The assignment sounded simple enough: see that a young scientific genius didn’t fall into the wrong hands. All the U.N.C.L.E. agents had to do was deliver the kid to the private research institute where he was scheduled to run through a maze of tests.

It would be a breeze, Napoleon Solo had said. Take the 12-year-old to the right people and hand him over, then take a day or two off for a little rest and relaxation. How much trouble could a little kid be? And it didn’t hurt that the Reflections Institute for Scientific Research was located near a popular resort on the coast of Virginia.

Ah -- white sand, blue skies, sunny afternoons and -- girls! Tall girls, short girls, girls in bikinis, girls with tans from the tops of their heads right down to their cute little toes, girls, beautiful, lovely girls -- and all ripe for the picking. Solo sighed contentedly at the prospect on the plane enroute to pick up the kid. His partner, Illya Kuryakin, occupied the seat beside him with considerably less enthusiasm.

“Would either of you gentlemen care for a drink or a pillow?” The stewardess was petite and brunette. Solo wondered how she’d look in a bikini. He treated her to a languid smile, full of charm and promise.

“How could any man close his eyes with you around?” He asked. Illya sighed. It wasn’t just an ordinary sigh. It was a magnificent sigh, jumbo-sized and dramatic, the kind that’s meant to be heard by an audience. The stewardess smiled brightly, then moved on. Solo elbowed Illya in the side.

“Ow. Stop that.”

“Thanks for the subtlety, friend. I was trying to make a few points with the young lady.”

“Spare me, Napoleon. You spend the majority of your waking hours trying to ‘make points’, as you so delicately refer to your proclivity for picking up every female you meet. Would the world come to an end if just one woman was unimpressed?”

“Perhaps if you’d pry your nose out of those incomprehensible books you like to read, you’d find the world is teeming with feminine pulchritude just ripe for the picking. And it’s called ‘flirting’, my Russian friend. As far as I know, there’s no law against it and most women like it. Try it some time. You might discover there’s more to life than science.”

Illya raised a disdainful eyebrow at the suggestion and resumed reading without additional comment. Solo was an incorrigible ladies’ man and there was little his partner could do to divert his attention to loftier pursuits, such as the weighty tome on advanced nuclear physics in which he was currently immersed. Books were much safer and a more rewarding hobby than womanizing -- of that Illya was positive. And one day Napoleon Solo would pay the price.

The pair spoke little on the flight from New York to Kansas City, where they took temporary custody of 12-year-old Timothy Stone, who was not -- by any stretch of the imagination -- a run-of-the-mill American boy poised on the precipice of puberty.

While Timmy, as his mother called him, was certainly on that particular precipice, he was very different from other boys his age. For one thing, he had no friends he could consider peers. Other kids referred to him as an “egghead” and a bit of a freak. Despite the fact that he hadn’t even hit his teens, he’d already earned a doctorate and routinely blew the doors off any intelligence test the scientific community could muster. Timmy was a certified genius and a real find for the free world. He showed an inclination for tinkering with matter that provoked scientists into ecstasy at the prospect of unleashing the child’s superior brain on projects near and dear to them. And that was why Timmy was preparing to undergo rigorous testing at the Institute. The boy was an unwilling participant. From the time his genius was first discovered, he’d been treated to a series of experiments that ranged from the completely boring to the utterly ridiculous. For his part, Timmy would rather have experimented with his raging hormones, but his genius also served to isolate him from girls his own age. He went to school with college women, and they saw not a certified genius, but a kid -- a smart kid, of course, a 12 year-old no matter how your cut it. Timmy looked forward to the trip with Solo an Illya as a way to escape the clutches of his overprotective mother and the humdrum life at home. So when the U.N.C.L.E. agents collected Timmy, they found themselves with a party animal.

“Look guys,” Timmy had said as he settled into his seat for the flight to Virginia, “My name is Tim, not Timmy. That’s just what my Mom calls me. Got it?”

“Got it,” Solo said, giving the tall red-headed stewardess the once-over.

Illya pulled out his book and looked for his page.

“Hey, advanced nuclear physics! That’s one of my favorite subjects,”

Tim/Timmy said and occupied Illya with a thoroughly engaging conversation on matters that were Greek to Solo. Not that he minded. With the dour Russian occupied, he was able to secure the phone numbers of not one, but two of the stewardesses on the flight. And both had layovers at the beach.

Solo leaned back into his seat with delicious anticipation: two full days with nothing to do but bask in the sun, drink rum and romance beautiful women. Yes, this was going to be a very pleasant assignment!

************************************************************************

“Gentlemen, this assignment is so simple I almost hesitate to waste your talents on it, but I think you both need a few days of relaxation after that horrid business in the Philippines,” their boss, Alexander Waverly, had told them the day before. The two U.N.C.L.E. agents were completely drained from their island ordeal. They’d spent the better part of a month rooting out a black market operation that specialized in luring young, beautiful Filipino women into slavery on the false promise of good jobs abroad. The ring had been operated by a particularly vicious Thrush operative who had captured the two U.N.C.L.E. agents and imprisoned them under appalling conditions.

They were starved and abused almost to the brink of insanity, saved only by an unexpected stroke of luck. The guards, convinced they were destined to die when an unexpected storm hit the island where the U..NC.L.E .agents were being held, forgot to lock Solo and Illya’s cell in their panic to get away.

The promise of escape reinvigorated the pair. They managed to free themselves and take the remainder of the women being held for future enslavement to freedom. But success came with a price.

Solo’s usually carefree attitude had seemed a bit strained to Waverly and fellow agents. Although normally able to shrug off the rigors of the job, he remembered watching a lovely young girl die a slow and painful death in front of his eyes simply because it pleased the Thrush agent to do so. He then began work on Solo’s partner, putting Illya through round after round of beatings, each one more vicious than the last.

When Illya had lapsed into consciousness, he quit, revived him and began working on Solo, with Illya as an audience. The two men had been badly scarred both mentally and physically.

By the time the U.N.C.L.E. agents had made their way back to headquarters, they were hollow-eyed and worn, their reserves at the lowest level Waverly had ever witnessed. He couldn’t afford to have his two top men rendered useless. Quietly, he put aside the next assignment intended for the dark-haired American and his slight Russian partner, giving it instead to a fresh team. Then he rummaged around and found one he’d planned to hand off to one of the newer pairings.

“This should be a piece of cake for the two of you and, since you’ll be at the beach, it’s also an excellent opportunity for you gentlemen to indulge in a day or two of relaxation.”

“With all due respect, sir, I’m fine,” Illya said.

Waverly fixed the young man with a look that plainly disagreed with his self-assessment. The Russian still sported several prominent bruises on his face and his eyes were ringed with exhaustion. Solo was equally wan. “You’re not being given a choice in this matter, Mr. Kuryakin. This is an order.You will proceed to the home of Timothy Stone and see that the young man is delivered safely into the hands of Dr. Helmund Lefter for testing at the Institute. You and Mr. Solo will then spend two days relaxing at the beach. You will then return young Mr. Stone to his mother. Your plane tickets are being prepared. You will leave tomorrow morning. Any questions?”

Neither agent said a word.

“Good. Have a nice trip, gentlemen,” Waverly said in a tone that clearly dismissed the two men. Stiffly, they rose and made their way back to the office they shared.

“Illya, I just don’t understand why you insist on looking a gift horse in the mouth.” Illya turned to Solo, his blue eyes reflecting genuine puzzlement.

“Horse? There was no mention of a horse....”

“It’s just an expression, you thick-headed Russian. It means to quibble over a gift....like this assignment. The old man is giving us a paid two-day vacation and you’re arguing over it. Frankly, I’m so tired, I don’t think I could fight my way out of a paper bag.”

“Paper bag? Why would you do such a thing? Napoleon, you Americans say and do the oddest things. I’m afraid I will never understand you.” Solo sighed and turned to his partner. His face, like Illya’s, also reflected the beatings he had endured in the form of yellow, fading bruises. But the beatings were nothing compared to the ordeal of watching an innocent young woman die. Solo had not even known her name, but the horrible and senseless murder had imbued him with an unprofessional desire for revenge. And one day, he knew, he would again meet that agent with different results. He’d smiled grimly at the thought of killing the man, made especially inviting after watching his partner and best friend being hurt so cruelly. He’d been powerless to stop the brutal beatings inflicted upon Illya. Watching them had taken more out of him than his own turn under the whip. This time Solo’s scar were more emotional than physical, but the man’s exceptionally strong will refused to let him give in to the despair and helplessness he’d felt in captivity. He knew one day he’d meet Carlo Cerise again and Solo fully intended to be the Thrush agent’s judge, jury and executioner. But until that day came, the business of U.N.C.L.E. would come first.

“You, my friend, just don’t know how to relax,” Solo told his partner in the privacy of their office. “ But don’t worry, I’ll be there to show you. I won ’t let you be a party pooper.” Illya shook his head.

“Napoleon, I don’t even want an explanation of that one.”

************************************************************************

They had taken the boy to the Institute where Lefter had greeted them with enthusiasm and offered a tour of the facility. Illya had perked up but Solo had to stifle a groan. What a dreadful way to start a weekend vacation! Illya, catching his expression, had offered to return to the hotel room with Solo, but Solo heard the disappointment in his voice.

“You stay here and I’ll be back to get you in a couple of hours. I want to go for a swim and take a hot shower.”

Illya had readily agreed and given himself over to the in-depth technical explanations that went along with the tour, while Solo had driven to their beachfront hotel, climbed into his swimming trunks and parked himself on a chaise lounge near the outdoor bar. With a tall, iced- fruit juice and rum concoction on the table next to him, Solo had settled back and shut his eyes. Within five minutes he was sound asleep.

************************************************************************

Dr. Lefter had been showing Illya and Tim his pride and joy -- an experiment involving matter transference. Thus far he’d been able to successfully switch objects and had just concluded his most interesting experiment to date: switching a cat with a dog.

“So you’re saying you have managed to put a cat’s psyche into a dog’s body and vice versa?” Illya had asked. The professor smiled.

“Hard to believe, I know, but look at this,” he’d taken them into a room with a large two-way mirror. In the adjacent room an assistant watched and took notes while a large orange cat chased a small beagle around the room. Occasionally, the two animals would stop and the dog would lick and groom itself while the cat visibly panted.

“That’s Winston, the cat, and Murray, the dog. They’ve grown up together. Right now Winston is inhabiting Murray’s body and Murray is in Winston’s paws, so to speak.”

The boy was excited about the experiment.

‘That’s my key interest, you know,” he told Dr. Lefter. “Can I review the data?”

Lefter beamed at the young man and nodded, propelling him through the side door to the laboratory where most of his work had been conducted. Pulling out notebooks and charts, he laid it all out in front of Timmy. “Here you go, young man. Read unto your heart’s content. Mr. Kuyakin, would you like to see our security precautions?” Illya nodded and followed the portly doctor out of the lab and into the hallway.

“What do you think of our little experiment, Mr. Kuryakin? Or do you prefer Dr. Kuryakin?”

“I don’t use the title, but thank you for asking, Doctor. It’s quite fascinating, but I’m curious I admit: what practical application do you foresee for the process?” The two men stopped and tarried at a large window that looked down from a short promontory onto the sand below. This part of the beach was uninhabited and given to rough seas and high winds -- not good for tourists. Solo and Illya’s hotel, over 20 miles away, was on a strip favored by both locals and visitors.

“We chose this area because of its relative isolation. It’s near civilization but far enough away to prevent too many annoying sightseers,” Lefter turned and looked at Illya.

“You wanted to know the practical applications. There are many, Mr. Kuryakin. Imagine this -- a brain dead body, unable to be resuscitated -- and a man imprisoned in a useless body, a paraplegic, unable to move. But he can still think. Consider the opportunity: this man being able to live like a normal human being. If we can remove the substance of the human and place it in a new receptacle, then think of what we’ve accomplished! Think about the person injured in an accident and his body won ’t support life, but removing his essence, the part that makes him unique -- his ability to think and reason, love, hate, feel the warmth of the sun, the cold of the frost on the ground -- if we can preserve that until a body can be found, then look at the good we’ve done.”

“Aren’t you a bit afraid of being likened to Frankenstein?”

“Yes, that has been a concern. There is always the moral issue, the ethical considerations. That’s one of the reasons we’re keeping this research close to our chests. In the wrong hands, this could be devastatingly powerful science. That’s not our objective, Mr. Kuryakin.”

“And the boy?”

“He is here merely for testing, Mr. Kuryakin. I just thought he’d enjoy having a look at that particular experiment, since matter transfer is a field in which he’s particularly interested.”

“And the dog and cat? Why switch them?”

“Just to see if it could be done, Mr. Kuryakin. And because I didn’t want to kill one of the animals in order to use it for research. Winston and Murray have been comrades for a very long time.”

“Are you going to put them back?”

“We’re going to try. We’ve never successfully reunited a psyche with a body, Mr. Kuryakin. There hasn’t really been any need to up to this point. There, that ’s our set-up. It’s not very sophisticated, I’m afraid, but we don’t attract a lot of attention out here, so we haven’t needed anything fancy. Do you have any questions?”

“No, I believe I understand your system. Where do you and the staff stay?”

“We have apartments on the upper level.”

“And Timmy?”

“He’ll stay with me, Mr. Kuryakin. I’m the Chief Scientist and the one responsible for the boy’s safety. I have a spare bedroom in my quarters.”

Illya nodded, satisfied, as the pair made their way back to the laboratory where they’d left Timmy. Lefter led the way, opening the door to the laboratory and calling for the boy. It was empty.

“He must have gone back to the viewing room,” the scientist said. Illya opened the door and allowed Lefter to proceed, then followed him down the corridor. He opened the viewing room and stepped inside. It, too, was empty. And the two-way mirror revealed a room that contained neither dog nor cat, nor lab technician. In fact, the door, which opened back into the lab, was now open.

“Hmmm. That door was closed when we were in the lab. Something doesn’t look right here,” Lefter turned and started back with Illya behind him when they heard popping noises coming from inside the laboratory.

“What on earth?” Lefter froze for a second, trying to make sense of the sounds.

Illya, with no time to explain, drew his U.N.C.L.E. special and pushed past the scientist, rushing into the lab just in time to see a mountain of empty beakers break into a thousand shards on the hard lab floor. The door to the room which held the dog and cat still quivered as though someone had just closed it. Slumped next to the door, staring sightlessly into space, was the body of the lab tech, a neat bullet hole between his eyes. He still clutched the clipboard in his lifeless hands. Illya crouched down low and pulled open the door on the side of the room, going in low and fast. It was empty. He tried the door on the opposite side and found it locked. Just as he turned to go back the way he came, that door also slammed shut. He found himself imprisoned in a room with no visible way out. There were no ceiling panels to push back, no floorboards to pull up, no interior locks to jimmy. And Illya couldn’t see through the one-way mirror -- he was on the wrong side. Guess I’ll have to shoot it out, he decided and moved to a corner to avoid possible ricochet. But, as he lined up for the shot, something hit him hard in the chest, knocking him to the floor. He tried to get back up, but the unseen force was holding him fast, pushing the breath out of him. There was a tremendous pressure being applied somehow, squeezing so hard it felt as though it was being crushed. He gasped for air, choking. His heartbeat, which had raced almost uncontrollably at first, was inexplicably slowing down. Illya became increasingly light-headed and could feel each ponderous beat of his own heart as it ticked slower and slower. He couldn’t breathe and knew he would soon lose consciousness. Time was running out. If he didn’t get out of that room now, he wouldn’t make it out alive.

Drawing on all his reserves, a dying Illya Kuryakin drew a ragged half-breath, and tried one last time to claw his way to the other door. His arms and legs refused to obey. Collapsing, he tried for one more breath and failed to find it. His reserves tapped, Illya simply stopped fighting and closed his eyes, slipping away as quickly as if someone had turned off a light switch.

************************************************************************

Solo was late in returning to pick up his partner. First there was the nap, then there was the tall brunette stewardess, who awakened him with a warm rum-flavored kiss and an afternoon full of promise.

By the time Solo realized it, he was already an hour late. Knowing his partner wouldn’t mind the extra time in the lab, he jumped in the shower and headed out to the institute, pulling his rented car into the parking area just as it was starting to turn dark.

Illya’s probably hungry by now, he thought as he rang the front buzzer. Solo waited impatiently for someone to let him in, but no one came. Puzzled, he made his way around the building, stopping when he found an unsecured window in the back. His hackles rose as he pulled his gun. It looked bad and felt worse. Where the hell was Illya?

He crawled in through the window. The room, which was apparently some type of employee lounge, looked as though it had been ransacked. In the corner was the body of a young woman, sprawled across a chair with two bullet holes in the back of her white coat. Solo felt her carotid pulse. Her skin was warm. She’d been dead only a short time.

He made his way cautiously through the building, finding one dead body after another. It was beginning to look as though someone had plowed through the building shooting everything that moved.

What about Illya? Solo thought grimly. And the boy, where was the boy? When he reached Lefter’s lab, Solo found the man still alive but mortally wounded. “Dr. Lefter, can you hear me?” Solo knelt next to the man. His abdomen was a bloody mess. Lefter nodded with difficulty.

“The boy. Where is he?”

“Man, took him. Took him and killed everyone. Everyone’s dead. My God.”

“Where did he take him? Do you know?” Lefter swallowed and shook his head with difficulty. “I didn’t understand. Kept saying something about a..a..thrush. I didn’t

understand him, Mr. Solo.” “And Illya, doctor. Where is he?” Solo saw Lefter’s eyes focus beyond Solo’

s shoulder to the doorknob behind him. He turned and stood, grasping the knob,

intent on finding his partner, never hearing Lefter’s dying caution.

“No, Mr. Solo, no. Don’t go in. You don’t understand....”

************************************************************************

It took only one look for him to realize that his partner no longer lived. Still, Solo bent and, as he had with the girl in the lounge, touched Illya’s neck. It, too, was warm to the touch, but there was no pulse, no rise and fall of the chest, no trembling eyelid to tell him life was still present. Solo stayed down on the one knee for a moment, his eyes shut, as a wave of pain and guilt washed over him. I did this. I was late. This is my fault.

Solo felt as though he would be sick. I’m going to pass out, he thought with astonishment, then doubled over as an unseen force slammed into him, knocking him to the floor, next to his partner’s still form. Then, like Illya, his world also turned dark.

************************************************************************ Napoleon Solo felt something cool and gentle on his face, like a butterfly lighting softly on his forehead, then down and around to his chin. His eyes fluttered open with some difficulty. He felt like he’d been hit him over the head with an anvil.

In addition to a massive headache, his vision was blurred and his hearing was fuzzy. I must have been hit on the head, he thought, trying to remember what had happened. Then it came back to him. Illya! Solo started to rise, but a hand firmly pushed him back against the pillow.

“Now, now. You are in no condition to be getting up. You need a thorough examination, young man, and you’re going to have one before you go anywhere,” a woman’s voice -- older and authoritative -- seeped in. Solo’s tongue felt strange and heavy, out of place in his mouth. He tried to speak, but only croaked a few words.

“My partner, he’s been killed....” The words sounded odd to him, familiar yet, at the same time, foreign.

“Ah, you’re worried about your friend. Don’t be concerned, Mr. Kuryakin, Mr. Solo is being attended to by the doctor. He seems to have suffered from the same malady as yourself. I’m sure he’ll be all right.”

Solo stared at the woman uncomprehendingly. Kuryakin? "No, you don’t understand. My partner is...was...Kuryakin. He’s dead, I saw him myself. I’m Solo.”

The woman gave Solo a strange look and patted his hand. “I’m going to get the doctor. Just stay here and rest quietly for a moment.”

When the door closed, Solo took a moment to sit up and look around. He was in some sort of clinic or medical facility, that much he understood. But where? Who were these people? And even more important, what about Illya -- and why were they calling him “Kuryakin”?

Stiffly, Solo rose from the bed and found himself weaving dangerously from the exertion. He steadied himself by grabbing the edge of a small table near the bed and walked slowly and carefully over to the sink in the corner, which had small mirror mounted over it.

Solo looked uncomprehendingly into the mirror. Instead of the face he routinely shaved each morning, he found himself looking into the eyes of the person he trusted most in the world -- the calm, ice-blue eyes of his recently deceased partner, Illya Kuryakin.

Solo was out cold before he ever hit the floor.

************************************************************************

Illya had been revived in the room adjacent to Solo’s. He couldn’t understand why everyone kept calling him “Solo”. Bringing his hand up to his forehead in an automatic gesture, he started to brush the blond hair from his eyes. But it wasn’t there.

Illya looked curiously at the hand with which he’d brushed his forehead. It was a strong, square hand with a sprinkling of dark hair across the back. It wasn’t his hand.

He had a fleeting moment of panic, but then the no-nonsense Russian side of him took over. There had to be a good explanation: perhaps he was dreaming. Pushing himself to his feet, he wobbled to the mirror on the wall across the room. He already had an idea of what he was going to find and wasn’t disappointed: he was Napoleon Solo. And that meant Napoleon Solo was now Illya Kuryakin.

Dr. Lefter’s experiments, that had to be it. Somehow, someone had managed to do to him and Solo what Lefter had done to the cat and dog. Now he was in Solo’s body and, presumably, Solo was in his. Illya needed to find his partner before Solo woke up. He wasn’t sure how he would react to this most bizarre development. Illya made his way to the door and opened it. There was no one in the hall, as far as he could tell. Stepping out, he was startled to see a young U.N.C.L.E. agent he knew come around the corner.

“Ah, Mr. Solo. Hope you’re feeling better. You two gave us quite a scare, you know.” Illya forced a half-smile on his face. “Yes, well, I need to find Na...uh, Mr. Kuryakin. Do you know where he is?”

“Yes sir, right in there, sir,” the agent pointed to a door a few feet away.

“Uh, yes, well, thanks,” Illya started to leave, then turned back to the man.

“What are you doing here, if I may ask? What happened?”

“Don’t know what happened, Mr. Solo. Someone killed everyone in this building, took the kid and ran. You and Mr. Kuryakin were barely alive when you were found. Mr. Waverly dispatched a team to mop up here. We got here about midnight, right after the medical team, and have been trying to make some sense of it. I’m sure Waver...uh...Mr. Waverly will want a full report from you.” “No doubt,” Illya said and moved on to Solo’s room. He opened it slowly, trying to see if there was anyone else in the room before he entered. Instead he saw himself, unconscious, on the floor. For a second he was unable to move or take his eyes off the still form on the floor, but he shook it off and shut the door behind him. Pulling Solo up off the floor, Illya deposited him carefully back on the bed in the room.

“I certainly don’t weigh much,” he said, half to himself, and turned back to the sink to get Solo a glass of water. When he returned he was greeted by his own eyes staring at him as if he was a ghost.

“Would you mind taking better care of my body?” Illya said to Solo, handing him the water. Solo, his mouth hanging open, mechanically took the water and held it, never removing his gaze from Illya.

“Well?” Illya asked.

“You’re, you’re...you’re ME!”

“That should be obvious even to you, Napoleon. And you, I might add, are now inhabiting my body.”

“How?”

“Drink some of that water and I’ll try to fill you in, but I’m warning you, you aren’t going to like it, not even a little bit.”

************************************************************************

By evening, both men were sitting in Alexander Waverly’s office, watching as the usually unflappable chief fiddled with papers and pencils and tried to accustom himself to the idea that Solo was Illya and Illya was Solo.

“Gentlemen, I’m afraid this is a situation with which we are totally unprepared to cope,” Waverly stopped and took a few pulls on his pipe. “Normally I would insist both of you retire from the field until we can straighten this situation out, but this latest communication from our Rome office suggests that would be a mistake of gigantic proportions.” Waverly glanced at Solo who, of course, was in Illya’s body.

“Mr. Kuryakin, the lights, if you please.” Illya, in Solo’s body, rose and doused the lights.

“Uh, gentlemen, before we continue, for the purpose of this particular operation it is absolutely imperative that no one know or even suspect that anything is, uh, amiss.

You, Mr. Kuryakin, will have to be Mr. Solo, answer to his name and, if at all possible, slip into his personality. While Mr. Solo will have to do the same where you are concerned.” Waverly turned to the screen on the wall and punched up a photograph before either man could say anything.

“Mr., uh, Solo -- the real one -- do you remember this woman?”

“My God. It’s Dena. Dena Forani. I thought she was dead!”

“She should be, considering all she’s brought down on herself. Please fill in your, uh, partner and alter ego, Mr. Solo.” Solo leaned forward and looked himself square in the eye. It was still unnerving, but he was growing more accustomed to the circumstances in which they found themselves trapped. He was actually starting to have a little fun masquerading as the stoic Russian. Illya, on the other hand, found the entire experience quite irritating.

“Dena was -- is -- the daughter of a high-level Thrush official. I met her while on an assignment early in my career. We, um, had a romantic interlude and she attempted to recruit me to Thrush. I played along and managed to get a little information out of her before she disappeared, ostensibly dead in a car crash. Apparently that last bit of information was untrue.”

“That’s correct, Mr. uh, Kuryakin. I’m sorry, gentlemen, but I have to start calling you your -- for lack of a better word -- physical names or I’ll have a problem with this at some future point. To return to the subject at hand, Miss Forani is back and she is signaling she wants to come in from the cold.”

“Leave Thrush?”

“Yes. And it may or may not be sincere. We don’t know. We do know she has apparently had a falling out of sorts with her father,” Waverly flicked the switch and a hulking, dark-haired man with a scowl popped up on the screen. “Ah yes, I remember daddy quite well. He tried to part my hair with a butcher knife. Not very tolerant of his daughter’s extra-curricular activities.”

“Apparently Donato Forani is still in top form. We believe he may have executed his daughter’s latest boyfriend and that’s the reason she’s so interested in defecting from Thrush.” Waverly turned to face them, waving to Solo to turn on the lights.

“I don’t have to tell you, gentlemen, that the information this young woman can bring to us could be very useful -- if things are as she says. What I need is for you, Mr. Solo, to find out, because Miss Forani has emphatically demanded to speak with you, and only you, Mr. Solo.”

“But I’m Illya, now.”

“Precisely,” Waverly said and fixed Illya with a hard stare.

“You, Mr. Solo, must romance the young lady and ascertain her true intentions.”

“Me? But, but, but....”

“No buts, Mr. Kur...Solo. This is one assignment where you will have to use your considerable mental abilities in order to be the man Miss Forani remembers. Do you think you can carry that off?”

“Do I have a choice?”

“No.”

“Then, I suppose, I will have to.”

“Good. Mr. Kuryakin,” Waverly turned to Solo, “Please take the next 24 hours and fill Mr. Solo in on the young lady. She should be arriving in New York this time tomorrow night and I want you two gentlemen to meet with her.”

************************************************************************

Illya’s orderly life had turned to hell. Instead of being allowed to drift into bookish pursuits, he suddenly had every woman in the New York office of U.N.C.L.E. making overt gestures to him. One pinched him on the rear end, another nuzzled his ear as he was getting a cup of coffee and a third murmured something about meeting him in the supply room.

Life as Napoleon Solo was very interesting, indeed, but not in the way the formerly fair-haired agent found gratifying. He aired his complaints to Solo when the two were safely locked in their office.

“Tell me, Napoleon, have you romanced every woman in this building?” Solo looked up and grinned.

“Almost.”

“I don’t find it terribly amusing. In fact, it’s anything but. Really, Napoleon, the indecent propositions alone are appalling.”

“Who propositioned you...uh...me?”

“I’d rather not say.”

“Well, it’s not you they’re propositioning, you know. You need to tell me so I can take them up on it when I get my own body back.”

“How revolting.”

“Why is it revolting? Just because you choose to live like a monk doesn’t mean I do. Speaking of which, I suppose I’m living in your apartment now and you’re in mine. I hope you have a decent bottle of wine on hand.”

“Wine? I never drink wine. It’s a sissy drink. I drink Vodka. That’s a man’ s drink.”

“Well, Miss Morris isn’t a man.”

“Miss Morris? The one from records? What does she have to do with anything?”

“I have a date with her tonight.”

“A date? You mean to tell me you are going to go out in my body and take her up to my apartment?”

“Yes, I certainly hope you left it clean. How comfortable is your bed?” “No! Absolutely not. I refuse to let you ruin my reputation....”

“Ruin it? I’m giving you one. The only reputation you have around here is for being a stick in the mud.”

“Stick in the mud? Stick in the mud? What is that supposed to mean? At least I’m not looked upon as a second-class Don Juan.”

“Second class? I’ll have you know I’ve never been a second-class anything. If I’m a Don Juan, then you’re an egghead!”

“And that’s another thing. No matter how hard you try, there is absolutely no way you are going to be able to hold your own in the intelligence department....”

“And what do you mean by that?”

“Face it, Napoleon. What you know about nuclear physics could be written on the head of a pin.”

“Illya...I’ll let you in on a little secret. I don’t plan to discuss nuclear physics with Miss Morris.”

************************************************************************

By the time Dena’s plane arrived, Illya had been thoroughly briefed by Solo. And neither man was feeling terribly fond of the other. They’d spent most of the next day handling one another with exaggerated politeness, Solo going over every detail he could remember about the short interlude with the deadly young woman.

“Oh, I just remembered something else.” Solo said as Illya affixed him with an unamused look. “Pray tell, are you going to finish that statement or are you going to play Twenty Questions with me?”

“Do you realize you don’t have a sense of humor? I think I’ll give you one.

Never mind. I forgot to tell you that Dena has a mole right about,” Solo turned slightly and touched his finger to his right buttock, “Here.”

“Thank you so much for sharing that incredibly insightful piece of information. If I ever find myself in a bind where the young lady is concerned, I’m certain that knowledge will prove vital.”

“By rare coincidence, Miss Morris also has a mole on her cute little bottom.”

“Spare me the details.”

“Oh, no, Illya, it’s no trouble, Besides, after we get our own bodies back, you’ll need to know exactly what you did and with whom.”

“Napoleon, if you don’t stop it, I’m going to spend a couple of days in a tattoo parlor and have the name of every woman I can remember you having a fling with written on your bum. Ah, here, it looks as though her plane has arrived.” Illya walked toward the gate with Solo trailing behind, grinning.

He elbowed Illya when Dena emerged from the plane -- a bit harder than necessary. Illya put up his hand, stuck a half-hearted smile on his face and waved.

“Here she comes,” Solo said. “Don’t forget to introduce me.”

“Oh, believe me, I won’t.”

A moment later, Illya found himself with an arm full of Dena Forani, who was gorgeous, by any standard. From an attractive 19-year-old, she had blossomed into a beautiful woman, a woman with curves in all the right places. Shaking her thick black hair out of her face, she threw her arms around Illya and gave him a big, passionate kiss on the mouth.

“Cara mia, my Napoleon, it’s so good to see you!” Forcing himself not to unwrap her from his neck, Illya gave her a quick hug and turned, Dena still clinging possessively to him, to introduce her to his partner.

“Uh, Dena, this is my partner, Illya Kuryakin.” Dena unwrapped an arm and held out her hand to Solo. He bent over and kissed it lightly, holding her hand for a just a moment longer than necessary. She smiled at him and tilted her head. “Napoleon, my darling, I don’t remember you having such a charming partner!”

“That’s because I didn’t have Mr. Kuryakin as a partner when I met you, uh, my dear Dena. Shall we?”

The trio collected her bags and drove to the heavily, but unobtrusively, guarded hotel where she was staying.

“Napoleon, please come up for a night cap. Your friend can come, too.”

“I’d love to,” Solo said. “if it’s all right with you, Napoleon old fellow.”

“Why certainly. I’d love for you to stay, Illya.”

“Tell me, how long have you two been partners, Napoleon my love?”

“Too long. Although I have to give Illya credit. He’s certainly much more intelligent than I am....” Solo shot his partner a dirty look .

“And Napoleon over here is the one who understands women. Why if it weren’t for him insisting that his dates bring along a friend, I’d probably just sit in my apartment reading dusty old books all the time.”

“Yes, you are right about Napoleon being a lover. I remember it well,” she said, giving Illya’s neck a quick nuzzle.”

“I believe this is your room, Dena,” Illya said, putting the key in the door. He motioned for her to move back and nodded at Solo.

“Dena, you stay here while we check out the room,” Solo said and propelled her gently to the wall.

“On three?” Solo nodded.

“One, two and three...” Illya kicked the door open and dove back behind the door frame as a shot rang out, followed by two more. Inside the room, the two men could hear the sound of feet scurrying about, trying to find a target.

Illya dove in low from the right, while Solo did the same from the left. Both men rolled and came up on opposite sides, guns in hand, ready for target acquisition. There were three men in the room, all firing at them. Solo’s weapon took out the first one, dropping him with a shot center mass. Illya killed the second one almost simultaneously, while the third managed to get off a couple of rounds, forcing the two U.N.C.L.E. agents to take cover.

Solo nodded at Illya across the room and began to work his way over to where he could get a clear shot at the assailant. But just as he came up on the man, he stood and fired at Solo, catching him in the shoulder. Solo’s gun fell from a suddenly useless hand, and the Thrush bad guy pulled his weapon up again to finish what he’d started.

But another shot rang out, from the direction of the doorway and the Thrush agent dropped dead in his tracks. Illya looked back to see Dena with a big semi-automatic clutched in her fist. She grinned at Illya.

“It’s good that my Papa taught me so well, yes?” Illya smiled wanly at the woman and moved over to Solo to check his wound. Blood was running in small rivulets down his injured arm.

“Let me see that,” Illya said, pulling Solo’s coat off and unbuttoning his shirt.

“I’ll see if I can find a towel or something,” Dena said, moving toward the bathroom. Illya checked his friend’s shoulder -- only it was really his shoulder. It was just a flesh wound. Both had suffered many worse injuries.

“It’s not bad. But would you mind being careful with MY body in the future?”

“Don’t worry, my friend, I’m taking good care of it,” Solo smiled.

“I don’t consider filling it full of holes the same as taking care of it,” Illya said.

“You need to have medical look at it.” Two U.N.C.L.E. agents, on duty down the hall, had come running. Illya glanced at one. “Mr. Dolan, would you please escort Mr. Kuryakin to medical and have his wound checked?”

“Be glad to, sir. Come on Mr. Kuryakin, I’ll take you.” Solo glanced at Illya and made a small face, then smiled as Dena returned to the room carrying several towels.

“Here, my dear, use one of these.” She handed a towel to Solo, who thanked her.

“Oh, and Mr. Dolan, please have HQ send a clean-up team. We’ll be moving Miss Forani to another room,” Illya ordered.

“Yes, Mr. Solo.”

************************************************************************

Illya helped get Dena settled in a different suite and tried to diplomatically take his leave, but she wouldn’t hear of it. “After all this time, Napoleon, you would just walk out the door and leave me to sleep alone?” She smiled suggestively and Illya’s stomach tightened. Great. Maybe I can get her drunk and then sneak out when she goes to sleep.

“I’ll call down for drinks. Do you like vodka?”

“Vodka? Love it, Napoleon. That sounds wonderful.” Illya dutifully ordered two bottles of chilled vodka, pouring some into one of the generous-sized glasses while Dena freshened herself. He settled on a chair with a glass of the clear liquid in hand and considered his predicament. It wasn’t that Dena wasn’t attractive -- she was. But unlike his partner, Illya didn’t consider love-making an extracurricular activity. It was something he did with discretion when he wanted to -- he wasn’t a performing seal.

Dena reentered the room dressed in a revealing black negligee.

Damn. Better pour on the vodka. Illya rose and filled a tumbler to the brim, handing it to her and starting to return to his chair. But Dena took the drink with one hand and grabbed him with the other, propelling him onto the sofa next to her.

“So, tell me Napoleon, what have you been doing all these years?” “Uh, I really haven’t done anything of interest, Dena. I’m sure you’re life has been decidedly more exciting than mine. You go first.” Dena smiled.

“OK, as you Americans say, but first I must have some inspiration,” she said, pulling Illya over to her and kissing the U.N.C.L.E. agent square on the mouth.

This is getting worse by the minute. Damn Napoleon. Can’t he just read a good book before he goes to bed like normal people?

*************************************************************************

The first thing Illya noticed was that the sun had come up. Since he and Dena hadn’t bothered to shut the curtains, the living room was bright with daylight. And Illya’s head hurt. He carefully opened one bloodshot eye for a moment, then the other. Yes, it was definitely day time. And no, he was not in his -- or Solo’s -- own room.

Instead, he was still at the hotel. The hotel! Illya jumped at the thought and surveyed his surroundings. He was on the sofa in Dena’s hotel room. There were two empty tumblers on the table and two empty vodka bottles on the floor next to his clothes. His clothes?

Illya looked down. He was wearing nothing but his underpants. Damn! Damn! Damn! Quickly he jumped up and started searching for his clothes, finding his socks and pants on one side of the room, his shirt and shoes on the other. He dressed, wishing he had some toothpaste, started to take his leave when Dena, fresh, with damp black curls clinging to her neck, emerged wearing nothing but an oversized towel. “Napoleon! My darling! You mustn’t leave now! Not after last night, my precious one. Hasn’t anyone ever told you it’s not nice to make love to a woman and then sneak out?”

Make love? Illya tried desperately to remember the night. They both drank vodka -- a lot of vodka -- with Dena keeping pace shot for shot with the Russian. Illya had been impressed with her ability to down so much liquor. Before long neither was feeling much pain. Illya remembered saying he needed to go home and Dena protesting, then starting to unbutton his shirt. After that, he remembered nothing, nothing at all.

“Make love?”

“Don’t tell me you don’t remember, Napoleon. How could a man behave so magnificently in bed and not remember it?” Illya was at a total loss.

“I’m afraid I need to clean up, Dena, and check my mail. I’ll be back soon, I promise.” He gave her a little kiss on the cheek, but she wasn’t satisfied with that, pulling him over and planting a large kiss on his lips.

“Oh, no, you’re not getting off that easy.”

************************************************************************

“And how are you feeling today, Mr., uh, Kuryakin?”

“Just ducky,” Solo said and slid into the seat across from Waverly. The older man was rummaging through some files, looking for something. Finally he found it.

“Ah, yes, here it is. Mr. Kuryakin, are you comfortable that your partner can handle Miss Forani without your assistance?” Solo hid a half-smile.

“Quite comfortable, sir. The assignment might even do him some good.”

“Excellent, excellent. Then I will pull you off that assignment and move you on to something else -- the boy, Timothy Stone.” Solo’s ears perked up.

“He’s been found?”

“Possibly, quite possibly. I’d like you to look into this report we’ve had that Stone has fallen into the hands of your old nemesis, Carlo Cerise. He is rumored to be holding the child on an island off the New England coast. Here, take a look at the map of this island and files on his operation and see if you can formulate a plan to infiltrate it, find the child and get out. All without being caught, of course.”

“Why don’t we just go in and take him, sir?” “Because he’ll most likely kill the child if we come straight at him, Mr. Solo.”

“Kuryakin.”

“Yes, uh, sorry. Mr. Kuryakin. Difficult business, that. Being in someone else’s body, I mean. Makes it bothersome to keep things straight, as it were.”

“Yes, sir. It’s very bothersome indeed. Anything else?”

“Yes. Please keep in mind that this child holds the key to restoring you and your partner to your original, uh, packaging, Mr. Solo. We need him, you need him, unless you wish to speak with a Russian accent for the rest of your life.”

************************************************************************

Solo found it relatively easy to penetrate the island’s security. He’d been let off a submarine not too far from the island and swam in underwater, dumping his tanks and other gear when he hit the beach. Cerise apparently didn’t expect U.N.C.L.E. to find him this quickly.

Upon locating the compound, Solo had to avoid several guardposts, finally taking down one guard and changing into the man’s uniform, complete with black beret to hide the shock of blond hair.

After a few minutes, he managed to find the room where Timmy Stone was being held. Grabbing a food tray another guard was carrying in to the boy, Solo roughly told him to get back on post: he would take it in to the prisoner. Solo entered the laboratory to find the boy making some adjustments to a bank of electronic controls. The child didn’t even look up when Solo opened the door.

“Timmy,” Solo whispered. “Do you recognize me?” The boy looked up and his eyes lit up.

“Mr. Kuryakin! Wow, am I glad to see you. I thought they’d killed you for sure.”

“No, I’m fine. Just one problem, Tim, I’m not Mr. Kuryakin. I’m Mr. Solo” The boy’s eyes reflected his puzzlement and he backed slightly away from Solo.

“Mr. Solo? But, but....”

“Illya got trapped inside the matter transfer room and I went in to help him. Unfortunately.....”

“Like Winston and Murray!”

“Winston and Murray?”

“The dog and cat! They brought them here to the island with them. You and Mr. Kuryakin were transferred! Wow!”

“Yeah, wow. Look, we need to get out of here.”

“OK, but it really is a shame. I’ve finally got that thing working again.” ‘What thing?”

“The matter transference conductor. And I made an improvement, too. Now it can make a switch without the parties even being in the same room. Or on the same continent, for that matter!”

“Do you mean to tell me you can switch us without us having to be in the same room?”

“Sure, want me to do it?” Solo quickly considered his options. Illya would be the best one to have here on the island, since he was able to understand the technology. And he, of course, was the best choice to deal with Dena.

“I would gladly give you the go-ahead. But how would you get a fix on Mr. Kuryakin?”

“Easy. That lady is working with Mr. Cerise. That Dena lady. I’ve heard him talk about it. He was going to have me put him in your body and move Mr. Kuryakin into his, then have Mr. Kuryakin killed. Then he was going to move one of his men into Mr. Kuryakin’s body and do the same thing with you. That lady, Dena, is supposed to keep you two occupied so we could get a fix on you.”

Solo felt queasy at the thought of top U.N.C.L.E. agents being impersonated by Thrush. If Thrush could replace enough of them, they could literally rule the world. And Dena was in on it.

“Can you exchange us right now? I need to get Illya away from her and alert Waverly.”

“Sure, just stand over there, Mr. Solo. Give me a second or two and I’ll have it ready to go.”

“When Mr. Kuryakin gets here, please bring him up to date quickly and tell him we’ll be coming after him and you, too, Tim.”

“Will do, Mr. Solo. Hold on to your hat! Here we go!” The boy triumphantly punched in some coordinates and pushed a button. Solo heard an odd noise, sort of a ringing in his ears, then he felt as though something had punched him in the chest. His breathing became labored and he fell to the ground, his heart beat declining rapidly from speeding to sluggish and slow. Finally, it stopped for one short moment and, for the second time in a week, Illya Kuryakin’s body showed no sign of life.

************************************************************************

Dena slipped under the sheets, a reluctant Illya Kuryakin beside her. He’d taken a shower, ordered up breakfast and done virtually everything he could think of to postpone this moment.

There was no more postponement. Dena Faroni wanted Solo and she was going to have him. Right that moment.

Illya sighed and fervently wished a meteor would drop on the room when he noticed Dena’s breath was labored.

“Is something the matter?” Illya asked her. She sat up almost drunkenly, holding the sheet in front of her.

“I don’t know. I just don’t feel so good all of a sudden. Napoleon, my head hurts and it’s hard to breathe.” Illya took her arm and felt her pulse, it was slow and ponderous, as though it was having a hard time getting to the next beat.

“Maybe I should call a doctor....”

“No! Just hold me for a moment. I’ll be OK.” She placed her head on his shoulder and fit her exquisite body next to his. Then, without warning, Dena stiffened. “I can’t...I can’t breathe!” Illya saw panic in her eyes. He jumped from the bed and found the telephone, then turned to say something to her only to see her go limp and unconscious. Placing the phone receiver back, Illya placed his fingers on her neck. No pulse.

Exhaling heavily, he got up and began to dress, then walked back over to the bed and started to pull the sheet back over the dead woman’s face.

“Why are you doing that?” She asked. Illya, startled, dropped the sheet. Dena pushed it off her face and looked at Illya with horror.

“Oh my God. You’re still me,” She said.

“Whatever do you mean by that?” Illya asked.

“Quick, tell me who I am?”

“Are you still drunk?”

“No, I’m not drunk, Illya! Just answer me, who am I?”

“How did you know that?”

“Know what?”

“To call me Illya?”

“I know to call you Illya because I’m Napoleon Solo. I found the boy and had him transfer me back to my body and....you to yours. Oh my God. Who am I?” Solo struggled out of the covers and walked over to the mirror while Illya watched, mouth agape as his partner looked at his reflection in the mirror. He’d been transferred into Dena’s body. He quickly grabbed the discarded towel and wrapped it around himself, turning finally to face his flabbergasted partner.

“Illya, my friend, I’m afraid we’ve got a big, big problem.”

*************************************************************************

Alexander Waverly had undergone many amazing experience in his life and there was little on this earth that could truly surprise him. But Napoleon Solo in a dress and high heels, accompanied by Illya Kuryakin in Napoleon’s body, managed to shake the old man’s faith in reality for a moment. He’d looked from one to the other for a moment before clearing his throat. Solo looked miserable -- albeit quite lovely.

Several men had turned to watch her -- him -- go by. And some guy in the hotel elevator had even pinched Solo on the derriere, prompting the U.N.C.L.E. agent to grab his ear and threaten to bite it off.

“You’ll have to excuse her. She’s not quite herself today,” Illya had said to the red-faced man as he propelled Solo, wobbling along in heels, to the car. Solo was both furious and frightened. Furious because he’d allowed himself to be transformed into a woman, of all things, and frightened because Timmy Stone, Cerise and Dena had all disappeared, along with the process to put things back to right.

A raid of the island turned up only a burning compound. Notes and lab had been completely destroyed. Solo was worried there wouldn’t be any way to put him back in his own body.

As for Illya, he was pretty unhappy with Solo.

“What do you mean Dena is probably in my body right now?”

“Well, that’s the way these things work, so more than likely, she’s now Illya Kuryakin. I’ll bet she’s pretty damn mad....”

“Oh, you’re right. She probably is mad about it. After all, she’s a woman and she’s in a man’s body. MY BODY! How can you be so careless as to lose another person’s body?”

“Well, it wasn’t intentional. Do you really think I like dressing like this?” Solo twirled to show his dress and turned his ankle. “I’ll never get used to wearing these things,” he said, kicking off the high heels.

“I’m so sorry you’re inconvenienced by the footwear. But you seem to forget one small fact: you lost my body. And until you find it safe and sound, I’m staying in your body. So unless you plan to find me and put me back where I belong, I’d suggest you get used to wearing a girdle.”

“You’re just a bad sport.”

“Bad sport! That woman is carnivorous. She nearly ate me alive. I couldn’t even take a shower with privacy. She has grabbed and poked and prodded every private thing on my body....”

“MY body....” Solo interjected.

“Not at the moment. Right now, it’s mine, even if it is a bit older and more shopworn than the one I’m used to.”

“Shopworn? What kind of word is that?”

“It’s the kind of word an educated person uses. Come on, we’re late and Mr. Waverly already thinks I’m on drugs. Telling him that Dena Forani is now his Chief Enforcement Agent was a bit of an ordeal.”

Waverly found it impossible to talk with the two agents and keep them straight. “Now, Mr. Kuryakin....”

“I’m Solo, now, sir....”

“Harumph, uh, yes, yes indeed, Mr. Solo and Miss uh, Solo, uh, blast it all, I can’t keep this up. You two are giving me a headache. Find Carlo Cerise and that woman, recover that child, and put your houses in order gentlemen. Now get started.” He turned away from the two agents in a grand gesture of dismissal. Solo and Illya made their ways down the hall to their office. Once inside, Illya removed his jacket and told Solo he’d get them some coffee. “There should be a girl from records coming up with an arm full of files for us in a moment. See if you can refrain from making a pass at her.”

“Under the circumstances, I don’t think you have anything to worry about.” Illya made his way to the cafeteria, purchased two large coffees and was on his way back when fellow agent Mark Slate stopped him in the hallway.

“Napoleon, old fellow, good to see you. How are things?”

“I’ve had better weeks.”

“Sorry to hear that. How’s Illya?”

“I wish I knew.”

“Haven’t you seen him recently?”

“Not recently. He’s...uh, he’s on assignment. Yes, he’s currently on assignment.”

Slate shook his head. Solo and Illya had both been acting very strange lately. Rumors were all over the U.N.C.L.E. complex that Illya Kuryakin, the impenetrable, silent fortress of a man who was on top of every female employee’s most-wanted list had been working his way through the secretarial pool one by one. Very uncharacteristic behavior.

And Solo had been a bit aloof lately, not quite his female-friendly self. The whole thing was quite puzzling.

“So, I understand you have Dena Forani on our side now.”

“Well, sort of. There’s quite a story behind that, Mark.”

“She’s a gorgeous woman. Why do you get all those assignments, Napoleon? I never get to spend hours alone with a beautiful woman.”

“What about April?”

“She’s my partner! That’s almost sacrilege, Napoleon. I mean, would you want to sleep with your partner?”

“Well that certainly does conjure up some interesting thoughts, doesn’t it? Look Mark, I’ve got a lot of work to do and Miss Forani, Dena, has to be hungry. Why don’t you take her down to the cafeteria and feed her for me? I’m sure she’ll be most grateful.”

“You mean it, Napoleon? Thanks -- I’d like that.”

“Come on, Mark, she’s in the office.”

Solo was not amused by the offer but Illya insisted and watched with satisfaction as his partner reluctantly took Slate’s arm and allowed himself to be propelled to the cafeteria, where every male eye looked at him with admiration and every female with suspicion.

Slate took Solo’s order and brought the food to the table. “Every guy in here envies me right now, you know,” he said as he handed

Solo

his sandwich. “They don’t know the half of it. Thank you, Mr. Slate,” Solo said. “Mark. Call me Mark.” “Mark. OK, Mark it is. Uh, Mark, tell me, what do you know about Mr. Solo...Napoleon? He’s so handsome and debonair, I’ll bet all the girls are wild about him.”

“Napoleon? Yes, I guess he’s had his time in the sun. Most of the women around here have been out with him already. Napoleon has a reputation for being a bit of a Don Juan.”

“Don Juan! I’ll bet you got that from Illya....”

“What was that?”

“Uh, nothing, I was just saying I haven’t seen much of Illya...”

“Oh, you met Solo’s partner?”

“Yes, scrawny little fellow.”

“Well, actually we’re about the same size.”

“Oh. Delicious sandwich.”

“Yes, yes, it is, isn’t it?”

************************************************************************

Illya had analyzed most of the data that had been coming in and he was beginning to think he’d never find Cerise’s trail. U.N.C.L.E. had agents setting up on all of Cerise’s usual haunts, along with those frequented by the Foranis. What was most disturbing to him personally were the reports filtering in about Illya Kuryakin. Illya had been seen in several world capitals and always in the company of highly unsavory types. Both Solo and Illya came to the conclusion other U.N.C.L.E. offices needed to be warned away from the Illya being worn by Dena Forani. Waverly agreed, but was stumped as to how it should be worded. They all agreed it was imperative not to tip their hands too much, but at the same time they needed to make certain Illya -- Dena -- didn’t get inside U.N.C.L.E..

“And I’d prefer no one fill my body full of bullet holes, if at all possible, sir. I still have hopes of being reunited with it one day.”

“As well you should. Gentlemen, I’ll put out a memo stating that Illya has been captured and reprogrammed to betray U.N.C.L.E.and that he is to be taken alive and not injured. Hopefully that should resolve the problem.”

“Hopefully.”

**************************************************************************

The break they were looking for came after nearly two weeks of searching. An U.N.C.L.E. agent in London had caught a glimpse of Cerise as he was pulling off in a limousine and followed him to an old estate out in the countryside. A surveillance had determined that Cerise and “Illya” were both in residence. No one knew about the boy. Solo and Illya were on the next plane to London, travelling as a married couple under the name of Mitchell. Illya several times caught Solo smiling seductively at the stewardess.

“Napoleon, you need to be careful. You’re getting some strange looks from the crew.”

“Sorry. It’s hard to break old habits.”

“Well just this once, try.”

“Illya?”

“Yes?”

“Have you thought about what we’ll do if this becomes permanent? At least you’re a man. Life for me could be, well, very different.”

“That’s a bit of an understatement, my friend. No, I don’t think about it at all because I know this is all going to work out. We’re going to be our old selves again and back to work before you know it.”

“I hope you’re right.”

“Me, too. I’ve sort of grown accustomed to my own face.”

The pair met with London’s agents and were shown the layout of the estate. “Do you have any evidence the boy might be in there?”

“None, Mr. Solo,” the agent said, giving the real Solo a sidelong glance.

Solo was frankly becoming a bit weary of the flirting. He considered launching a very loud and crude BELCH to cool their interest, but was distracted from the idea by his partner’s voice.

“We’ll go in tonight at about three in the morning. That should catch them with their pants down. Can you have your people ready by then?”

“Yes, Mr. Solo. No problem.”

“Good. Let’s take a look at the deployment plans.”

************************************************************************

At four minutes after three in the morning, U.N.C.L.E. forces massed around the estate where, they hoped, Carlo Cerise was sleeping like a baby. Illya also fervently hoped that Dena and the boy were also there. The agents were armed with sleep darts.

Neither Solo nor Kuryakin wanted to take a chance on the boy or Illya’s body being shot up.

Illya and his partner, both dressed in solid black, although the effects were quite different, prepared to enter through the second floor. They would come in on top while the rest of the troops were making entry below. Illya jimmied open a window in an empty upstairs bedroom and they eased their ways inside.

Creeping through the halls on crepe soles, the U.N.C.L.E. agents moved almost as one through the huge home, finding no one on the upper floor.

“That’s odd,” Solo whispered. “I wonder where they sleep?”

Slowly, they made their ways down the stairs and checked the first floor, also. Again, they turned up nothing.

“Where is everyone?” Illya asked.

“Where’s our back-up?” Solo asked. Their eyes had adjusted to the semi-darkness by that point. They could see the shapes of the furniture, but had been dismayed to find the house was essentially devoid of life. Or so they thought.

Illya was the one who found the lever on the wall next to the massive stone fireplace in the den. He pulled it and one of the wooden panels slid quietly open.

“I think that’s an invitation,” Illya said. “Let the crew outside know where we are.”

Solo tried to raise them on his communicator with no success. “No one’s answering. Perhaps they all went home. Shall we?” And, as the two the two stepped into the darkness, the panel slid smoothly home. They were at the top of a staircase that led deep down into the ground, so deep that neither could see anything but inky blackness.

“How well do you see in the dark?” Illya asked Solo.

“I’ve always suspected Dena’s half-cat. Care to find out?”

“After you.”

They inched their ways carefully down the steep, rough-cut stone steps. The walls were damp and covered with some type of lichen and Illya swore he heard water dripping from somewhere. Finally they reached the bottom and found themselves in a dark, winding corridor. Illya pulled out a match and lit it. The corridor branched out in two directions.

“You take one and I’ll take the other. We’ll meet back here if we turn nothing up,” he told Solo.

“OK. Uh, Illya.”

“Yes, Napoleon?”

“Be careful, will you?” Illya sighed.

“I’m not going to let anyone put bullet holes in your precious body,

Napoleon.” “That’s not what I meant.”

“Oh. Sorry. Guess I’ve been a little edgy lately.”

“Me, too. Take care.”

“You, too.”

Solo began the laborious process of working his way along the corridor, while Illya went in the other direction. He saw nothing, heard nothing and found nothing, coming only to a complete dead end. Sighing, he turned around and made his way back the way he had come. Illya wasn’t there. He gave his partner a few more minutes then decided to follow him, but with caution. There was no telling what he’d run into.

************************************************************************

Solo found Illya on the ground, apparently lifeless, in what was almost an exact replay of what had taken place weeks before. All his senses were running on overtime and, as he bent down to feel for a pulse -- which he knew he wouldn’t find -- he wasn’t surprised to feel the first sensation of being slammed in the stomach. Within moments he was unconscious on the hard, damp floor, alongside his partner. It was only a matter of minutes before the effects started to wear off and Solo began to stir. It took some effort, but eventually he was able to pull himself into a sitting position. Hearing a moan on the ground next to him, he turned to see Dena Faroni beginning to come to.

Wait! If Dena’s over there, then who am I? Solo looked down at his hands, strong, square tan ones with a little dark hair across their backs.

Those are my hands, Solo thought with relief. I’m back again. If the moment had been less stressful, the agent might have jumped up and cheered, but he wasn ’t afforded the opportunity. Dena was coming around and he didn’t know where Illya was. Solo forced himself to reach over and pick up the gun he -- as Dena -- had dropped when he fell unconscious. But until she was fully conscious, how was he to know who was in her body this time? Wickedly he half-hoped Illya would have to serve a day or so in her shoes, but discarded the thought as evil. Still, it would be interesting to see how the Russian managed on those damned high heels....

“What am I doing here? What’s going on?” Dena was completely awake now and struggling to sit up. Solo reached behind her and helped her to a sitting position. She looked as though she had an immense hangover.

“How did I get here, in the dungeon?”

“Dungeon?” Dena looked up sharply and saw Solo.

“You! How did this happen? How....” She caught sight of her long feminine hands, with several expensive rings adorning them.

“Oh, but this is wonderful! I ‘ve been restored! I do hope you’ve taken good care of me, Napoleon.” She put out one hand to the U.N.C.L.E. agent, who was now standing.

He took her hand and she latched onto him like a vise, pulling Solo off-balance and to the floor. Then she jumped up and started running through the dark passage in the direction

Illya had gone. Solo chased her. The going wasn’t easy. It was dark and the corridor was slippery and wet in spots. He could hear her slightly ahead, slipping and sliding along the way. It didn’t help that both of them were dressed in black, which gave off no reflection and only succeeded in making them blend in with the corridor.

After a few moments, Solo caught up with Dena, his hand reaching out and grabbing the back of her shirt, and pulling her back toward him. She fell and he followed, landing on top of her. He could hear the “whuff” of air escape from her as he knocked the wind out of her. Still, she struggled like a wild animal caught in a trap, thrashing, biting, scratching and gouging. Solo felt her going for his eyes and turned his face. “Be still, Dena, or I’m going to break your pretty little nose.” She stopped. To Dena, looks were everything. She’d take no chances on a broken nose marring her looks for the rest of her life.

“Get off me, Napoleon. Right now!”

“Uh, uh, uh! Nasty way to talk to a man who knows you so intimately, my dear.”

Solo released some of the pressure, but didn’t let her up. “Now, you tell me where Mr. Kuryakin is. Right now. Do you understand me?”

“I haven’t the faintest idea.”

“Oh, but I know that’s not true. Because if you’re here, then Mr. Kuryakin is most likely in his own body, which up until a few minutes ago, you occupied. Is that not true?”

“Perhaps. But it won’t do you any good to look for him, Napoleon. He will be quite dead by the time you get to him.”

“What do you mean?” Solo grabbed her and pulled her toward him.

“You’re hurting me, cara mia. Stop it. There’s nothing you can do about it. Carlo should have him now and you know how irritated Carlo gets when someone interferes with his plans. And you two U.N.C.L.E. agents have irritated him. You’ll never see Kuryakin alive again. Now let me go!”

“Get up,” Solo said, pulling her to her feet. “Now you are going to take me to where Carlo is.” Dena smiled.

“No I won’t, Napoleon. And there’s nothing you can do about it. U.N.C.L.E. agents don’t kill their prisoners and I know it. I’m unarmed and won’t cooperate. And I insist you take me in.” Solo locked eyes with her for a moment and then made his decision. He pulled a small but wicked looking knife from his pocket. “You’re absolutely correct, Dena. It would be unethical for me to kill you. But it wouldn’t bother me at all to play tic-tac-toe across your face. I wonder how many games we can get in before we run out of room? Now, do you want X’s or O’s?”

“You wouldn’t dare. That stuffed shirt Waverly would have your job.”

“What job?” Solo pulled her close to his chest and held her firmly with his left arm. He placed the razor-sharp blade against her cheek.

“Last chance.”

“You’re bluffing.” Solo quickly slashed an “X” onto her cheek. Blood ran from the wound.

“You bastard!” Dena screamed at him, trying to pull away. “Leave me alone.!”

“Now for the other side. What do you think about an ‘o’ there and then I’ll finish with my masterpiece -- I’ll carve out U.N.C.L.E.’s initials on your forehead. Or do you have any requests? I can carve my initials, if you’d prefer....”

“Leave me alone. I’ll take you to him.”

“Where is he?”

“This passage leads to a waterway. We keep boats there. You take a boat to the mouth of another passageway. It’s well-hidden and you’d never find it without me. Then you follow that one until you come to a an old church that’s half over the water. Kuryakin and the boy are being held there.”

“Get going then,” Solo prodded her.

************************************************************************

Illya had awakened with a headache and bad taste in his mouth. He knew from the feeling that he was moving again, changing bodies. This time, he hoped, he’d end up back in his own and he wasn’t disappointed. But it looked as though it wouldn’t be a long stay. The butcher of the Philippines was in a bad mood. He wanted blood and he wanted it from U.N.C.L.E..

“You have caused me much trouble Mr. Kuryakin. I am weary of dealing with you and your partner, Solo. But I owe you something. If you had not interfered, I would already have U.N.C.L.E. on its knees. Since you choose to insert yourself into my business, I will make it my business to take care of you. Guard!” One of Cerise’s guards stepped forward. “Take Mr. Kuryakin to the belfry. You know what to do with him.”

“Belfry?”

“Yes. This is an old church, Mr. Kuryakin. It has a bell tower and one extremely large bell that still works quite nicely, as you will shortly discover. And don’t think anyone’s going to rescue you. All of your men are taking nice little naps courtesy of our sleep darts. And if Solo does show up, I promise he will be the one to ring the bell. Take him.” The guards hauled Illya up the incredibly long, winding and narrow staircase. When they reached the top, they were met by two others who helped secure Illya’s hands and feet and place a gag over his mouth. They then tied him to a heavy rope that was attached to a pulley inside the enormous bell that hung just above them in the bell tower.

The lead guard adjusted Illya’s bonds and smiled. “I guess you’d like to know what’s happening...and I’ll be glad to fill you in, Mr. UNCLE agent. You’re being tied next to the clapper in that bell up there. And when someone rings the bell, you’ll be crushed to death. It should hurt the first couple of times you’re slammed between the bell and the clapper, but if you’re lucky, your head will be crushed early on so the pain won’t be so bad, right boys?” The other guards laughed, then stood back and hoisted Illya up into the bell, next to the clapper. The rope was tied off and the men departed, leaving Illya dangling alone, bound and gagged and with little hope of rescue.

************************************************************************

Solo and his reluctant guide made their way through the little waterway to the church. Dena, still angry and sporting an large red “X” on her cheek, pointed to the back door, which opened directly into the water.

“That’s the way we come and go. You don’t need me anymore Napoleon, so just let me go. Please.”

“And miss out on an opportunity to spend more time in your charming company! Not hardly. Lead on, Dena.”

Dena showed Solo how to open the door and led him through another series of corridors until they arrived at a staircase that went up into what Dena described as the sanctuary of the old, abandoned church.

“And this is where we part company, Mr. Solo. It’s been nice,” Dena said, then stepped on an inlaid tile on the floor. Solo turned to grab her, but the floor disappeared underneath him and he dropped like a sack of cement through a trap door and into the water underneath the church. A small amount of light penetrated through some cracks in the wood, otherwise it was murky and dark and the water was cold and smelled bad. Solo couldn’t be sure, but he also thought he heard something moving through the water toward him.

Do they have crocodiles in England, Solo wondered. He didn’t know the answer and decided not to wait around and find out. Swimming to the building’s perimeter, Solo took a deep breath and dove, head first down into the water, feeling along the posts sunk into the canal, looking for an opening big enough for him to slip through. He didn’t find it. Again and again he dove and each time he surfaced with a sputter, without locating an opening. If I can’t get out, then maybe I can get back in.

Locating the trap door overhead, Solo noted with satisfaction that the ancient beams criss-crossed under the bottom of the structure. From where Solo was, it appeared there was a beam close enough to the door for him to swing across. But first he had to climb the wall. It was worth a try, he decided. Swimming to the nearest wall, he felt for a hand hold. Finding one, he started the arduous task of climbing up the wall, hand over hand, finding purchase wherever he could. He’d almost made it to the top when he slipped and fell back down into the water. Taking a deep breath, he swam back over to the wall and started the climb once again. This time he made it all the way up.

Once he got to the top, Solo pulled out a small grappling hook and rope equipped with a pulley. He was lucky to have it with him -- it wasn’t something he normally carried. But he and Illya had thought it might come in handy on this mission, and it had, though not for the reasons they’d anticipated. Aiming it in the dark wasn’t easy, either, but Solo kept his hand as steady as possible. If he lodged it too shallowly or in the wrong place, he wouldn’t get another chance. Solo tried for the beam closest to the trap door, hitting within a couple feet of his target. Planting the other end of the rope firmly in the wall, he yanked on the pulley. It felt sturdy enough. Holding on with both hands, Solo grabbed the pulley and prayed he’d have enough momentum to carry him all the way to the door. He shoved off. The pulley moved smoothly over the rope and delivered the U.N.C.L.E. agent just inches shy of the beam. Solo swung out and onto the beam, holding on with both his arms and his legs. Below him, the water swirled. What the heck is in that water?

Solo began the arduous task of working his way toward the trap door. Splinters from the old wood beams pricked his hands, but he couldn’t be bothered with minor problems. It only took a moment to work himself close enough to the trap door to try and make it in. He hoped it would be easy to pry the door open from underneath and, surprisingly, it was. All he had to do was find the release mechanism and the floor dropped open. As soon as it opened, Solo launched himself from the beam, grabbing the side of the floor, when the door snapped shut, Solo balled himself up and let the force literally push him up and back into the church, where he rolled across the floor and came to rest, momentarily, in a puddle of water. Can’t rest on my laurels.

Solo got up and checked his weapons. They still worked. He began to move slowly through the hallway, scanning for Carlo’s men, listening for clues to where Illya and the boy might be held captive.

************************************************************************

The bell tower was chilly and uncomfortable on a good day, but when one is strapped to a bell clapper, unable to move, it was downright inhospitable. Illya was dismayed to find himself completely unable to move. Carlo’s guards might not be brain trusts, but they knew how to tie a knot. The agent tried his best to wriggle out of his bonds but they wouldn’t budge and the gag was much too tight to loosen. It looked as though Carlo might win this round, unless Solo found him first. He wondered when the bell was usually rung.

“In seventeen minutes, Mr. Kuryakin. That’s when.” Illya was startled to hear the voice of Dena Forani below.

“Yes, it’s me, Mr. Kuryakin and I’m back where I belong, just as you are. Carlo and I are preparing to leave here. I wanted to say a last good-bye and I wanted to tell you not to expect a last minute rescue from Napoleon. Right about now he should be drowning, if the wildlife in the canal hasn’t already found him. The guards will be clearing out after we leave. They have instructions to ring the bell in....let’s see now....sixteen minutes. I do hope the clapper crushes your skull right away. It will be must less painful that way.....don’t you agree?” Dena blew him a kiss and started down the stairs.

*************************************************************************

Solo had been on the staircase when the guards found him. The same four who ’d taken care of Illya pounced on the U.N.C.L.E. agent. Solo tossed one over the stairwell and managed to shoot a second one before the other two took him down and marched him, hands on his head, into the sanctuary where Carlo and Dena were preparing to depart.

“Not you again!” Dena said, exasperated. Carlo merely looked up and smiled. “Ah, the second half of the equation. Dena, my darling, do you think Mr. Solo has musical abilities?”

“Musical abilities?” She looked puzzled and then smiled. “Why yes, my dear, I believe he does.”

“Where’s Illya and the boy?” Solo’s mouth was bleeding a bit from a hit he’d taken from one of the guards.

“The boy, Mr. Solo, is preparing to leave. He’s been instructed to pack his equipment and notes.” Carlo nodded to two of the guards.

“You two go and get the boy and his things.”

“As for Mr. Kuryakin -- how much time do we have my dear?”

“Um, about eight minutes, cara mia.”

“You will have the answer to that question in eight minutes. You,” Carlo crooked his finger at the two remaining guards, “Prepare Mr. Solo to ring the bell in exactly seven and one-half minutes. Do you understand?”

“Yes, sir.”

“You will be taken to a small room below the bell tower, Mr. Solo. There you will find a rope. When told to do so, you will pull the rope and ring the bell. Mr. Kuryakin has been tied to the bell’s clapper. When the bell is rung, he will be slammed into the side of the bell with a great deal of force. Depending on how he hits, he could last for perhaps as many as a dozen rings. But, of course, if his head is crushed, he will die immediately. Have Mr. Solo ring the bell at least a dozen times. Then cut his friend’s body down so he can see that Mr. Kuryakin is truly dead. Then kill him. Dena?”

“I’m ready. What about the boy? Shouldn’t he be down here already? Do you want me to go check?”

Carlo nodded.

“You men go ahead and take Solo and prepare him to ring the bell. Good-bye Mr. Solo. You’re going to make sweet music, I just know you will.”

************************************************************************

Solo couldn’t see up into the bell. There was a ceiling between them and the heavy rope from the bell was suspended through that ceiling. But Solo knew his partner was on the other side, waiting to die.

Not if I can help it.

“OK, buddy. Time to ring the bell. Go on.” The guard pointed his rifle at the U.N.C.L.E. agent, while the other guard covered Solo from a different angle. Guess it’s now or never, Solo thought. In one quick movement he slapped the rifle away and karate chopped the guard across his neck. The man went down, but the second guard managed to squeeze off a couple of shots. Solo felt a hot burning sensation in his leg, but had no time to give in to injury. He had to get Illya out of that bell tower before it was too late.

He dove to the floor and rolled to avoid being shot again, coming up on his feet and kicking the end of the rifle. The guard lost his hold on the weapon, but managed to regain his balance. Looking at Solo, who was grabbing for the rifle, he jumped at the rope hanging through the ceiling, the rope that would bring the heavy clapper slamming into the side of the bell, killing Illya Kuryakin.

Solo jumped at the same time, reaching for the guard, trying to tackle him before he got his hands on the rope, but the guard got there first, his thick hands wrapping around the heavy rope in triumph. He leaned heavily into a pull on the rope, smiling with triumph. But his smile changed to puzzlement when the rope pulled free of the ceiling and fell in a heavy coil on top of him.

The bell, it seemed, tolled for no one.

*************************************************************************

Solo quickly dispatched the second guard and hobbled up the stairs to the bell tower where he found Timmy Stone busy removing Illya’s gag. Timmy flashed Solo a smile. “It’s about time you showed up,” Illya said. “Sorry I’m late. I had some social obligations to attend to first. We need to get him out of here before Carlo and Dena find out he’s gone.” Solo inclined his head toward the boy.

“That’s not necessary, Mr. Solo. They aren’t going anywhere.”

“How can you be so sure?”

“I pulled them out of their bodies, Mr. Solo. The guards who came to my room, too. And then I destroyed the device together with Dr. Lefter’s notes. There ’s no way to put them back now without building a new device.”

“What will happen to them?”

“Oh, they’ll have interesting lives in their new bodies, I’m sure.”

“New bodies?”

“Yes. Frankly, I hated to do something that mean to Winston and Murray, but I had no choice. Don’t you think that Dena lady makes a good cat?”

“And the guards?”

“It just so happens there were two big, black crows sitting on my window sill when they walked in to take me. Necessity, Mr. Solo, really is the mother of invention, you know.”

As they descended the stairs, Winston, the cat, ran over to Solo and rubbed against his leg. “Don’t bother, Dena, I never have cared much for cats. I always was a dog man, myself.”

Murray, the dog, growled as Solo reached down to pet him. Straightening up, he felt something warm against his leg, only to find Murray intent on giving him a liberal sprinkling.

“Think I should tell him about how they eat dogs in Korea?”

*************************************************************************

Waverly had been pleased the boy had been recovered and returned to his mother. Timmy had accepted U.N.C.L.E.’s gratitude at saving both Solo’s and Kuryakin ’s life with his quick thinking. Then Waverly believed, Dr. Lefter’s project would be best left alone.

“You know, Mr. Waverly, I think here are some things man wasn’t meant to tinker with.” Waverly had agreed with the young man and sent him along in the company of two other agents, then he’d turned his attention to Solo and Kuryakin. “Gentlemen, please file your report and take a few days off. I think you both need a bit of a rest. I’ll find an assignment that won’t be too terribly taxing for you....”

“With all due respect, sir, I’d just as soon be sent on one of our usual assignments.” Solo said.

“I quite agree, sir,” Illya said quickly. Waverly glanced from one to the other.

“All right, gentlemen, have it your way. I have information there’s a pirating operation off the coast of Central America. It promises to be difficult and dangerous with little chance of successful completion or your survival. Will that do?”

“That’s wonderful, Mr. Waverly. Exactly what we were looking for. Illya?”

“Yes, that will do just fine, sir. We’ll finish our reports tonight and be ready to start on that case tomorrow.”

“Make that first thing tomorrow,” Solo said as the two men rose and took their leave. When the door closed behind them, Waverly sat still for a moment and wondered, once again, what made those two tick. Shrugging his shoulders, he buzzed his secretary.

“Are Mr. Slate and Miss Dancer ready?”

“Yes, sir. They’ll be right in.” The door opened smoothly and admitted the team of Mark Slate and April Dancer, prepared to brief Waverly on their latest assignment. Slate sat down and inclined his head at the door.

“We just ran into Solo and Kuryakin on the way in, sir. Perhaps it’s just my imagination, but those two just haven’t been themselves lately. Have you noticed anything, sir, or is it just my imagination?” Waverly swiveled to scrutinize Slate over the top of his glasses.

“I haven’t noticed a thing. It must all be in your imagination, Mr. Slate. Now enough of that. Let’s get down to U.N.C.L.E.’s business.”
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