April Dancer had worked with Solo several times, and loved it. Besides the sheer status of partnering U.N.C.L.E.'s CEA, there was the added bonus of Solo's charm and sense of humor. And the fact that, as Number One of Section Two, he automatically drew the most challenging assignments. Dancer loved a challenge.

It was rare that others got to partner Solo. Only when Kuryakin was unavailable - either in the hospital recovering from serious injury, or out in the field on some technical run that only he could handle - did Waverly assign Solo another partner. Increasingly, that temporary partner was now Dancer. With Slate on long-term assignment helping hold the London office together, April was the obvious choice.

She was sure that Solo was agreeable to the partnering - if he weren't, she'd be the first to know. Solo wasn't shy about making his displeasure in the field known. That was one of the reasons Kuryakin had outlasted all his earlier partners put together: he not only achieved but surpassed the CEA's exacting standards.

April was pleasantly sure that she met those standards. She might not be as good as Illya Kuryakin - yet - but she was better than anyone else.

It was, therefore, with anticipation that she found herself taking the seat next to Solo in Waverly's office. Napoleon gave her his patented megawatt welcoming smile.

"Ah. Miss, er, Dancer. You made good time." Waverly had in fact called her in unexpectedly, cutting short a well-earned vacation four days early. "The two of you will be leaving immediately after this briefing. The situation in London has become critical. Sir John has asked me to intervene."

"And Illya, sir?" Solo asked at once. Kuryakin had already been in England four weeks, dealing with a recalcitrant physicist in Cambridge.

"Mr. Kuryakin is part of the problem," said Waverly gravely.

"Sir?"

"He's disappeared. After he successfully delivered Dr. Hahn and his notes to the arranged site, he left for the London office, but never arrived. All attempts at contact have failed. This is the final straw, as far as Sir John is concerned." Sir John Steele was Waverly's British equivalent. "As you know, he has been concerned for some time that there was some sort of infiltration going on in the London office, and Mr. Slate agrees with him. Supposedly only the London contacts knew Mr. Kuryakin's timetable." Waverly sent the buff envelopes around to them. "You're both too well-known by sight at the London office to go undercover, of course, but you will be there ostensibly to find Mr. Kuryakin - in actuality you will be finding the mole." He stopped, chewing his pipestem, frowning at a distant point over April's head. Obviously there was something further on his mind, and the two agents waited patiently.

At last he looked back at them. "There has been some . . . mmmph . . . suggestion from the London office that Mr. Kuryakin himself is the mole."

Charm and humor went out of Solo's face like a blown fuse. He said dangerously, "Sir?"

"Yes, Mr. Solo, I know it's a ridiculous idea. Sir John also knows it's a ridiculous idea, I assure you. He worked with Mr. Kuryakin personally in the past, before Mr. Kuryakin came to this country. He merely relayed what Mr. Slate has reported hearing unofficially. What he called the, er, tripe of the rumor mill." Actually, Steele's noun had been much more direct and Anglo-Saxon, but Waverly didn't use that kind of language. "I wanted you to be aware of it." Waverly shook his head. "It alarms me that in this supposedly enlightened day and age, in an international organization such as ours, there are still individuals who cannot see past Mr. Kuryakin's nationality."

Looking at the expression on Solo's face, Dancer almost felt sorry for any fool in the London office who voiced that sort of notion to him. Heads might roll. Napoleon's respect for, and protectiveness of, Illya Kuryakin were well-known in the New York office. It was dangerous to make even a jesting remark about him within Solo's hearing. Any allusions to 'commies', 'the Red Menace', 'pinkos', or even 'Russkies' met with swift and sometimes savage response. Oddly, it seemed to bother Solo far more than Kuryakin himself. But then, nothing seemed to bother Kuryakin - he was as impervious to insult or innuendo as the iceberg he was often likened to.

All this explained why Dancer was the one waking up beside Napoleon in a mangy hotel room in a godforsaken corner of Wales. They were sleeping together spoon fashion, the only way they would both fit on the cramped single bed, and Solo had his arm protectively around her waist. Even in his sleep he was in a state of semi-arousal, and she wondered amusedly if it was because he was in bed with a woman, or if he always woke that way, alone or otherwise. His sexuality was even more legendary than his abilities in the field.

It didn't perturb her - Napoleon was the consummate professional on the job. His body's response was probably just a reflex to her proximity. Besides, it beat waking up in the mangy hotel room alone. The room had no heat to speak of, and one thing Solo could provide was heat. And he smelled good. She wondered idly what it would be like to make love with Napoleon, if he could possibly live up to the legend. She would like to find out some day. There was no hard-and-fast rule about non-fraternization among agents, though long-term relationships were discouraged, and most agents that she knew did not indulge while on assignment, it was too distracting.

She also wondered, from time to time, why she never felt this way about her own partner. Mark Slate was tall, rangy, attractive, and amusing, and lots of women found him very sexy indeed. But he triggered only a comradely feeling in her. Not quite protective, but certainly not amorous. And his manner to her was more brotherly than anything else. They'd shared beds this closely on occasion - all partners did at some point - and it never triggered this speculative tingle in her loins, this total physical awareness of every point of contact with Napoleon's body, from his warm breath against the back of her head, to the arm holding her against him at the waist, the unmistakable bulge of his genitals against her butt, the hard thighs against hers.

In a moment she felt him move slightly, and knew he was awake. He didn't pull back from her, just stretched a little and said, "Good morning, Mrs. Smith," his warm baritone voice amused.

"Good morning, Mr. Smith. Sleep well?"

"Very well, thank you. And you, Mrs. Smith?"

"Very well, thank you."

"Must be the glamorous surroundings and sumptuous bed."

"No doubt." She sat up, shaking her long dark hair back, yawning. "So romantic for our first night together."

"Indeed," dryly, sitting up beside her, contemplating the stained plaster, low-beamed ceiling, utter lack of amenities. The bed, a battered armoire, and a crippled-looking chair were the only things in the tiny room, the bathroom was down two sets of stairs and had about five-minutes worth of lukewarm water available. "Remind me to speak to our travel agent sternly," he added. "Do you want to brave the plumbing first, or shall I?"

"Be my guest."

"Thanks. You're just hoping I'll kill whatever wildlife might be out there in the drains."

"True. But that's your job, Mr. Smith. Husband kills the wildlife, wife packs the suitcases." She looked over at their battered flight bags.

"Try not to wrinkle my tux, darling, and don't forget your gold lamé gown." He stretched again, rose, pulled out his shaving kit.

"If you aren't back in fifteen minutes, I'll call for the Seventh Cavalry," she said.

"I hate to break this to you, sweetheart, but you are my Seventh Cavalry."

"Oh, yes. I'd forgotten."

After a fairly hideous breakfast of fried everything - eggs, rashers, tomatoes and beans - all of it awash in grease, they ventured out to reconnoiter, to see and possibly be seen. As they walked down the esplanade of the seafront, April said dubiously, "I suppose it's fairly pleasant in season." In November it was gray, semi-deserted. A frigid wind howled along the streets.

Napoleon looked at the crumbling facades of closed seaside inns, at the stony shingle pounded relentlessly by the iron tides of the Irish Sea, and said, "Only the Brits would call this a beach resort. In fact, only the Brits would have the nerve to call this a beach."

"They aren't Brits here, Napoleon, they're Welsh," she pointed out.

"Brits with a language impediment," he grinned.

"I'm glad I don't have to send Uncle Alexander any postcards," April agreed. "I'd run out of steam just writing Aberystwyth. Even presuming I spelled it correctly."

"Don't look to me for help. It's Illya's job to jabber with the locals in whatever godawful dialect they carry on in. I just drive and look decorative."

They were walking arm-in-arm in their guise as a married couple, and the few other pedestrians out on the strand often looked twice at them - at the tall, darkly handsome man smiling down at the vividly pretty woman with her long chestnut hair blowing in the seawind.

The mention of Illya's name sobered them both down. In the two weeks since they'd arrived in the UK, they'd followed a variety of amorphous leads, all of which fizzled out. There was still no sign of Kuryakin, nor had they made any progress in sniffing out the mole in the London organization. The frustration factor was rising.

The latest lead had brought them to this bleak Welsh seacoast, a rumor of Thrush activity that couldn't be ignored, whether it had anything to do with Kuryakin or not.

They reached one of the 'sights' of Aberystwyth, an old fort on a point of the shore. In summer there would be flowerbeds and children and tourists. In November it was another heap of bleak stone set among empty plots of dirt.

"It really wouldn't make a good place for smuggling," April said, "not in the off-season. Look at the attention we've attracted, just walking. A smuggling operation would attract attention like an air-raid."

"Unless it's locals and done under cover of the fishing fleet or something, but yes, I agree."

"What bothers me is that these so-called leads are taking us further and further from London every time - Salisbury, Glastonbury, now Aberystwyth. What's next, Ireland?"

"Cornwall would be my guess," he said casually.

"Cornwall? Why Cornwall? Besides the fact that it's distant and hard to get to."

"Arthur."

"Come again, Napoleon?"

"The only thing all these places have in common is Arthur. Arthurian tradition."

April looked up at him, but saw no sign that he was joking.

"Salisbury has Stonehenge, which legend has it was built by Merlyn. Glastonbury of course has the so-called burial site."

"I've heard of both of those, of course," she agreed. "But Aberystwyth?"

"We're smack in the middle of Merlyn country here. The crystal caves, the hollow hills, all that - the Black Mountains of Wales." He gestured to the hilly horizon, rock covered with a thin skin of green velvet. "This is it."

"Oh."

"The next obvious stop from here would be Cornwall. To be exact - "

"Tintagel," she supplied, dredging up her knowledge of the Arthurian legends.

"Bingo."

"That makes no sense whatsoever, Napoleon," she pointed out.

"I didn't say it did. I'm just pointing out the only common thread," he agreed.

"And the common thread of getting us away from London."

"That, too, of course."

"I've already gone on record as saying that I'd trust that London section head, Leith, as far as I could throw him," she added. "And I'd love to have the opportunity to throw him."

"Mr. Charm?" Solo grinned.

"He certainly thinks so," she snorted. "He seems puzzled that I haven't flung myself in his direction with my panties on fire."

"Yes, he's remarked on it."

April's head snapped around. "Remarked on it?"

"Uh huh. Out with 'our lads' in 'our pub'. The only women who say him nay are lesbians, in his opinion."

"Napoleon!"

"Pathetic, isn't it," he grinned.

"The disgusting little twerp. I'd like to paste him in the chops," she fumed.

"Take a number and get in line, Mrs. Smith."

"Teed you off, too, has he?"

"It's a no-brainer to figure out where the rumor mill got the idea that Illya might be the mole."

"It would be too much to hope for that Leith's it himself," she sighed.

"I agree. He seems to check out clean as the proverbial whistle - but we're going to keep checking," grimly. "I'd love to nail him for something, anything. Stealing paperclips would do."

"Now, now, Napoleon. That doesn't sound like the proper spirit of international cooperation," she reproved, tongue-in-cheek.

"Gee shucks. Guess they'd better revoke my U.N.C.L.E license. If he gives me that hairy old WWII line once more, I'm going to accidentally trip over my shoelaces and fall on top of him. Heavily. With my elbow in his face and my knee in his family jewels.You know," he mimicked the Section Head's Oxbridge voice, "I say, Solo, you've heard what they used to say about you Yank chappies during the War - overfed, overpaid, oversexed, and over here, ha, ha."

"Jerk."

"Bigtime."

* *

Cornwall - a week later

Another good thing about Solo was that he never bothered to say I told you so.

When they were surrounded, Solo and Dancer offered only token resistance, knowing that capture was the only way they were going to find out anything more about what was going on. Their guards were efficient but not brutal, and spoke what they assumed was Cornish among themselves, heavily-accented English to their prisoners.

Their destination was one of the old 'big houses' of the Cornwall coast, originally built in the early 18^th century. More than half had been destroyed by some past cataclysm, only vestiges of the original stone walls still stood on the foundations. One wing, added a century later, remained habitable, barely. The estate was surrounded by ancient belts of trees and high hedges, giving it an oddly fairy-tale-like aspect, quiet and distant from the outside world. Instead of heading for the double doors of the house, they were taken back into what had once been a garden maze behind the remains of the shattered walls.

The maze was overgrown, shaggy, reverting to wilderness, but the guards negotiated the brick paths confidently, until they reached a decaying pavilion in the center. Led inside, they were unsurprised to see a staircase leading down from a disguised trap door.

Napoleon said only, "Quite a stage set. Place must have been owned by some overheated lady novelist. Do we expect French pirates? Or just common-garden variety birds?"

"I'd prefer pirates," April replied.

They followed a maze-like tunnel for some distance, noting the many other openings in both directions, only the main branch wired for electricity. Again their captors negotiated it confidently, even when they left the main tunnel and snaked through smaller branches by the light of an industrial flashlight.

Through a door, into a big room. Computers lined one stone wall, humming quietly, two uniformed people monitoring them. The uniforms sported the well-known birdpatch on the sleeve.

Solo and Dancer were escorted to one side, and handcuffed to a stone bench cemented into the wall. A battered industrial gray desk piled high with papers and technical journals sat a few feet away. The combination of the new computers, old desk, and ancient stonework around them gave the place a surreal air.

The head guard said, "He's been told we're here?"

"As soon as you reached the perimeter," one of the computer techs replied, without looking away from the computer screen, which appeared to be running equations at high speed.

Two of the guards left, the others took up positions near the door and desk, watching Napoleon and April attentively.

They exchanged glances: this was one of the more businesslike Thrush operations they'd seen. To cut costs, Thrush satraps often hired local muscle, not renowned for its intelligence. These guards, on the other hand, seemed well-trained and efficient. They had wasted no time or energy in abuse of their prisoners, not even verbal abuse.

Solo said conversationally, "These guys seem a cut above the usual Thrush goons, don't you think, April?"

"I was just thinking the same thing. But snakes are still snakes, some of them just make better handbags than others."

"Good point."

The guards let them talk, simply watching them carefully.

It was a half-hour before the door swung open again, and the leader came in. He went first to the computers, checked readouts and screens, then moved silently to stand in front of them.

Dancer glanced once at Solo, took her cue from him, and kept her expression neutral at the sight of Illya Kuryakin. Dressed as always in black, a Thrush special in his shoulder holster, he looked at each of them consideringly. His thin face and glacial eyes betrayed nothing.

He moved back to perch a hip on the desk, and said quietly, "I suppose I could be flattered that Waverly sent the best he has." His soft voice with its odd melange of Russian-British-American accent, too, was neutral. He fixed those vividly blue eyes on Solo, and asked, "Or did he hope that you might charm me into making a mistake, Napoleon?"

Solo said, "I think Mr. Waverly knows you better than that, Illya."

"Does he?" coolly. "Is he hoping that I am in here as some sort of double-bluff agent, pretending to work for Thrush while still secretly true to U.N.C.L.E.?"

Dancer had been assuming exactly that, but still kept her face neutral.

"As far as I know, that you might be a double agent of any kind never crossed his mind."

"Really. He must be slipping." Again he fixed those cold sapphire eyes on his erstwhile partner. "And you, Napoleon, are you hoping that?"

"Yes."

"Then stop hoping. What you see here is reality. I am running this operation, and I am dismantling the London office at the same time." His voice was still soft, unboastful, matter-of-fact.

"Could I ask why?" Solo's voice was just as cool.

"My reasons are private, and irrelevant to your situation." He let his glance include April.

"Ah. And just what exactly would our situation be?"

"Not good. For some reason, Thrush Central too has their doubts about my ultimate loyalty," a brief and mirthless smile tugged at the corners of the set mouth, "So I am handing you over to them, as . . . a token of my regard."

"Ah. Of course. Just in time for the start of Christmas shopping season," Solo agreed urbanely.

Kuryakin looked at his watch. "I wish to give them as complete a set as possible, as least for the first course, so we are waiting on the arrival of Mark Slate."

"And if we're the first course, what's the second?"

"Talking too much is often one of Thrush's mistakes, Napoleon. Not one that I am usually guilty of, as you of all people should know." He straightened up. "My London office contact tells me that Mark is on his way, following a distress call from April. It is probably useless for me to tell you not to do anything foolish. The guards and the technicians have explicit orders to shoot either or both of you rather than allow escape or rescue. Thrush Central wants you alive, though I have pointed out that this stupid policy has cost them dearly time and again. You in particular, Napoleon, are simply too dangerous to keep alive. Still," he shrugged, "I have warned you. And delivering you dead would certainly reassure Central of my ultimate loyalty."

"You're stupider than I ever thought possible, Illya, if you believe that anything you do could convince Central to trust you . . . or anyone else. They don't even trust each other. I'm sure they'll just use you against us until they perceive you as a danger, and then they'll kill you."

Again Kuryakin gave them that bleak, mirthless smile. "Nicely played, Napoleon. But I will take my chances with that scenario."

He paused at the door, addressed the technicians and guards. "The earlier orders stand. At the least sign of escape, shoot to kill. If you have a choice of targets, kill him first." Then he spoke to the guards in Cornish, and left.

"Well," said Solo, "that's an ugly turn of events."

April didn't believe for a moment that Illya had turned coat, and was positive that Solo didn't believe it either, but again followed his lead. "Very ugly."

"I'm still betting his London office contact is Leith."

"I hope so. I'd love to have an excuse to shoot that little weasel right between the eyes," she said bloodthirstily. After a moment she added, "You know Kuryakin better than anyone, Napoleon. What on earth could have turned him?"

"I guess I don't know him as well as I thought I did. I'd have said nothing could turn him," Solo replied frankly. "On the other hand, why all the red herrings in Salisbury, Glastonbury, Aberystwyth? Why not either capture us in one of those places, or lure us straight down here to start with?" They were both watching the guards and techs without appearing to do so, hoping for some reaction, no matter how minute. But the guards just watched them alertly and the techs kept their attention focused on the computers.

"Maybe he was buying time," April suggested.

"Maybe."

Their bonds were too strong to break, and they were watched too closely to allow the use of any of their few remaining devices, so they didn't have to test Kuryakin's shoot-to-kill policy.

It was three long hours before two guards entered with Mark Slate handcuffed between them. He smiled at the other U.N.C.L.E. agents and said breezily. "Fancy meeting you here."

"Fancy," April agreed.

They locked him down on Solo's other side. Mark asked, "So, do we know who's running this little show yet?"

"Unfortunately, yes," Solo said grimly. "Illya Kuryakin."

"Beg pardon, Napoleon. I thought I just heard you say Illya Kuryakin."

"You did."

"That's a pretty odd joke for you to make, isn't it, mate?" looking from Solo to Dancer and back. "Christ. You're serious, aren't you."

"Dead serious."

"Well, that's one for the old books, isn't it. And there all this time, I've been convinced it was that bastard Leith."

"Join the club."

The door opened, and Kuryakin returned.

Slate looked him up and down, his usually amiable face stony. Then he looked back at Solo. "I don't suppose it could be a clone or an evil twin or whatever."

"No such luck," said Napoleon.

Illya again perched on the corner of the desk and looked them over without speaking.

Mark said, "So, what's in it for you, Kuryakin? Gonna let you be CEA, No. 1, instead of keepin you in Solo's shadow, are they? Your own office? Key to the main birdcage loo?" his English voice even, with a bare edge of contempt.

Kuryakin just stared at him from those polar eyes and didn't bother to reply.

"Always did call him the Iceman. Just never realized it was rotten ice, did we," he continued. "So, what are we waiting for, a fourth for bridge?"

April said, "Our genial host is turning us over to Thrush Central as a show of good faith."

"He's thicker than I realized, then, if he thinks that will impress those jackals."

"That's what I said," Solo agreed. "But evidently he has plans of his own. Probably Thrush Central would be interested to hear just how ambitious those plans are. Illya wouldn't sell out a lifetime's honor and U.N.C.L.E. for a mere CEA post."

But of course, Kuryakin couldn't be baited into reacting. He simply glanced at his watch again, and waited.

At last another guard appeared at the door, and said, "Helicopter arriving now, sir."

"Mobilize the entire guard detachment, escort the representative down here. He will give the orders as to how he wants the prisoners transported." Again he addressed both the guards and the techs in English, saying, "The shoot-to-kill orders stand, unless the Thrush Central representative orders otherwise." And again murmured something to the guards nearest him in Cornish. They moved forward as a body and released the three from the lockdown one at a time, rehandcuffed them, and then two stood flanking each one as they got to their feet.

"My my, Thrush Central sending an actual rep to pick us up? I'm flattered," said Solo mockingly, "or don't they trust you to deliver us?"

"They do not trust me to deliver you, of course," coolly. "I hardly find that surprising."

Another fifteen minute wait, and then eight more guards streamed into the room, along with Sir John Steele.

For just one heartbeat, Solo and the others thought it was a rescue operation, and then caught the look between Steele and Kuryakin - understanding tinged with mutual wariness.

Steele, elegant as always in his Saville Row suit, sauntered over to stand beside Illya, looking at three handcuffed agents. None of them spoke, the U.N.C.L.E. agents just staring back at him coldly.

"Dear me, if looks could kill," he murmured. He glanced at the slender Russian standing silently beside him. "You know, Mr. Kuryakin, Thrush Central still has serious doubts about your, er, sudden change of heart."

"No doubt," indifferently.

"I told them I'd be happy to administer a small field test along those lines."

"Which one do you want me to kill?" flatly, anticipating the obvious.

"Your partner would be the obvious choice - " but as Illya pulled his gun from its holster Steele added, "But he's too valuable to Central. They want him very badly. The other two aren't quite as high on their priority list. And Slate has caused me a lot of delay and annoyance for the last eight weeks."

Kuryakin turned to face Mark Slate, brought the gun up and fired from four feet away. Slate staggered back, clutching at his midriff, looked down at the sudden splatter of blood on his hands and powder-blue cashmere sweater, his green eyes wide with shock and surprise, then bent double, half-turned, and collapsed in a face-down sprawl on the stone floor.

April's brain refused to process what her eyes had just seen. Impossible, the voice of reason said. Illya wouldn't. Illya couldn't. Couldn't just gut-shoot Mark at almost point-blank range. Impossible. She looked at Solo, who was staring down at the still body, at the bloodied handprints he'd left on the bench as he'd tried to break his fall, then at the gun in Illya's hand, and at last back at his erstwhile partner, at the glacial, expressionless face.

Solo said only, "Congratulations. Maybe they'll give you a gold star on your chart."

Illya looked directly at Solo. "Tintagel is synonymous with betrayal." He re-holstered his gun, turned to Steele. "You have made your arrangements for transport?"

Steele, too was staring at him, and now he said, "You really are a very frightening man, Mr. Kuryakin."

Solo said, "Keep it in mind, Steele. When someone on the Council decides that he's more valuable than you are, he'll shoot you just as easily."

Ignoring him, Illya repeated patiently, "You have made your arrangements for transport?"

"Yes. We're going to separate them. Solo will go in the copter with me, Dancer in a second. I've set up a rendez-vous to deliver them personally to the Council."

"And take all the credit for it, no doubt," Napoleon said to no one in particular.

"Don't push your luck, Solo. They want you alive, but if I explain that you were shot escaping, they'll get over their temporary disappointment quickly enough," Steele snapped.

"I have said all along that keeping Napoleon Solo alive is a very great mistake," Illya remarked. "Are the vehicles ready to go?"

"Yes."

Illya spoke to his guards in Cornish, and John Steele said, "What was that about?"

"They are local people. I always give the orders in both Cornish and English so that there is no possible mistake," coldly. "Let's get moving." He said another phrase in Cornish, and all hell broke loose.

Some of Illya's guards opened fire on Steele's detachment. Solo and Dancer both found guns being shoved into their hands. The two techs at the computer screens grabbed for their weapons and brought them to bear, and Solo and Dancer picked them off.

Steele had drawn his special and had Solo targeted from twenty inches when Kuryakin flung himself on him. Steele fired two shots that staggered Illya back and took him down. Steele turned for the door but sprawled full length as Mark Slate came off the floor like a springing cat, grabbing him around the ankles. Dancer lunged forward and dropped on him, hearing a satisfying crunch as her knee impacted his ribcage, and she ripped the gun out of his hand and shoved it at her miraculously resurrected partner.

The firing stopped as suddenly as it began, but the stone room rang with the echoes for a moment. The stench of cordite and blood and mortality hung acrid in the air.

Solo took stock. All the Thrush guards down, three of Illya's guards down. Steele effective immoblized by Dancer and Slate.

Illya down.

Solo went at once to his partner, his mouth dry with apprehension.

Black shirt sticky, Solo's still-handcuffed hands came away red as he rolled Illya onto his back. Pulse light and racing at the throat. He eased the fabric up, and was immediately relieved: ugly, but not fatal. Two glancing shots had nicked ribs in addition to tearing what little meat coated Kuryakin's delicate bones, but no organ damage.

Unwilling to abandon her perch on Steele's ribcage, April said, "How bad is it, Napoleon?"

"Just flesh wounds, but he's bleeding heavily." He looked up at the three remaining Cornish guards and said, "Who has the keys to release us? I need to stop the bleeding, and fast."

One moved forward, unlocked Solo first, then Slate and Dancer. Solo ripped the lining out of his jacket (there goes the expense account again) folded it, strapped it against the slender Russian's wounds with his belt. As he worked, he said, "April, call in to HQ/NY, bring Mr. Waverly up to speed with this mess. And we'll have to find out how many more guards are waiting outside with the transport, and neutralize them."

"That won't be necessary, Mr. Solo," said a familiar voice from the door, and the head of U.N.C.L.E. North America appeared. "We have taken care of the transport people." Alexander Waverly, incongruously professorial in his baggy tweeds and Homburg, looked at the carnage around them, and shook his head. Then he stared down at John Steele with the grave expression an entomologist might bestow on a previously unknown and curiously repulsive species of cockroach.

Solo was so surprised that he pulled the belt a little tighter than he meant to, and Illya said plaintively, "I cannot breathe, Napoleon. It should be a pressure pad, not a tourniquet."

"Sorry." He loosened the leather strap a little, adjusting the makeshift bandages.

Another shadow darkened the corridor, and Leith came in with another detachment of men, some of them white-coated medical techs.

Seeing his agents' expressions, their hands reaching again for their weapons, Waverly said, "Mr. Leith is clean."

Leith directed mop-up operations efficiently, then joined the others. He looked at the three Stateside agents, and said, "Sorry for the foul-ferret routine in London, ladies and gentlemen. As they say in the States, it's a dirty job, but someone had to do it." He smiled a little sheepishly at April, his dark eyes dancing, "I assure you, Miss Dancer, that any, er, deprecating remarks I made about you were purely part of my cover. I have nothing but admiration for your work. And of course," he nodded over at Illya, who was half-sitting up, leaning on Solo's arm, "for yours, Mr. Kuryakin."

Mr. Waverly continued, "Mr. Leith provided an invaluable distraction and focal-point for disaffection, which helped us convince Steele that he was unsuspected. Mr. Kuryakin agreed that he himself was the most logical choice for seeming to turn coat, in order to reel in the big fish." He glanced again at John Steele, who was being put into handcuffs and shackles. "I admit I was hoping all along that it was a monstrous mistake, but I'm afraid Mr. Kuryakin's experience removed all doubt. The entire charade down here was filmed and simulcast to the other members of the U.N.C.L.E. Council."

Illya said, "I do not think Napoleon, April, or Mark believed it for a moment, but their acting was admirable." He smiled his rare smile at Mark Slate. "And your thespian talents are particularly good."

"Well, the surprise was real enough, mate," Mark grinned, "when I looked down and there was blood all over but no shot behind it."

"Splatter capsules," said Illya. "I was sure he would insist that I shoot at least one of you as a show of good - or bad - faith, and I had perfect trust that whomever I shot would manage to 'die' convincingly enough. Unfortunately, it left me with a gun armed only with fake blood and no bullets."

"And once I got the trend of the 'clues'," said Solo, "the Arthurian theme, with Tintagel as a final destination, I was pretty sure I had Illya's message."

"Quite," said Mr. Waverly. He looked at his watch. "The helicopters taking lookalikes of Miss Dancer, Mr. Solo, and Mr. Steele will have left by this time, to make their rendezvous with the Thrush people." He looked at Steele and said mildly, "Short-sighted of you, John, to share the passwords with Mr. Kuryakin. And to let him speak to others in a dialect you don't know," like a don reproving a promising but errant undergraduate.

John Steele spoke for the first time, his voice controlled and calm. "And what now, Alex?"

"I think you know the answer to that." He collected his people with a glance, and headed out the corridor.

When medical techs came toward him with a gurney, Illya gestured them away and began to struggle to his feet. Solo helped him up, knowing better than to argue, but put a strong arm around him to keep him on his feet. April and Mark followed. At Illya's damaged pace, it took a while, and by the time they reached the outside, Waverly, Steele, and his guards had vanished from sight.

Vehicles waited to return them to London. As they argued with Kuryakin about the necessity of his riding in the ambulance, the peace of the late afternoon was shattered by a single shot, shockingly loud in the stillness. The others pulled their weapons immediately, checking all points around them like anxious hunting dogs.

A moment later, Alexander Waverly reappeared, adjusting his cuffs, setting his hat more firmly on his head. As he reached them, they could smell the faint scent of cordite, from a gun now tucked back into a shoulder holster under the professorial tweeds.

The younger agents looked at each other and understood. Waverly never shirked doing the hard jobs himself.

They started to resume the argument with Illya, and the Old Man said, "Mr. Kuryakin, get into that ambulance and let the personnel see to you, now. I need you in the field soon. Mr. Solo, go with him and make sure he cooperates."

"Yes, sir," they said simultaneously, and April and Mark grinned at each other.

"Miss Dancer. Mr. Slate. You will come with me, deliver your report on this affair, and proceed to Heathrow to catch a plane to Johannesburg. There is a worrisome situation that I want you to look into at once."

"Yes, sir," they also said simultaneously.

"Mr. Leith, you will be heading up the London office effective now. Have your report on my desk in New York by tomorrow morning."

"Yes, sir."

"What are you all waiting for? Let's get moving."

end

end

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