C.L.E. organization itself.

 Damn, the senior agent thought. Now it was imperative that they get out alive, in order to warn Waverly.

 "They called themselves Cathars --- or 'pure ones' --- from the Greek katharos," Delage went on, "and they didn't consider themselves heretics at all, but reformers. They believed that a cosmic war was being waged between two great powers: the higher God of the spirit and an evil god called Rex Mundi, the creator of the material world.

 "They decided that since Christ descended from the god of light and was a spirit Himself, he couldn't really be crucified. So they rejected the sacraments, the clergy --- the entire dogma of the Roman Church!"

 "It was a deeply misguided heresy," Andolino said. "And extremely dangerous."

 "Dangerous?" Delage laughed dryly. "Yes, the Cathars, they were dangerous. They were vegetarians. They meditated. They were devout. And because they were reluctant to bring any more children into this cruel, malignant world, they were chaste, too. Certainly, they were better people than the venal, debauched, corrupt priests of the time period. Isn't that so, mon père?"

 "Perhaps," Andolino conceded.

 "And what did the Church do with these perfecti, these bonne hommes as others called them? The Pope joined with the King of France and declared a great crusade against them. The entire southwest of France was laid waste by war. Whole cities were put to the torch and all their inhabitants, orthodox and Cathars alike, were murdered."

 "What ist the point of all this?" Von Linden demanded, irritably.

 "I am coming to it, Herr Majeur. You see, among the leaders of that crusade were the members of the Knights Templar. You've heard of them, eh? Bon, I thought you might have. Then, can you envision them now, these warrior-monks? Bearing down upon the defenseless populations, swords singing, blooding splattering their snow-white tunics? Fighting the good fight for Pope and King, sworn to absolute vows of poverty, chastity and obedience? Sounds familiar, yes?"

 The Frenchman grinned nastily and for that brief moment, Cassidy hated him enough to kill him, himself.

 "Ah, but here is the irony: a half century later, these same knights were accused of blasphemy, heresy, and devil worship --- just as the Cathars were. They suffered the same fate, too. Their leaders were roasted over a slow fire and the entire order was obliterated."

 Delage leaned close to Peyton-Smythe and lowered his voice conspiratorially. "So mon cher garçon, do you understand the moral? You can never truly know who you are serving --- God or Rex Mundi. There is no help for it. And placing your trust in Pope and King will do no good, for when they are finished using you, they will burn you, too."

 "I think we've had enough lecturing for one night," Cassidy broke in. He yawned extravagantly. "Could you show us to our quarters, please?"

 "You don't wish to see in the new year?"

 "If it's all the same to you, we'd rather not."

 "Very well," Delage said, sounding disappointed. He motioned to the guards. "Lock them in the penitent cells. We shall give them time to contemplate their sins before the real Inquisition begins. Bon soir, gentlemen."

 The prisoners were led away, across the courtyard, to the cellars below the large dormitory building. The group was divided, two agents to a cell. As the heavy bolt locking their own door clunked solidly into place, Von Linden turned to Cassidy.

 "What do you make of all that?" the German growled.

 But Cassidy only touched a finger to his lips and pointed. High up in the corner, where the ceiling and the stone walls met, they saw a glint in the shadows . . . the glint of a tiny microphone.

 The agents' voices cut off abruptly, replaced by the gentle hiss of white noise. Ellipsis Zark tore the plug from his ear and threw it down in disgust. From a special internal surveillance console installed in his quarters, he'd been monitoring events at the abbey since the agents arrived and he, too, was not sure what to make of the evening.

 Was Bernier up to something? There was no reason to believe he was. The follow-up query to Thrush Central had only confirmed the objective of the U.N.C.L.E. mission. The team had been sent in simply to apprehend Philippe Bernier. Period. And nothing Zark had overheard during their conversation in the refectory contradicted that. Indeed, there'd been enough tension between Bernier and his old colleagues to fry the receiver wires.

 Still, Zark remained suspicious. It was a gut feeling he just couldn't shake.

 "Colonel?"

 It was Durand, the night radio operator. He handed Zark a slip of paper. "From Thrush Central, mon colonel."

 The decoded message was short and to the point. Coltrane's business was done and he was scheduled to return tomorrow, at seventeen hundred hours.

 Good, Zark told himself. Let Coltrane deal with Bernier and this U.N.C.L.E. nuisance. Now, all he had to do was hold the fort for twenty more hours.

 "What about the reports from the sentries?" the colonel asked.

 "Both checkpoints responded. Corporal Pulaski claims there were only five U.N.C.L.E. agents, despite what the transfer orders said, but Corporal Croix insists he counted seven."

 Croix was a better man than Pulaski, and far more dependable. Either Pulaski was lying to save his worthless hide, or part of the infiltration team had slipped away somewhere between Checkpoint Alpha and Checkpoint Beta. Either way, that meant there were at least two U.N.C.L.E. agents still at large in the vicinity of Autier, possibly more.

 "Order the security teams to comb the perimeter of the village," Zark told Durand. "And double the guards inside the cable car stations and at the main gate."

 "Oui, mon colonel. Toute de suite. ."

 Zark replaced the plug in his ear and listened, but the cells were quiet and there was nothing to hear. Apparently, the prisoners had gone to sleep. Even they didn't expect to be rescued, which was obviously an impossibility.

 After all, St. Germier's was impregnable, wasn't it?

 "Impossible."

 Kuryakin whispered the word into Solo's ear. Huddled against the side of a deserted garage, they watched as Sabienne entered the cable car station.

 The station wasn't much more than a large, square shack with a sloping roof, enclosed on three sides. Flat wooden slats substituted for windows. The interior was lit by several overhead bulbs. Between the cracks, the agents could make out a flock of gray Thrush uniforms, four or five at least. The motor whined and the suspension cables hummed as somewhere, high above their heads, a car made its labored descent from the abbey.

 "There are too many soldiers," the Russian observed. "We'll never get into that car with her."

 Solo shrugged. "Then we'll ride on top of it."

 Kuryakin looked at him, unwilling to believe what he'd just heard. "You really have a death wish, don't you?"

 Solo didn't answer. He squinted into the darkness, and spotted a slow-moving shadow. The car was almost there.

 "C'mon," he said.

 The two agents headed off into the night. Kuryakin wasn't even sure where they were going, but he was beginning to see that if he didn't follow Solo's lead, he'd be left behind. They sprinted across an alleyway and circled wide, approaching the station from the rear. Solo pointed to a nearby toolshed and they scrambled up its side, using the shed as a convenient means to gain the station roof. Once there, they dropped to their stomachs and crawled forward to the edge. The cable car arrived and glided past, just under their chins, then ground to a halt. The station vibrated with the drone of the idling motor.

 While they waited for the car to move again, Kuryakin slung the rifle closer to his shoulder and pulled up the hood of his parka. He felt awfully vulnerable here on the roof. If any Thrush soldiers should happen by and glance upward, the agents were as good as dead. Fortunately, the bad weather was keeping everyone indoors. The snow was changing over to sleet and ice pellets pinged against the station's drainage gutters. A fine, slippery glaze was beginning to coat everything in sight.

 Abruptly, the lift motor engaged, and the drone rose to a high-pitched shriek. Solo nudged the Russian's shoulder. This was it. The agents drew themselves up, boot heels skidding as they swung their legs over the edge of the roof. The top of the cable car crept under their dangling feet. The suspension bracket appeared. Both men reached out for it, jumped, and hung on as the bracket tugged them off the station roof.

 They landed on the car with a double thump. The heavy steel gondola swayed slightly, and continued on its way. Had they been noticed? Kuryakin wondered. There was no way to tell, though the sleet made visibility poor and the night was dark and moonless.

 Positioned on either side of the bracket, the agents once again flattened themselves belly down. A cold, wet wind blasted their faces and nipped at their clothes. Kuryakin peeked over the side and saw the lights of Autier fall away in a dizzying blur. The agent shook his head against the vertigo.

 "Afraid of heights?" Solo said just under the scream of the wind.

 "Not usually," Kuryakin replied. This was certainly a hell of a time to ask, he thought. He ducked his head against his arm and hugged the suspension bracket for dear life.

 This business attracted two kinds of men, Kuryakin reflected, as the cable car carried them steadily upward: the reckless and the cautious. The reckless were loners. The cautious were usually company men. The reckless succeeded by their own good luck; the cautious, on the bad luck of others. Kuryakin had always felt at a disadvantage because he didn't fit easily into either category. He suspected that the same might be said of Solo, which made him feel a certain affinity for the man. Still, Kuryakin reminded himself, the cautious collected pensions while those who continuously pulled stunts like this one, ended up dead.

 He lifted his head again. The mountain loomed large and terrible, filling the entire field of his vision. A faint halo outlined the abbey's fortified stone walls while a sharper blob of light illuminated the header station located just below them. From the other side of the cable car, Solo nudged Kuryakin again.

 "Take out your knife," Solo said as he unsheathed his own. The station was coming up fast. It was an exact twin of the other except this one was embedded into the side of the mountain, its sloped wooden roof jutting out from solid rock. As the car rode along the last few yards of cable, the two agents eased into crouching positions, bowie knives ready. They tensed, and then as the car seesawed and cruised into the header station, they jumped, leaping from one roof to the other.

 Kuryakin hit hard as he landed. He rammed his bowie knife deep through the thin snow cover into a wooden shingle with his right hand, while he searched for a handhold with his left. His gloved fingers hooked a protruding beam and caught, but suddenly, there was the sound of splintering.

 He felt the blade of his knife break free from the rotted wood, felt the weight of his body shift backwards and slide. The knife clattered away. His other hand lost its grip.

 No! Kuryakin thought. He was falling. From the corner of his eye, all he could see below him was black nothingness.

 But then, another hand shot toward him and clamped, vise-like, over his right wrist, snatching him back from the abyss. Kuryakin heard a loud grunt that was not his own as his body jerked. The toes of his boots scrambled desperately for purchase, slipped, slipped again, and finally found it. The hand on his wrist squeezed even harder, fingers digging in, between the bones, cutting off his circulation. With another agonized grunt, it hauled him upward to safety.

 "Thank you," Kuryakin said, as he regained his perch. Solo lay spread-eagled, his cheek pressed against the roof, momentarily winded from the effort.

 "Don't mention it," he gasped.

 The agents paused only long enough to catch their breaths. Painfully, they dragged themselves the rest of the way up the roof. At the base of the walls, they unfurled small grappling hooks, threw them, then used the attached ropes to clamber up and over the walls. It was a slow and difficult climb, made even more treacherous by the icy sleet. Only when they reached the top of the parapets did they stop to rest.

 "Where to now?" Kuryakin asked. Solo scanned the buildings that ringed the courtyard. "Sabienne said she was summoned up here to cook, so I guess we should look for a kitchen." He pointed to the long, dormitory-like structure to the right.

 "That one?"

 Kuryakin sniffed the air experimentally and shook his head. He tipped his chin toward the square house directly below them.

 "No. That one, I think."

 Kuryakin's choice turned out to be correct. They found Sabienne in a primitive stone kitchen, stirring a large iron kettle over an open flame. The young woman looked up from the fireplace as they slipped through the door. She was alone.

 "So: you are not dead after all," she said, her anger tempered by relief. "Each time the cable car swayed, I thought one of you had fallen. Mon Dieu, that was an idiot thing to do!"

 "Not at all," Solo replied, ignoring Kuryakin's sideways glance. "Nate once told me how a team of Allied agents infiltrated the Schloss Adler during the war the very same way. I figured if they could do it, we could do it, too."

 Sabienne threw up her hands in disgust. "Agh! Men! You are all such fools!"

 Solo chuckled, unoffended. He changed the subject. "What's in the pot?"

 "Soup, for the prisoners, and it is almost done." Sabienne tapped the spoon against the rim. "You would like to help me deliver it, yes? Eh bien, take off your coats and help me with this."

 After she replaced the lid on the soup, the agents poked a rough-hewn broomstick through the handle and hefted the heavy kettle between them. Sabienne gathered up an armful of pottery bowls and cheap metal spoons.

 "Bon, now you will come with me. We will use the passageways under the abbey." She appraised them critically. "Straighten your uniforms and try to look like guards."

 At the rear of the kitchen, they descended a staircase that led downward, to an underground tunnel. Indifferently-spaced lanterns were strung along the walls. Some were lit, some were not. They encountered only one guard on duty, just beyond the foot of the kitchen stairs. An apathetic sort, he yawned aloud as he waved them by.

 In the limited available light, Kuryakin could see that some portions of the passageway had been excavated by human hands while others were formed by natural caves. The sound of running water, an underground spring perhaps, gurgled in the distance. The air was fetid with dampness and decay. Studying the hollowed-out crevices in the wall, Kuryakin wondered if these tunnels had ever been used as catacombs.

 After a several a hundred yards or so, the passageway took a sharp dogleg to the left. It continued on for another dozen yards, ending abruptly in an underground vault filled with rotted casks. No doubt, it had once served as a wine cellar.

 A maze of corridors led away in various directions. Sabienne chose one on the right. The natural dirt floor gave way to crudely shaped tiles and the lighting improved. Occasionally, the stone walls were interrupted by thick oak doors. Each door was decorated with a tiny iron mesh window and a massive iron bolt.

 The agents recognized a cellbock when they saw it, so they weren't surprised to encounter another pair of guards. With a weariness that was only partly pretense, Solo and Kuryakin put down the soup.

 "Monsieur? Do you have the key?" Sabienne asked the guard who was lounging against a wall. As he fingered the ring that hung from his belt, Solo hit him from behind, breaking his neck. Simultaneously, Kuryakin made short work of the other guard. Sabienne directed them to a nearby door.

 "Mr. Cassidy? Major Von Linden?" Solo called out in a hushed whisper as Kuryakin fumbled with the keys. The darkness and the thick grillwork on the door made it impossible to see inside. There was no reply. Kuryakin threw the bolt and Solo pulled open the heavy door.

 "Nate!" Solo said when he saw him, but Cassidy put a finger to his own lips, effectively cutting him off. The older agent motioned to the ceiling of the cell. Solo understood.

 The others? he asked, mouthing the words silently. Von Linden appeared behind Cassidy and crooked a thumb at the adjacent cell. Kuryakin went to work on the second lock. In less than a minute, the door swung open and Peyton-Smythe and Father Andolino emerged into the lit corridor.

 "Such a happy réunion! a voice observed in the stillness of the corridor. "I am touched."

 The agents all turned and froze. Louis Delage was standing behind them, a .44 automatic in one hand and a leather satchel in the other.

 "A job well done, Sabienne, mon chérie. I knew I could depend on you." The young woman acknowledged the compliment by blowing a kiss. Delage gestured to Solo and Kuryakin with the barrel of his gun.

 "Is this the last of your team, Nate?"

 "Gang's all here," Cassidy admitted, reluctantly.

 "Très bien."

 Solo and Kuryakin began to slowly unsling their assault rifles in defeat, but Delage shook his head and waved them back. "That will not be nècessaire, gentlemen. Keep your weapons. You will need them, yes? Regardez: I have brought the rest."

 He threw down the satchel, and the top opened to reveal the others' confiscated automatics. The agents exchanged puzzled glances as Cassidy spoke up.

 "If this is some sort of bad joke, Louis, I don't think I get the punchline."

 Delage laughed. "All life is a bad joke mon ami, but you have my word, I am in earnest." He holstered his own automatic and snatched one of the lanterns from a wall bracket. "You will instruct your men to retrieve their weapons, yes? Then, I will show why you were summoned."

 "So you did send the letter?" Cassidy asked as they walked along the tunnel, retracing Solo and Kuryakin's steps.

 "Mais oui, but of course. Who else would send it? Sabienne posted it for me, herself."

 "Then why the elaborate charade?"

 "Why not? Your man, Solo, when he contacted Sabienne, we had no way of knowing his true allegiance. He might have been playing a double game, himself, yes? One must be careful, Nate. Thrush has agents everywhere, even in U.N.C.L.E. I do not know who they are, but I know they are there. When they informed me of your coming, I prepared."

 "But why call us in now?"

 Delage smiled enigmatically, as he did earlier. "For the treasure, of course." When Cassidy stared back at him, perplexed, Delage asked, "You mean to say you know nothing of the legend?" He turned to Andolino and eyed him slyly. "But of course you do, don't you, mon père?"

 "I've heard of it, yes," the priest conceded coolly. "It's only a foolish myth."

 "Ah, I see. So foolish, that you'd crawl out of your safe little hole in the Vatican to come here and see for yourself, eh? Forgive me, mon père, but you don't strike me as a foolish man."

 Andolino said nothing. Von Linden broke in, impatiently. "What are you talking about, Delage? Speak plainly: what legend?"

 "The great Cathar treasure, Herr Majeur. All medieval literature tells of it, but only one obscure text, the Apocrypha Perfecti offers clues to its location. I discovered a copy of the apocrypha five years ago, while pursuing my hobby, collecting illuminated manuscripts." He turned to the priest again. "When did you stumble across your copy, mon père? More recently, I would expect."

 They'd arrived at the dogleg of the tunnel. Instead of continuing to the right, however, Delage halted the group before a blank stone wall. Holding his lantern high above his head, he gingerly ran the fingertips of his other hand over the smooth surface, until he hit a particular spot. There was a mechanical clunk, then a fissure magically appeared, then a flat slab of a door cracked open, no longer flush with the wall.

 "Voila!" Delage exclaimed with satisfaction. It took both Cassidy and Von Linden to drag open the door halfway.

 "Hold it right there, all of you!" someone said --- someone who did not belong to the group. From behind the door, Cassidy peered out. The loathsome garrison commander was standing in the center of the tunnel, covering them with a gun.

 "Let's go. Get over there --- now!" Zark said. He moved closer, next to the door. Delage and Cassidy stepped back, to join the rest of the group.

 "What alerted you to our little escape, Colonel?" the Frenchman asked. "Are you clairvoyant?"

 "There was a microphone in our cell," Cassidy said.

 "Ah, so the mystery is solved." Delage clucked his tongue against his teeth, loudly. "I didn't expect such treachery from you, Zark."

 "No, but I expected it from you." Zark unclipped a Thrush communication unit from his belt, preparing to call for reinforcements. But before he could, Von Linden, who'd be hiding on the other side of the door, suddenly rammed his shoulder against it and pushed. The stone revolved with a groan, slamming into the startled Zark and catching his arm between the door and the wall.

 Zark screamed as his left hand, which held the communicator, was crushed to a pulp. He attempted to fire his gun, but Cassidy was on him, and redirected the aim. Although the gun went off, the bullet ricocheted harmlessly off some nearby rocks. Von Linden grasped Zark by the collar and smacked the bald head hard against the wall, as one might crack an egg. When he released the colonel, the Thrushman's body crumpled into an unconscious heap. Von Linden turned to Delage.

 "As you were saying --- ?"

 Delage shook his head. "I see your reflexes remain as murderous as your instincts, Herr Majeur. Come, let us move inside. Only one other man knows of this passage, and he is away at the moment. Once we close the door again, we will be safe."

 They took Zark's unconscious body with them and dumped it after the panel swung shut. The corridor that met them was narrow and straight and would have been pitch black if it were not for Delage's lantern.

 "You noticed the tower, gentlemen, yes?" Delage continued as he led the way. "The Cathars, they built a secret chamber within it, four stories above ground, three stories below. When they were vanquished, the monks discovered the treasure house. They safeguarded it until the Revolution, then took the secret to their graves. The treasure was lost, even to the Church. The Nazis missed it entirely. Until I arrived, no one living outside the monks' community had entered this place for seven hundred years."

 He stopped before a massive wooden door. A giant fleury cross had been carved upon it. Above the door, a stone plaque had been added, proclaiming the message:

 Fides Ante Scientia --- "Faith Before Knowledge."

 "Un moment, s'il vous plaît," Delage said. "The monks, they boobytrapped the door against the rest of the world. If opened incorrectly, we are all destroyed."

 Carefully, he touched each splayed tip of the cross in the right sequence, as if bestowing a blessing in the name of the Father, Son and Holy Spirit. Somewhere, a latch released. The door popped inward, slightly ajar. Delage let out a shuddered breath, then held out his hand.

 "Gentlemen, entrez. I give you: the curse of Montsalat, the secret of St. Germier, the lost treasure of the Cathars . . ."

 "Books!" Cassidy exclaimed.

 Along with the others, he gazed upward, at the narrow, vertical chamber ringed by balconies. In the burnished glow of a jury-rigged light system, he could see that every bit of available space --- every nook, every shelf, almost every inch of the ground floor --- was crammed with books.

 "Naturellement! What else would you expect from a people who despised the material world?" Delage replied. "The Cathars, they believed that intellectual discourse could lead to the understanding of the one true God."

 As the group spread out through the secret library, Delage closed the door behind them. Father Andolino reached for a volume bound in tattered leather and examined the title on its spine.

 "The Gospel According to Judas Iscariot," he read aloud. He picked up another. "Lucianus. Why, these are the condemned writings of Lucianus the Roman!" More quickly now, he scanned each volume in the pile. "The Epistle of Themison the Montanist. The Gospel of the Ebionites. The Acts of Thomas. Dear Lord! At one time or another in history, all of these books were banned by Holy Mother Church. The copies were supposed to be burned centuries ago."

 "Indeed, mon père," Delage said as he walked past. "It seems the Cathars valued the pursuit of knowledge more than your popes did."

 Up on the third level balcony, Kuryakin took a random volume from a shelf, blew the dust from its cover and opened it. The first page he encountered was not old at all, but rather new. And it listed the names of all Thrush agents operating in Trieste, Yugoslavia, since 1925. He flipped the page, then flipped again. Between the ancient yellowed sheets of parchment, were inserted new, typewritten pages which continued, in detail, the biographical data of the Trieste agents.

 "Look at this," the Russian agent said to Solo, who was next to him.

 "What is it?" Cassidy called out from the second level.

 "Records, sir," Solo replied. "Thrush records."

 "What?!"

 The other agents opened the books in their own hands and found much the same thing. Tucked away between the pages of each volume were documents describing one small portion of the entire Thrush organization. Cassidy looked up from his own discovery, a list of communication codes, and stared at Delage, who joined him.

 "Ingenious, yes?" the Frenchman asked, obviously pleased with himself, "and inspired, too! What better place to store Thrush records than in the forbidden books of a heretical sect, hidden away in the Devil's Attic?" He began to laugh uncontrollably, until tears filled his eyes.

 "Is this everything?" Cassidy asked incredulously, as it all began to sink in.

 "Oui! Yes! Everything! Everything! All of it! From the very beginning!" Delage continued to be convulsed by fits of laughter. Cassidy shook his head.

 "I have to call U.N.C.L.E. immediately."

 "You can't, not from here. The abbey, she is covered by an electronic jamming blanket."

 "But we can't carry all these volumes away ourselves. There aren't enough of us."

 "Carry away?" Andolino broke in. "What do you mean carry away? Aren't you going to destroy this library instead?"

 "Not on your life, Father. Everything U.N.C.L.E. needs to defeat Thrush, once and for all, is right here."

 "Then these books will survive," Andolino said.

 "They'd better."

 The priest grew quiet and wandered away through the stacks. Cassidy turned to matters at hand. "When Alex Waverly hears about this, he'll send in more men, a larger assault force."

 "He must do it soon," Delage warned. "Our archivist, Charles Coltrane, is away at Thrush Central, making the arrangements for the transfer of these records. He is scheduled to return tomorrow." The Frenchman leaned in close. "They are building a machine. . ."

 "A what?"

 "A machine, a thinking machine --- an infallible computer, to direct Thrush operations. Some are calling it the 'ultimate' computer, because it will be greater than any mind on earth, human or otherwise. They will use all the information gathered in this library to program it."

 "How long do we have before they move the records?" Cassidy asked.

 Delage shrugged in response. "Who can say for certain? Two days, three. A week at the most. But believe me, mon ami, once they are finished setting up that machine, nothing can stop them. Not you, not I, not all the U.N.C.L.E. agents in the world. Thrush will be invincible."

 Invincible! Cassidy was staggered by the thought.

 "You see why I called you in?  Alexandre, he wanted me to remain undercover until I should reach the council. I waited until this project was complete, but then, I could wait no longer. You understand, yes?"

 Cassidy glanced at Von Linden, whose expression was grim. Yes, they both understood very well. As he quickly considered their next course of action, Cassidy heard the sound of a fist connecting with flesh, followed by a loud grunt. The commotion was coming from somewhere below them, on the ground level.

 The senior agent spun on his heel, just in time to see Father Andolino knock young Peyton-Smythe to the floor.

 "Hey!" Cassidy shouted, but neither man heard him. The priest flung himself on top of the young British agent and the two wrestled together, in a tangled heap, near the door.

 "Excuse me a moment," Cassidy said to the others beside him. He hopped over the balcony railing and raced down the narrow stairs. By the time he'd reached the scuffling men, Andolino had his Mauser-style Special out. Cassidy grabbed the priest by the shoulders, in an effort to tear him away from Peyton-Smythe, but Andolino hadn't seen him coming. Startled, the priest twisted and accidentally fired.

 There was a familiar thunk, then a stab of pain as Cassidy felt the sleep dart embed itself in his bicep. Reality melted into a swimming haze. Cassidy clutched at his own arm. He watched the priest's face change from anger to surprise and saw something else   --- what? doubt? sorrow? --- before everything went black.

 From the third level of the library, Solo and Kuryakin watched the little drama play out below them in stunned amazement.

 "What the hell ---?" Solo said.

 As Cassidy went down, Andolino took a step backward to regain his balance. Behind him, sprawled against the wall, his head still lolling to one side, Peyton-Smythe drew his own Special. The priest turned, ready to shoot again, but the British agent was quicker. Peyton-Smythe's gun roared in the silence of the library chamber and a bullet slammed into Andolino, just to the right of his heart.

 The priest staggered, rocked by the impact. Dropping the dart-loaded Special, he pivoted, then lurched toward the huge wooden door, flailing out blindly.

 "Non, ce n'est pas possible," Delage murmured in disbelief.

 But it was true: even as he stumbled forward in the throes of death, the priest was reaching out --- and purposefully so --- for the image of the cross carved on the inside of the door.

 "What did you say?" Von Linden demanded, thoroughly confused by the turn of events.

 "The priest --- the door --- the cross: it is like the one on the outside. If he touches the wrong end first, he will kill us all!"

 But apparently, this was exactly what Andolino had in mind.

 Delage raised his voice. "Someone: stop him! Stop him, now!"

 In response, Peyton-Smythe fired again. The shot caught the priest in the left shoulder, but it didn't stop him. He kept going. His hand stretched out and touched the tip of the cross' horizontal bar. There was a faint click. Satisfied, Andolino finally collapsed to the floor and died.

 Almost immediately, something began to snap, over and over again, in quick succession. It sounded like applause, followed by a low gurgling and the whoosh of rushing water.

 "Mon Dieu!" Delage rasped in horror. "All is lost."

  Sabienne appeared next to Von Linden.

 "What is happening?"

 "I don't know," he replied, just as Solo and Kuryakin descended one level to join the group.

 From their vantage point on the balcony, they could see precise streams of water surging across the ground level. The water was traveling along shallow indentations that formed an intricate pattern in the floor. Kuryakin had noticed the gutters earlier and thought their function was to drain water out of the library. Now he realized he was wrong. They were meant to bring water in.

 The gutters filled and overflowed. Water gathered around Peyton- Smythe, who held his head painfully as he struggled to his feet, and around the unconscious body of Nate Cassidy as well. Suddenly, there was a loud pop, like a lightbulb breaking. Then another. And another. And another. And another . . .

 Frightened, Sabienne groped for the safety of Delage's arm, but the Frenchmen stood petrified, like a statue, so she grasped Solo's hand instead. From somewhere overhead, a sealed glass flask was released. It plummeted past her. Sabienne screamed. The flask smashed as it hit the floor and exploded. Fire danced on the surface of the water, inches beyond Peyton-Smythe. The agent stumbled to the foot of the stairs, and began to climb.

 Another flask fell. And another. And another.

 Small islands of flame floated along the gutters as the water level rose. It was now about three inches deep. The flames spread, licking at the piles of books.

 "Pure magnesium, stored in an oil," Kuryakin said as yet another flask dropped nearby. "When the metal hits the water, the chemical reaction ignites the oil."

 "We have to get out of here," Solo said. He glanced down at the huge wooden door with Andolino's corpse beside it. Already, both the corpse and the door were engulfed by flames. Von Linden nudged Delage with the barrel of his Luger.

 "Ist there another way out?"

 The Frenchman stared straight ahead. He didn't even blink. Von Linden repeated the question louder and this time, there was a response: "On the third level. It is only an exit, not an entrance."

 "That's all we need," Solo said. Peyton-Smythe had arrived at the balcony landing. He looked dazed and disoriented.

 "You take the three of them," Solo told Von Linden. "Illya and I will catch up."

 Von Linden nodded. He didn't need to ask where the younger agents were going. Cassidy was still on the ground level floor. Solo vaulted over the balcony railing. After passing their guns and his knapsack to Von Linden, Kuryakin did likewise.

 The ground floor was quickly becoming an inferno. Fire climbed the bookshelves like vines on trellises, hungrily consuming the dry parchment pages. Solo and Kuryakin waded through the ankle-deep water, sloshing aside the patches of burning oil. They found Cassidy lying on his back, unconscious but unharmed. A natural rise in the uneven floor had miraculously re-directed the water away from him. The two younger agents hoisted the body, shouldering the dead weight between them.

 "All right?" Solo shouted over the roar of the blaze.

 Kuryakin nodded. It was now or never.

 They hurried to the staircase as fast as the burden of Cassidy's body would allow. A burning bookcase broke away from the wall and crashed to the floor, spilling its contents and adding more fuel to the fire.

 The agents gained the stairs. More shelves collapsed and more books fell, almost catching them in an avalanche of ancient volumes. They kept going. The fire pursued them, devouring the wooden supports for the stairs. Just as they reached the first balcony, the staircase collapsed. The agents never looked back.

 On the second balcony, they halted long enough to gulp some much- needed oxygen. The air was clearer here, but the smoke and the heat were rising fast.

 "Look: over there," Kuryakin said, between breaths. Solo peered across Cassidy's head, which hung limp from the neck. A bookcase had been pushed inward, revealing a doorway.

 The exit!

 Below them, the beams supporting the first balcony splintered and broke away.

 "Let's go for it," Solo said.

 The agents steeled themselves for one last effort, then made a break for the exit. The fire seemed to howl in a rage behind them, hurling flaming books and timbers.

 They plunged into the passageway. At once the searing heat and smoke was replaced by cool dampness. Von Linden shut the door behind them. Solo and Kuryakin sank to their knees and eased Cassidy's body to the ground.

 "He's going to be out for two more hours at least, isn't he?" Peyton-Smythe observed miserably. The British agent had the pale, moist, unfocused appearance of someone with a concussion.

 "What happened in there between you and the priest?" Von Linden asked.

 Peyton-Smythe tried to shake his aching head. "Don't know, Major. He was muttering something about the books, and then he just went bloody crackers."

 "Well, now what'll we do?" Solo asked aloud as he got to his feet.

 "That depends on you, boy," Von Linden replied. "Nate appointed you the ramrod. You are in charge."

 Solo glanced at Kuryakin as the realization sank in. The Russian agent nodded gravely, offering silent support. Solo turned to Sabienne.

 "Back at the inn, you said the mountain was riddled with passageways, that we could avoid the front gate."

 "Ah oui, I played in these passages as a child. But it was so very long ago --- I don't know if I can remember the way out."

 "You must."

 Sabienne smiled helplessly to indicate that she would try. As Solo and Kuryakin reached down to lift Cassidy, Von Linden seized Delage by the arm.

 "Come, Louis ---."

 Delage drew back. "Oh no, I won't go with you. I can't."

 Von Linden laughed harshly. "You have no choice."

 "Ah, but I do. I always intended to remain in Thrush. I. . . I will name Zark as the traitor. Oui, of course: Zark. I will say that he let you in. He is responsible. He . . ."

 "They won't believe you."

 "Yes, they will. They must." Panic seemed to grip Delage as he groped for the words. He flinched repeatedly, his cheek seized by a nervous tic. "I. . . I can't go back to U.N.C.L.E. I can't. I have work to finish here. I can't. . ."

 Von Linden's voice was cool and firm. "Enough of this nonsense. With that library destroyed, you are all we have left. Do you hear? You know the information that was in those records --- at least the important ones."

 Delage began to protest that he didn't know anything, but Von Linden raised his Luger and placed the barrel next to the Frenchman's head. He leaned in close, so that Delage could feel his breath.

 "Don't tempt me. For if you are as useless to us as you claim to be, then you can die right here."

 That settled it for the moment. With Sabienne leading the way, the little group set off into the tunnels.

 The acrid smell of smoke seeped into Zark's nostrils and nudged him back to consciousness. The Thrush colonel opened his eyes. Although the narrow corridor in which he lay was filled with a thin haze of smoke, the place wasn't as dark as it should have been. Light was coming in from some unknown source. The walls glowed a deep crimson red.

 Zark tried to raise his head and felt a wave of nausea roll through his body. Fighting against the vertigo, he forced himself upright. He reached out with his left hand, then screamed from the pain, rolling over again like a beached whale.

 He remembered now. They'd crushed his hand.

 He tried again, this time favoring his right side, and struggled to his feet. It was only then that he realized he was sweating. His back was toasty warm, as if he were standing too close to a furnace. Zark twisted to look over his shoulder. The large wooden door at the other end of the long corridor was alive with flames.

 So they'd set it on fire. Purposefully or accidentally? It didn't matter. Three years of work gone down the drain, quite literally. Someone's head would roll for this. Zark was going to make sure it wasn't his.

 He tucked his ruined hand against his body and lurched unsteadily in the opposite direction. It took him a few seconds to find the mechanism that worked the secret panel. He didn't stop at the tunnel, but kept on going, until he found his way to the outside.

 "Colonel!" someone shouted in English. The sleet was still falling, but Zark didn't mind. It was good to inhale clean, fresh air. He leaned against the side of the refectory building for support and waited for his subordinate to arrive. The pain in his hand was excruciating, he couldn't seem to think straight, and his vision was blurry. He squeezed his eyes shut several times to clear it.

 "Colonel, we have an emergency situation," a Thrush lieutenant informed him. Obviously, Zark thought, though he didn't have enough energy to reprove the man's stupidity. The colonel looked toward the stone tower, which sparked and flared in the night like a giant Roman candle.

 Were Bernier and his U.N.C.L.E. friends trapped in there? Zark didn't know, but he wasn't taking any chances. He vaguely recalled his superior once mentioning a secret back door.

  "While you get that fire under control, station guards along the walls, in the cable stations and around the main gate," the colonel ordered, wincing. It was an effort just too speak. "Send two squads to search the tunnels and two more to search the abbey. Bring me anyone they find. And fetch the goddamn medic."

 "Yes, sir!"

 The lieutenant saluted and left. Only when he was gone, did Zark sink slowly to the ground. He grit his teeth and closed his eyes, unable to endure the double vision. Hatred, hot and bitter, coursed through his body like adrenalin and kept him conscious.

 Bernier, or whatever his real name was, and that Nazi bastard. The bitch from the village and the others. And who were those two new ones and where had they come from? He reviewed their faces, one by one, imagining their heads mounted on pikes. This mountain was as good as an island, Zark told himself. If they'd escaped the library, they wouldn't escape him now. He'd see them all in hell first.

 A sharp, icy breeze wafted through the passageway, stirring the air currents and the agents' expectations. They'd been wandering through the mountain's maze of shafts and grottoes, pushing steadily downward and eastward, hoping to locate an access route to the outside. Their progress had been slow however, and there'd been too many wrong turns and dead ends.

 "I think this may be it," Kuryakin said, encouraged by Sabienne's quickening pace.

 "It'd better be," Solo replied. Cassidy was still out cold and his body was beginning to feel like a ton of bricks. They didn't have much time left, either. Already, in the distance, they could hear the faint echoes of Thrush security squads. Sooner or later, the U.N.C.L.E. agents knew, one of those squads was bound to find them.

 "C'est ici! Ici! Here!" Sabienne announced excitedly. She had Kuryakin's small commando flashlight and its meager beam revealed an opening up ahead. Despite her limp, she began to hurry toward it.

 "Wait, girl," warned Von Linden, who was bringing up the rear. When she didn't seem to hear, he pushed past the group and trotted after her. "Mademoiselle Boissard?"

 "But Monsieur Majeur," she said laughing, "We are here. We have arrived. We ---."

 Abruptly, she halted in her tracks. The tunnel had ended, but so had the ground underfoot. Her body tottered, propelled by the forward momentum, but Von Linden managed to snatch her hand and yank her back.

 "Sacre bleu!" Sabienne cried.

 "What is it?" Solo asked. He and Kuryakin carefully deposited Cassidy in a corner before joining the others. They'd reached the eastern side of Montsalat all right, and the countryside stretched before them like a carpet of black velvet --- 150 meters below their feet. They were standing on the edge of a cliff with no way to get down.

 "Bloody Christ, another dead end," Peyton-Smythe groaned in despair. He sat down next to the unconscious Cassidy, resting his own injured head against a wall. Delage stood nearby and said nothing. Ever since they'd left the library, the Frenchman had been moving like a somnambulist, his eyes fixed in an empty, half-lidded stare.

 Solo sighed heavily. He didn't have to say it: they were in deep trouble. They had one man unconscious, one with a split skull, and one slipping into catatonia, and now they were cornered on the side of the mountain.

 "Do you want to retrace our steps again?" Kuryakin asked reluctantly. He knew it was useless. They'd either get lost or run into a Thrush search party.

 "No," Solo said. "We'll make our stand here."

 "I still have those plastic explosives in my knapsack."

 When Von Linden cocked a questioning eyebrow, Kuryakin explained, "Mr. Cassidy wanted us to blow the fuel tanks back in the village, as a diversion. We never had the chance."

 "We could wire the other end of this tunnel," the German said thoughtfully. "Then, if they find us, we can seal it off --- or at least, take a few of them with us."

 The other agents nodded in agreement. While Kuryakin rummaged through his pack for the explosives, Solo rooted through Cassidy's clothes to locate the homing device. He found it in the senior agent's left trouser pocket.

 "After all that water, let's see if it still works," Solo said. He held up the smooth, steel box and hit the switch. The electronic beacon began to throb with a low, constant pulse.

 "We're probably still within the range of that jamming blanket," Kuryakin reminded him.

 Solo looked out, over the edge of the cliff. Wind whipped up the side of the mountain, spraying sleet in his face. "I could toss it out there, but it might smash on the rocks."

 "It ist your decision," Von Linden said. He motioned to Kuryakin. "Come, boy. We have work to do in the tunnel."

 As he followed the German agent back into the mountain, Kuryakin stole a peek over his shoulder. Solo was poised at the mouth of the cave, still studying the sky. He said something to Sabienne and she answered. He listened to her for a moment, juggling the homing device between the palms of his hands. And then, almost on impulse, Solo wound his arm back like a baseball pitcher, and with all his strength, flung their last, best hope into the night.

 Throwing out that beacon was a desperate gamble, Kuryakin reflected as he jabbed a last lump of plastic explosive into a rock crevice. He was glad he hadn't been called upon to make such a decision. He'd never want the responsibility.

 Von Linden stepped back and surveyed the Russian's handiwork. The circuit of charges had been strategically placed to ring the passageway at its junction to the main tunnel.

 "Very nice. You have a definite talent for this."

 When Kuryakin didn't answer, the German added, "A word of advice, Herr Russe: if you don't speak very much, others will think you don't feel very much."

 Kuryakin didn't want any advice, particularly from the likes of Von Linden. After he finished with the charges, he took out a blasting cap and unspooled a fuse.

 "We don't have an electric detonator, and I'm afraid this fuse is rather a short one. I hope the blast doesn't kill us all before   ---."

 Von Linden held up a hand. "Listen. . ." he hissed.

 Kuryakin paused and sucked in a breath. He heard voices and random footfalls. Approaching Thrush soldiers, no doubt. They were getting closer. But then Kuryakin noticed another sound, steady and persistent, almost like the drone of an insect. He realized he'd been hearing it for some time.

 A helicopter. Someone was arriving in a helicopter!

 "You'd best go back to the group," Von Linden said. "They'll need you. I will finish here." He took the fuse from Kuryakin's fingers. "Do you have a pistol?"

 Automatically, Kuryakin clawed under his clothing for his Special and came up empty. He'd depended for so long on the M1 assault rifle, he hadn't noticed that his Special gone. He'd probably lost it on the cable car ride.

 Von Linden pulled out his own Luger and checked the clip. "Here, take mine, and give me your rifle. Now, go. They will not wait for you."

 Kuryakin tried to protest. Judging by the pounding boots, a squad of Thrush soldiers was very close.

 "Go, boy, go. Save your mother's son," Von Linden said. "Now, in your life, all ist in balance." He almost smiled.

 Kuryakin took off. By the time he reached the cave at the other end of the passageway, the thrum of the helicopter was deafening. It was a Sikorsky utility transport, the kind used for sea rescues and for retrieving astronauts after splashdown.

 "Happy New Year!" Solo laughed in triumph, his arms thrown wide. Kuryakin glanced at his wristwatch. It was only ten minutes after midnight, which surprised him. It seemed as if a lifetime had passed since they'd parachuted from the Lockheed Electra.

 At the moment, Louis Delage and Cassidy's unconscious form were being hauled up to the helicopter by an electric winch. Carpenter's red-haired co-pilot was hanging out the main cabin door, operating the controls. Carpenter, himself, was barely visible through the cockpit canopy, fighting to keep the Sikorsky stable against the updrafts.

 Smart move, bringing in a rescue transport, Kuryakin thought to himself. They'd never have been able to climb a ladder under these conditions. He thought of Carpenter with even more respect.

 The power-drive of the winch engaged and the leather sling descended again. This time, it was Sabienne and Peyton-Smythe's turn. Solo grabbed the sling, steadied it and helped them into it.

 "Where's the Major?" he shouted to Kuryakin.

 "Still in the tunnel, setting the fuse. He should be finished shortly."

 "I sure hope so."

 Suddenly, a shot whined near Solo's head and tore into the rocks, punctuating his sentence. "Well, Thrush knows where we are now," the agent said.

 A shower of bullets rained down as Sabienne and Peyton-Smythe were hoisted into the helicopter. Solo and Kuryakin returned covering fire the best they could. The winch reversed again. It was their turn.

 This is going to be some ride, Kuryakin told himself as he climbed into the sling. Close beside him, Solo hooked one hand around the winch cable and continued firing with the other. The power-drive engaged and they were jerked upward.

 The short ascent seemed to last an eternity.  The shots came thick and fast from the soldiers who were fanned out along the abbey walls. Bullets zinged past the agents' heads and ricocheted against the helicopter's fuselage. Finally, they arrived at the cabin door.

 "Any more?" the red-headed co-pilot asked.

 "Just one," Kuryakin said as he scrambled out of the sling.

 "Well, where is he? We can't wait here all night."

 Almost in answer to the question, Monsalat was suddenly rocked by an explosion. Jarred by the concussion, the helicopter drifted sideways. Carpenter battled to bring it back. Braced against the cabin door, Kuryakin peered downward. Black smoke billowed from the mouth of the cave and spilled over the side of the mountain.

 "We gotta get out of here," the co-pilot said.

 "Ten seconds more," the Russian agent pleaded. He squinted against the dissipating smoke, searching for a blond head.

 And found it.

 "There he is! Quickly: lower the winch!"

 The co-pilot did, just as a barrage of bullets screamed their way past the hatch. With an arm shielding his face, Von Linden emerged from the cave below. Another series of explosions detonated behind him, nearly catapulting him off the edge of the cliff. Von Linden jumped, threw out both hands and caught the sling suspended above his head.

 "We have him! Bring him up!" Kuryakin cried, but there was no response. The agent turned. The red-haired co-pilot was lying dead on the cabin floor, a bullet hole neatly centered in his left eye. Kuryakin slammed on the controls himself and reversed the winch. The cable retracted, lifting Von Linden.

 "A little more. . . a little more . . ." Kuryakin murmured.

 "Do you have him?" Solo called out.

 "Almost. . ."

 Kuryakin knelt down on one knee and stretched out his hand. In the beam of the winch's spotlight, he could see Von Linden's face. Just then, a line of shots, this time rapid and heavy-gauge, cut a wide swatch across the cabin door and down the cable. Dropping to his belly, Kuryakin saw the gunfire rip through Von Linden's body, jerking it like a puppet on a string. The German agent never knew what hit him. For a brief second he dangled, then his lifeless fingers opened and his body plummeted earthward. When the sling arrived, it was empty. Kuryakin shut off the winch.

 "Go! Go!" he heard Solo signal to Carpenter. The helicopter's turbine engines roared in response. As Kuryakin closed the cabin door, the aircraft swung wide and soared away.

 "Didn't make it, huh?" Solo said, indicating the co-pilot's body. "Where's the Major?"

 Kuryakin let out a deep breath. "He didn't make it, either."

 At that moment, somewhere high up on the abbey's stone walls, Colonel Zark watched the helicopter fly away with mixed emotions.

 So much for the Nazi, he thought. He would remember to recommend that gunner for a medal. From the airfield at the base of the mountain, a trio of small pursuit choppers rose into the sky. Zark allowed himself a small smile of satisfaction. U.N.C.L.E. may have won this skirmish, but it wasn't over yet.

 "I need a co-pilot up here, pronto," Asa Carpenter sang out from the pilot's seat. "Anybody gonna volunteer?"

 "I will," Kuryakin said as he slipped into the co-pilot's seat.

 "So: run down the scorecard for me, son."

 "I'm afraid it's not very good. Joubert and the priest were killed. Peyton-Smythe was injured. Mr. Cassidy was shot by an U.N.C.L.E. sleep dart --- I'll explain later. And we just lost the Major coming out."

 "I'm going to miss that cynical old sonofabitch," Carpenter said, shaking his head. "I told Nate not to cut it so close." He shot a quick glance in his side mirror. "Looks like we got company comin'."

 Kuryakin studied the images in his own mirror. Three customized two-man choppers were bearing down upon them. They were faster than the Sikorsky, and unlike the rescue craft, no doubt they were heavily armed.

 "We'll never outrun them," Kuryakin said, but Carpenter was calm.

 "I don't intend to."

 Solo poked his head into the cockpit and asked, "Ah --- by the way, do you guys know we're being followed?"

 "We know," Carpenter said. "Tell the others to buckle themselves in and hang on tight. I want 'em ready to move when we land."

 The two younger agents looked at each other, then Solo wordlessly withdrew.

 "Did you say when we land?" the Russian asked.

 "Uh-huh. That's right."

 Land where? Kuryakin wanted to ask. They were smack in the middle of a mountain range. As the helicopter dropped in elevation, Cassidy switched off the lights, inside and out. Only the control panel remained illuminated. The night closed in around them like a burial shroud. Kuryakin stared straight ahead. He couldn't see a thing.

 His eyes glued to the little radar screen, his face underlit by the ghostly green glow, Carpenter maneuvered the craft as they gradually descended. They swooped left, then right, then sharply left again. Far behind them, a thunderous fireball lit up the sky as one of the pursuing choppers missed a turn and collided with the side of a mountain.

 Cassidy sucked a tooth loudly and chuckled, "Amateurs . . ."

 They zigzagged through several more ravines until finally, they entered a narrow glen. Carpenter landed the helicopter and quickly shut everything down. Kuryakin thought the pilot planned to play possum, but he was wrong.

 "Okay, let's head 'em up and move 'em out," Carpenter said. He sprang from the pilot's seat and threw open the cabin door. Kuryakin saw that they were situated on the far side of a flat meadow, probably one used for herding sheep. Next to them, something large was parked and waiting. Kuryakin studied the outline and realized it was the Lockheed Electra, covered by canvas tarpaulins. The Thrush choppers were nowhere in sight --- yet. The sleet had let up.

 "How's brother Nate doin', Mr. Solo?" Carpenter asked.

 "Still out like a light."

 "No problem, then. After you and Mr. Kuryakin, here, get him loaded onboard my plane, I want you to tend to those tarps. Start at the front. If any of the others are up to it, get 'em to help. Shake a tail, now, y'hear?"

 "Yes, sir."

 After Cassidy was safely deposited in the main cabin of the Electra, Solo and Peyton-Smythe hurried outside to pull off the canvas covers. Sabienne volunteered to help too, but Louis continued to stare into empty space, so they left him inside. Kuryakin followed Carpenter forward, into the cockpit.

 "Ever fly one of these ol' gals before, son?"

 "I trained on a Lisunov once."

 "Close enough. Sit yerself down and grab that clipboard."

 Carpenter unlocked the controls, just as Solo and Peyton-Smythe pulled off the front canvases.

 "We're all clear," he told Kuryakin. "Turn the mag switches on."

 "Check."

 "Now for the throttles. Give me one quarter manifold pressure."

 "Check."

 "Full prop pitch."

 "Check."

 Kuryakin continued down the list, hitting the proper switches to pump fuel to the engines, adjusting the stabilizer and setting the brakes. Carpenter hit the starter. The left engine roared to life. The pilot raced it, then calmed it back to an idle. He did the same with the right. Kuryakin listened for the sound of the pursuing Thrush choppers, but he couldn't hear anything over the whirr of the propellers.

 Outside, the tarps were free. Solo pulled the chocks from the wheels and followed the others back into the plane. In the cockpit, Kuryakin nervously watched the heat temperature needle as it slowly moved from red to green. His internal clock ticked away the seconds.

 "Ready?" Carpenter asked. The Russian nodded. With its running lights still off, the Electra taxied slowly onto the field and turned into the wind.

 "Set the flaps at 20 degrees," Carpenter said.

 Kuryakin did, even as he cringed at the angle. He couldn't believe they were really preparing to take off. Even ignoring the altitude and the bad weather, the runway was rough and impossibly short. Kuryakin estimated it at around six hundred meters. Ahead of them, was a dense stand of evergreen trees.

 Carpenter kept his feet pressed to the brakes and gave it full throttle, allowing the engines to rev as high as they could. Everything began to vibrate so violently, Kuryakin's teeth chattered. Carpenter kept two hands firmly on the controls, holding the Electra back. Kuryakin understood. With such a short runway, they would need to attain a high enough speed or they'd stall.

 Somewhere on the far side of the field, gunfire abruptly chewed up the ground. "Our friends are back," Carpenter announced matter- of-factly. He waited for the wind, then he released the brakes.

 They began to race forward, tail up, nose slightly down, seemingly in sheer defiance of the trees. The pursuit choppers circled overhead, and fired two more volleys. Carpenter ignored them.

 "Get those wheels up on my mark. Ready?"

 The Electra left the ground. The nose angled sharply upward. There was no turning back.

 "Now!" the pilot said. Kuryakin retracted the landing gear. As the plane climbed along an impossibly steep line of ascent, the propellers clipped the crowns of the trees. A few stray branches brushed along the belly of the fuselage and all at once, it was over. They were gaining altitude at almost four hundred kilometers per hour, flying too high and too fast for the choppers to catch them.

 Kuryakin leaned back in the co-pilot's seat, utterly amazed. "You just worked a miracle," he said.

 Carpenter shrugged modestly. "I've had lots of practice.

 The first thing Nate Cassidy saw when he opened his eyes was Napoleon Solo's face.

 "Where am I?" the senior agent asked.

 "In a plane headed home, cruising at 9,000 feet."

 "How long was I out?"

 "A little over two hours."

 Cassidy sat up unsteadily. Someone inside his skull was attacking his temples with a jackhammer. He groaned. "Did Father Andolino shoot me with a sleep dart?"

 "Yes, unfortunately. He's dead, now."

 "Major?" Cassidy called out, looking around the cabin. Solo lowered his eyes. "Ah ??? I'm sorry, Nate, but I'm afraid he's dead, too."

 "And what happened to the library?"

 "Totally destroyed by fire."

 Cassidy slumped back in his seat. "Christ, I really did miss the party, didn't I?"

 "I'm afraid so, sir," Solo said, the hint of a reluctant smile playing across his face. He couldn't help it. It was such a relief to hear Nate's voice again.

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To Proceed to Part Three
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