"Where's Louis?" he asked. "We did bring him out, didn't we?"

 Solo nodded and jerked a thumb toward the front of the plane.

 "Well, we accomplished that much, at least," Cassidy said, then he eyed his subordinate.

 "What's wrong?"

 "Maybe you'd better see for yourself."

 Cassidy struggled to his feet, determined to do exactly that. Solo offered a hand, but the senior agent refused it. He made his way down the aisle, using the backs of the seats for support. Louis was huddled against a window two rows from the cockpit door, wrapped in a woolen blanket against the cold of the unheated cabin. Cassidy slipped into the nearest seat, just across the aisle. Solo stood behind them, leaning against an armrest.

 "Louis?" Cassidy said. There was no response. He tried again. Delage's head swiveled, but the eyes remained focused on the floor.

 "You are mistaken, Monsieur. My name is Philippe Bernier. You have brought out the wrong man."

 Solo sputtered with surprise. "What? I don't understand ---."

 "Shhh!" Cassidy said, because he did understand. He'd seen minds fragment under stress before. A sudden chill washed though him that had nothing to do with the temperature of the cabin. His voice turned firm, but gentle.

 "I want to speak with Louis Delage."

 "I am a loyal member of Thrush. I will tell you nothing."

 Undaunted, Cassidy persevered. "Do you know where Louis is?"

 There was a pause, before Delage replied, "Hiding. He has gone undercover again. He is very good at that, yes?"

 "Mr. Bernier, I need a name."

 Delage chuckled low, under his breath. "They always want names, don't they?" It was difficult to tell if he was talking to himself or to someone only he could see. His eyes strayed sideways. His voice dropped to a flat, hollow monotone, devoid of any emotion. "They asked Louis for a name. He said he had none to give. Alors, they asked again, and they continued asking. And asking.

 "And so, he gave them one. Just one. A small one --- sans importance. No one with whom he was acquainted, personally. But it frightened him all the same, yes? He said to his people: 'take me back.' But he was told, 'It is too soon.'

 "After a while, the others, they asked again, and to protect himself, he gave them more. The second name was easier than the first. The third was easier than the second."

 "Did Alex Waverly know this was happening?" Cassidy said, afraid to hear the answer.

 Delage shook his head. "Oh non, Louis, he was too ashamed. But he pleaded with Monsieur Waverly, 'Let me come in, s'il vous plaît'. And the answer came back: 'It is too late. We are too close to success.'

 "And so he remained in the cold, fearing even his own people. Eh bien, what would they do to him if they knew what he'd done? He ceased all contact with them. He was alone. . .

 "And then one day, the others, they asked about an important name, and this one --- ah, this one, Louis knew all too well." Absently, Delage began to finger the hairline scar on the palm of his right hand.

 "You betrayed Ivan Popovich," Cassidy said, flatly. He'd guessed this was coming.

 "It was Louis. He betrayed his friends, not I. And before Popovich, he betrayed the Basque, Aguirre. And afterward, Stefan Lenski. And Benjamin Toomey. And Antonio Martucci. . ."

 "Nino isn't dead. He survived the explosion."

 "Nevertheless, Louis betrayed him. And there were others: Pierre Tissot . . . Michel Lemieux . . . Oliver Lawton. . .

 "Oh my God," Solo breathed.

 The roll call of field agents continued. "Romain Gagny . . . Nashif Tobrouk . . . Andrew Nevin . . . François Perrot. . .

 Cassidy said nothing. He was too numb with shock.

 Aguirre, ambushed in Barcelona. Popovich, stabbed. Lenski, shot. Toomey, his big, Aussie heart finally bursting under torture in a filthy cell in Budapest. Poor Nino, lying in a hospital bed, his brain pierced by a fragment of steel. And now Von Linden was dead, too.

 Nearly half the original group, betrayed by one of their own, by a man who'd mixed his blood with theirs. The enormity of the horror was almost too much to bear.

 As Cassidy watched, Delage's body began to tremble violently. The names trailed off, replaced by a choking, gargled sob. The Frenchman tried to speak, but no sound came out. His mouth hung open, saliva drooling from his bottom lip, his face frozen in a silent scream. His arms dangled limp at his sides.

 Cassidy dropped to one knee before him and grasped Delage firmly by the shoulders. "Louis, I know you're still in there. Listen to me: it's over, now. Do you hear me? Whatever happened, it's over! Forever."

 Delage covered his face with his hands, sucking up air in short, spastic gulps.

 "Forget Philippe Bernier. Burn him. Let him go. Save yourself. Come back to us. We want you to come back. You can begin again, starting right now. Tell me the name of the mole in U.N.C.L.E.  Who kept you informed about our mission? Who?!"

 "Idon'tknowIdon'tknowdon'tknow," Delage wailed.

 "Louis, please. Louis!"

 "He's telling the truth," Peyton-Smythe's voice observed calmly, "He doesn't know, actually. But I do."

 Cassidy and Solo twisted to see the young British agent standing at the rear of the plane. He had Sabienne beside him, her arm wrenched painfully behind her back and the barrel of his U.N.C.L.E. Special pointed directly at her temple. He no longer looked very ill.

 "You see, my dear brothers, it's me." Peyton-Smythe smiled wickedly. "U.N.C.L.E. places a mole in Thrush and now it seems, we've returned the compliment. Round and round it goes and where it stops ---."

 "It stops right here," Cassidy said.

 "Indeed." The smile faded. "Gentlemen, you will deposit your weapons on the seat, there."

 Reluctantly, Solo and Cassidy surrendered their Specials.

 "Thank you. Now all three of you will come here, quickly, and do as I say."

 Cassidy reached for Delage's shoulder and gently guided the Frenchman to his feet. The three agents walked slowly down the aisle, with Solo in the lead. Peyton-Smythe cocked his head toward the rear wall of the cabin.

 "Mr. Solo? Do you see that parachute there?"

 Solo nodded.

 "I want you to help Delage into it. But before you do, you will carefully remove the ripcord assembly, bend the pins, and then replace it. Do you understand?"

 Angrily, Solo nodded again. With the pins sabotaged, the ripcord would jam and the chute would fail to open. The agent hesitated. Peyton-Smythe angled Sabienne's arm sharply for emphasis, causing her to whimper. Solo opened the ripcord assembly and jammed the tips of the pins against the steel armrest of a seat.

 "Don't hurt her," Delage murmured miserably.

 Peyton-Smythe shook his head. "You really are a pitiful sight, old man. And you're right, you know. You can't go back to U.N.C.L.E. So, I'm actually doing you a favor."

 "You'll never get away with this," Cassidy said as Solo eased Delage into the parachute harness and buckled the straps. It was only then that the senior agent noticed that Peyton-Smythe was wearing a parachute, himself. "Your cover's blown."

 The young British agent chuckled. "Not necessarily. It's true, I never expected to be chosen for this mission. That was a damn bloody fluke. Thrush let me come along even though we knew the risks. That priest for instance, he almost gave the game away."

 "But I thought ---," Cassidy said.

 "That Andolino intended to burn down the library? No, not at first. He may have been bloody-minded pious, but he wasn't daft. He caught me trying to leave, so he wanted to warn you against me. You can see why I had to shoot him. When he knew he was dying, I suppose he sprang the trap as a last resort."

 Peyton-Smythe sighed dramatically. "Ah well, as Mr. Delage would say, c'est la vie. Thrush still has an investment in me. I'm one of U.N.C.L.E.'s rising young stars, don't you know?

 "So, it's really quite simple: I've planted a Thrush standard-issue bomb aboard this plane. Mr. Delage and I will jump --- I, to safety and he, of course, to his death. Parachute failure: it happens. No one will weep for a traitor. When I am rescued some days from now, I shall tell U.N.C.L.E. that the bomb was set by Delage as part of his desperate escape. Since I was near the door, I grabbed a chute and jumped after him. Sadly, the plane exploded before my dear companions could also escape."

 "It's flimsy. Waverly will never accept it," Cassidy growled.

 "True, it is a rather weak story, but it'll bloody well be the only story. And the basic facts will check out. Eventually, any cloud over my professional head will dissipate, and I'll begin my rise through Section Two."

 Delage was ready. Solo took a step back as the Frenchman stumbled like a sleepwalker to the cabin door. Peyton-Smythe motioned for Solo to throw it open.

 Just as he did, inside the cockpit, a red warning light flared on the instrument panel. "Sir?" Kuryakin said uncertainly, "Someone's opened the cabin door."

 Asa Carpenter narrowed his eyes. "What the hell's goin' on back there? Go take a look --- but be careful."

 "Yes, sir."

 Kuryakin rose from the co-pilot's seat. He carefully cracked open the cockpit door and peeked through. At the rear of the cabin, all the agents were gathered in a group.

 "Well, Mr. Delage," Peyton-Smythe was saying, his gun pointed at Sabienne's pretty head, "you really didn't want to live anyway, did you?" He tipped his chin toward the open hatch. "After you ---."

 There was no time for Kuryakin to pull his automatic. Instead, he shouted over his shoulder, "Mr. Carpenter! Give us a right bank --- now!"

 Carpenter didn't bother to ask why. The panic in Kuryakin's voice was reason enough. He jerked the controls hard, sending the Electra into a sudden twenty degree roll.

 The plane lurched. Back in the cabin, the floor under the agents' feet tilted and the group broke apart. Instinctively, Solo gripped one side of the hatch for support while Peyton-Smythe clutched at the other, losing his gun in the process. Along with Cassidy and Delage, Sabienne was thrown away from the open door, and away from Peyton-Smythe. His advantage lost, the young British agent knew what he had to do.

 "Cheerio, Napoleon," he said jauntily. And then he jumped.

 As the Electra leveled off, Kuryakin left the cockpit and raced down the center aisle.

 "There's a bomb aboard!" Cassidy cried. "It must be somewhere in the cabin!"

 Kuryakin dropped to the floor, searching the undersides of the seats. Cassidy asked Sabienne, "When did Peyton-Smythe seize you --- and where?"

 The woman pointed to a small, narrow door at the rear of the plane. "He came from in there," she said.

 The lavatory! There wasn't much time. Cassidy flew into the little compartment and headed straight for the toilet. His hands skittered along the edges of the tank. He found the little ticking package wedged behind it. Cassidy didn't know whether the bomb was controlled by a timer or could be triggered by the escaping Peyton-Smythe himself, and there was no time to find out. The senior agent ripped it from its hiding place. He called to Solo who was positioned near the cabin door.

 "Napoleon!"

 He tossed the bomb to Solo, who pitched it out the open hatch.  And not a moment too soon. In the next instant, the bomb detonated, rocking the plane a second time. Once again, the agents were thrown off-balance, this time, to their knees.

 "Y'all all right back there?" Carpenter called out from the cockpit when the concussion had passed.

 Kuryakin struggled to stand in the center aisle. "We're fine," he said. But over by the open hatch, Solo was not quite so sure. He looked at Delage, who stared back at him. There was a strange cast to the Frenchman's eyes and the lids hung so heavily, it seemed to require an effort just to hold them open.

 "The English boy was right," Delage said softly. "I can't go back." He looked back to Sabienne. "Je suis désolé, mon chérie."

 Solo realized what Delage meant to do, a split-second before he did it. Still on his knees, the younger agent threw himself in the direction of the retreating body to stop it, but it was no use. The Frenchman just seemed to slip way, and with the parachute pack providing a heavy counterbalance, Solo was almost sucked from the cabin himself. He felt himself falling forward and then, just as abruptly, he was yanked back from the brink. Solo twisted to find Kuryakin flat on the floor behind him, the Russian's arms wrapped around his legs.

 "Thanks," Solo said.

 "Don't mention it," Kuryakin replied.

 Below them, Louis Delage continued to drop in freefall through the night. It took almost two minutes before he hit the ground.

 "So: what did Alex have to say?" Carpenter asked as Nate Cassidy returned from delivering his report. They were back in the private rear diningroom again, in the cozy restaurant on the Rue Nineau, but this time, there was only two of them at the table. Cassidy slipped into the opposite seat. Dinner had arrived. Carpenter was already digging into a savory crayfish stew.

 "What could he say?" Cassidy asked with a shrug. "Considering the odds against us on this one, I'd say we did rather well. We destroyed a vital Thrush operation and set them back three years, possibly more. We uncovered a traitor in our midst, and we took back a blown agent of our own."

 Asa Carpenter listened quietly as he continued to eat. To anyone else, Cassidy's assessment would seem inappropriately nonchalant, even callous, considering all that had happened. However, Carpenter understood that for his friend, professional coolness was a defense mechanism. He would never forget the expression on Cassidy's face just after Louis Delage jumped from the plane.

 "Alex would never admit to it, of course," the senior agent went on, reaching for his fork, "but sending Louis into Thrush so deep and for so long was a bad idea all around. I don't think we'll be running that sort of operation again."

 The pilot shook his silvered head. "So many victims . . ."

 "Yes, and Louis was the first."

 Just then, Napoleon Solo appeared with Sabienne in tow. Kuryakin was behind them, bringing up the rear.

 "Care for some dinner?" Cassidy asked. "The civet de Langouste is ---."

 "No, thank you sir," Solo said. "Sabienne tells us she knows a superb little bisto ---."

 Cassidy smiled knowingly and let the invitation drop.

 "Any word on Peyton-Smythe?" Kuryakin inquired.

 "We're still looking for him. We hear Thrush is, too."

 From Carpenter's side of the table, there came a bitter laugh. "That boy'd better hope our side finds him first."

 Kuryakin changed the subject. "Sir, Major Von Linden gave me his service Luger before he died. Perhaps you might like to have it."

 "No, if he gave it to you," Cassidy said, "he must've wanted you to keep it." The senior agent turned to Sabienne. "I'm very sorry about Louis. I think he really did care for you."

 The young woman held out her hands. "Who can say, eh? When we met, he was dead already, yes? I should liked to have known him when he was alive."

 "And so you won't be going back to Autier?"

 "Non, Monsieur. Too many bad memories. It was very generous of your organization to purchase the inn from me."

 Cassidy waved dismissively. "Not at all. When we finish cleaning out that Thrush base, Alex will probably sell the business at a profit. But where will you go now?"

 Sabienne inclined her head, considering. "To America, perhaps."

 "Ah, now there's a thought." Cassidy cocked an eyebrow in Kuryakin's direction. "What do you say, Mr. Kuryakin?  Would you like to come back with us to America, too?"

 The Russian agent blinked, too surprised for words. "But what about Mr. Beldon, sir, and the London office?"

 "Beldon's a lunatic," Carpenter broke in. "Besides, you'll be more useful in New York. So, what'd you say?"

 Kuryakin groped for an answer. "Um, yes, of course, yes. I'd like to go to New York --- very much."

 "It's settled, then," Cassidy declared, returning to his meal. "I wish you all a pleasant evening."

 As they walked away, Kuryakin leaned close to Solo and asked, "Can he do that? Get me transferred --- just like that?"

 Solo laughed. "Nate Cassidy can do anything he wants." He thumped the Russian's back and reached for Sabienne's hand. "C'mon. Let's celebrate. I'm buying tonight."

 At the rear of the restaurant, Cassidy raised his wineglass and recited the usual enforcement agents' toast. "Here's to tomorrow, Ace."

 "To tomorrow," Carpenter agreed.

 Cassidy tipped his glass in the direction of the younger agents as they departed, flanking Sabienne on either side. "Those two are going to do great things together," the senior agent said.

 "Think so, Nate?"

 Cassidy smiled confidently. "I'd make book on it."

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