The Pink Commando Affair

“I feel like an idiot.”

“I don’t know why. I’m the one who has to do all the dirty work.”

Napoleon Solo and Illya Kuryakin glared at one another. This was one assignment neither U.N.C.L.E. agent relished. And their boss, Alexander Waverly, had turned a deaf ear to their objections. In fact, he’d been almost jolly when briefing them. “You two are going to be, uh, staff members at this establishment,” he’d said and turned his attention to the screen.

“It’s a truck,” Solo observed.

“Well, yes, it is a truck, gentlemen. All the “Clean Commandos” operate out of trucks. I believe they call them, let me see, yes -- here it is. Mobile units. This is a mobile unit and you two are going to operate one.” Waverly shuffled a few papers, then handed one each to the men.

“Mr. Kuryakin, you will operate the mobile unit as the driver.” Illya looked smugly at his partner. “You will wear this uniform.” Waverly clicked a button and a man appeared on screen dressed in a uniform similar to that of a milkman. Only it was pink. And he had what appeared to be a hat with small feather duster attached on his head. Solo snickered. “He looks ridiculous,” Kuryakin said with venom.

“That’s what the Clean Commandos drivers wear, Mr. Kuryakin. You will comply with their company policy. And you, Mr. Solo...” he swiveled to face his chief enforcement agent who was attempting, quite unsuccessfully, to wipe a huge smirk from his face, “You will be the, uh, let’s see what their term was -- ah, yes, here it is, you are the Captain Commando for your team and will be dispatched for the, well, here you read it, Mr. Solo.” He handed Solo a pink flyer.

Napoleon quickly read through it, his smirk replaced by a look of horror.

“Go on, your captainship, please share with the rest of us,” Illya said.

Solo shot his partner a nasty look.

“Yes, do read it out loud, Mr. Solo.”

“It says the Captain Commando will tackle the dirtiest jobs in your home -- no job too big, too small or too dirty for, “ Solo paused and cleared his throat.

“Do go on.” Illya said.

“For the Clean Team....really sir, is this necessary?”

“Completely. Although I will admit I had planned to use Miss Dancer and Mr. Slate until they managed to come down with the measles. You two gentlemen will simply have to do.”

The door slid open and a shapely young woman walked in, handed Waverly a file folder, winked at Solo over the Section One Chief’s head, and waltzed back out. Waverly rooted through the file for a moment, then pulled out a sheet of paper and handed it to Solo.

“Take a look at this, gentlemen, and tell me what you see.”

Solo scrutinized the photograph and handed it to Kuryakin. “I see a very lovely young woman, possibly around 25 to 28 years of age, no wedding ring, so most likely single....”

“Mr. Kuryakin?”

“I dislike having to break Mr. Solo’s heart, but I see a man.”

Solo’s head jerked around. “What do you mean, “a man”? I should be able to spot a man when I see one...”

“I don’t discount your great experience with the fairer sex, Napoleon. Nevertheless, this is a man, not a woman. Look at the ankles.” Napoleon bent closer to the photo. He had to admit, the whatever-it-was in the photo did have some pretty heavy ankles for a lady.

“Maybe she just has big legs...”

“No, Mr. Solo. Your partner is quite correct. This is a photograph of a man, a man named Marc Magriffe, to be precise. Magriffe is the owner and operator of the Clean Commandos. He is a top Thrush agent and a master of disguise, able to assume almost any appearance in mere moments.” Waverly slid another photograph to Solo. It portrayed a diminutive brunette smiling seductively at the camera.

“This is Monique Magriffe, Marc’s twin sister. She is also a top Thrush operative and, although she doesn’t possess her brother’s unique talent for changing appearance, she is much more deadly, gentlemen. Monique likes to kill people. And, to her credit, she is very good at it.”

Solo finished studying the photo and passed it to his partner. “What exactly do the Clean Commandos do, sir?”

“For the record, they go into people’s homes and clean them. But they choose their clientele very carefully, Mr. Solo. Lately the Magriffes have been soliciting business from foreign diplomats stationed here in the New York area, with special attention being paid to those from the Middle Eastern countries. That is most disturbing news. The Magriffes undoubtedly have some type of scheme in mind. We just don’t know what. But we are positive the cleaning service is merely a front for their other activities. You two gentlemen are going to find out exactly what they’re up to. We have arranged for you to report to your new jobs tomorrow morning. You are to see what that unholy pair are up to and report back. Any questions?”

“I wonder if I’ve had the measles?”

“What was that, Mr. Solo?”

“Uh, nothing sir. Please tell Mark and April we’re thinking of them.”

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

And that was how the U.N.C.L.E. agents ended up dressed like cotton candy nightmares, Illya piloting the mobile unit at the speed of sound, his feather duster hat tossed maliciously in the back of the van, which was loaded with all types of cleaning materials, vacuum cleaners, pails, mops and brooms. And, of course, Captain Commando riding shotgun. The two agents had spent the better part of two days scrubbing half of New York without any clue as to what the Magriffes might be up to, bickering continuously.

“I can’t believe I went all the way through survival school to end up in this ridiculous assignment,” Kuryakin groused.

“At least you don’t have to do the commodes. You get to run the vacuum. I spend my time with a toilet brush and....” Solo’s litany was interrupted by the insistent beeping of his communicator. “Solo,” he growled.

“Yes Mr. Solo. Have you and Mr. Kuryakin had a chance to study the layout of the Clean Commando office?”

“Yes, sir. But we have yet to see either of the Magriffes.”

“Very good. We’ve received additional information on their present Thrush operation. While we’re still guessing at the scope and purpose of such an endeavor, our intelligence reports it will involve the assassination of a diplomat or possibly several. The exact target is not known. It will be up to you to see what you can find out. Report in as soon as you have something useful, gentlemen.”

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

Illya was delighted to change into normal clothes. He liked wearing black, particularly after suffering the indignity of being wrapped in pastels all day long. The agent carefully pried open a window and slid inside. It appeared safe. No alarms went off, no guards came running. He motioned to his partner, poised outside, to ease himself through.

Napoleon touched down on the carpet and jerked his head to the left. Illya nodded and moved to the right. Methodically, with an unspoken understanding born of years of working so closely together, the two agents began searching the offices of the Clean Commandos, pulling files and thumbing through them, checking in desk drawers, flipping through telephone books. They found nothing, nothing at all.

“Not even a safe?”

“No sign of one,” Illya said.

“Let’s go back through the offices one more time. You take my side and I’ll take yours.”

Illya nodded and headed down the hallway, disappearing into the offices his partner had just checked. Solo sighed. This assignment grew more and more irritating by the minute. He ducked into the last office Kuryakin had searched and carefully went over each and every inch of it. He finished the rest Kuryakin’s side of the building with the same careful scrutiny and went back to the hallway to wait for his partner.

Five, then ten minutes elapsed, with no Illya. Napoleon shook his head. This was going to be a long, long night. He crept quietly down the hall, briefly popping his head in each office as he passed to check for Kuryakin.

He wasn’t there. In fact, he wasn’t anywhere. Puzzled, Napoleon pulled out his communicator. “Open Channel D...Illya. Where are you?’ he whispered as loudly as he dared.

There was no answer. He tried again. “Illya, can you hear me?”

This time Solo received an answer, but it wasn’t one he particularly liked. “No, Mr. Solo. Mr. Kuryakin can’t hear you. But I’ll be happy to take you to him so you can deliver your message personally.” Napoleon felt cold steel against the back of his head. He shrugged and started to place his hands out to the side, instead turning and in one fluid movement slamming the gun to the ground. His advantage didn’t last long, however. A second gun butt slammed into the side of his head and the dark-haired agent slid to the ground, out cold.

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

“I suppose this means you’re not going to rescue me,” Illya said glumly. Solo eased himself into a sitting position and rubbed the back of his head. There was a nice-sized lump on it. He looked at his partner and cellmate.

“I could say the same thing about you. Any idea where we are?”

“It appears to be some sort of underground prison. And we’re not the only ones here, Napoleon. When they brought me in, I saw several other cells -- that way -- and they were occupied, though I didn’t have time to take a good look at the occupants.”

“How did they get you?”

“Some kind of gas. Made me unable to move at first, then put me under. It wore off in about two hours.”

“Have I been out that long?”

“Longer.”

“Any ideas on how to get out of here?”

“I was waiting for you to wake up before taking a run at it. I just happen to have...” he stopped at the sound of approaching footsteps. Moments later a small, dark-haired woman appeared with two very large men in guard uniforms. “I see you gentlemen have decided to wake up and join us. Bravo. Guards, bring Mr. Solo. Mr. Kuryakin, please do not feel left out. When I finish with your friend, I promise there will be plenty to keep you amused.”

“Monique Magriffe, I presume?” Solo asked as the cell door slid open.

“Very good, Mr. Solo. Very good. Let’s see how good you are at telling the truth. Take him.” The guards snatched Solo and prodded him down the hall while Illya watched from the confines of his cell. Waiting until his partner was out of sight, the Russian reached into the fly of his pants and pulled out a thin wire which he then used to pick the lock. Carefully Illya worked his way down the hall in the same general direction Napoleon had gone.

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

Monique Magriffe was undoubtedly one of the most attractive women Napoleon had ever encountered. Petite and perfect to a fault, her full lips held much promise, but her cold, hard eyes conveyed a cruelty the agent had rarely seen in a member of the fairer sex. He needn’t have worried. Monique wasn’t interested in Solo as a lover. She had much loftier ambitions. Monique wanted to be taken seriously by the Thrush hierarchy. Although the Magriffes were top-ranked agents, neither held the type of power to which they aspired. Monique was certain this latest assignment would change all that. And now that two top U.N.C.L.E. agents had fallen into her -- their -- hands, that made it all the better.

“The plan is very simple,” she had told her brother. “All we do convert Mr. Solo into a walking bomb. He attends the reception at Sheik Ahmadhi’s residence and we blow them all up.”

“Good idea,” he had replied. “But how do we make certain that Solo is at the reception?”

Monique had laughed at her brother.

“Leave it to me. I have a plan and it will work if you do exactly as I tell you.”

He had sighed. When his sister was determined to do things her way, there would be no dissuading her. But then again, Monique was very good at getting what she wanted. Perhaps letting her have her way again wasn’t such a bad move, after all.

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

“The Russian agent has escaped his cell,” the guard told Monique. She turned to a bank of monitors and pressed a button. Solo saw his partner carefully working his way through a narrow hallway -- the same hallway he’d just walked through.

“Determined, isn’t he?” Monique asked to no one in particular. She motioned to the guard. “Recapture him and throw him back into his cell. I want to make certain Mr. Solo survives his retraining before we kill that one. We only need one U.N.C.L.E. agent for our purposes. Don’t kill him, but you also don’t have to be gentle in handling him. Have some fun, boys.” The guard smiled and nodded, then left the room.

“Would you like to watch, Mr. Solo? It might make you a bit more...shall we say ‘cooperative’...when we begin to address the business at hand?”

The guard with Solo obediently moved the agent closer to the screen. Solo watched as Illya carefully made his way through the corridor, several times flattening himself against the wall and once disappearing into an open doorway, only to emerge again moments later. Suddenly it was obvious Kuryakin had heard the sound of the approaching guards -- he looked around, saw another doorway and ducked into it. Monique smiled and in that moment she looked almost feral, like a wild animal anticipating its next meal. Solo saw both she and the guard were riveted to the screen and decided to press his advantage.

Wheeling around, he sucker-punched the guard, then ,when the big man bent over, he chopped the guard hard on the back of the neck. He went down and Solo scrambled for the gun that fell from his fingers.

“I wouldn’t, Mr. Solo.” Napoleon paused and looked up. Monique was pointing a very long and dangerous looking weapon straight at Solo’s head.

“If you make me kill you Napoleon, I promise I will do a sloppy job of it. No neat shot to the head, the kind you won’t feel. No, I’m an expert shot and I’ll prove it, by taking little bits and pieces of you until I’ve chipped enough away to kill you. Please, Napoleon, let me show you just how good I am at what I do.”

Solo straightened up and placed his hands on his head, palms out. “I usually go out of my way to oblige a lady, but in this case, I think I’ ll decline.”

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

Illya had ducked into the doorway, planning to let the guards pass by before continuing in his search for Solo. A moment later the U.N.C.L.E. agent was back out, his hands up, another guard holding him at gunpoint. The guard who’d told Monique about Illya’s escape arrived with a third one. While one of the guards held Illya, the other two took turns using him as a punching bag.

Monique watched with interest, occasionally flicking her tongue over her lips in her excitement. Napoleon stared at the screen, frustrated in his helplessness.

Illya eventually went slack, lapsing into unconsciousness, but that didn’t deter the beating. The guards held the agent’s limp form upright while continuing to hit him.

“They’ll kill him!” Napoleon cried out, starting from his seat. The movement brought Monique out of her reverie. She quickly pointed her gun at Solo and waved him back.

“Yes, as much as I’m enjoying this, I suppose I’d better put an end to it before those ham-fisted thugs do kill your little friend.” She thumbed a switch and barked, “Enough! I said enough! Take him to his cell!”

The guards glanced at a speaker mounted high on the wall. The beating stopped and one dragged the unconscious man away.

“Yes,” said Monique. “You are going to do just fine, Mr. Solo. We will start tomorrow morning and, if all goes well, within a few days we should have you right where we want you.”

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

The guards dumped Napoleon back into the cell with Illya, who was still out. Solo checked for a pulse and found one, a bit fast, but strong and steady. He took one of the small, rough towels provided to the prisoners and wet it in the basin, then carefully dabbed at the cuts and contusions on the Russian’s face. It took a few moments, but eventually Illya opened his eyes.

“Don’t move, partner. We need to make sure nothing’s broken first.”

“I can already tell you that’s not necessary. Everything’s broken. And I don’t think there’s a single place on my body that doesn’t hurt.”

“Be still, you’ve got a bad cut over your eye.”

“Stop it, Napoleon. I appreciate your concern, but you’re a lousy nurse. Move. I want to sit up.” Illya pushed himself slowly and painfully to a sitting position and took a couple of deep breaths.

“How do you feel? Anything broken?”

“I think possibly a rib or two might be cracked. Hurts like hell. But I can live with it.

How about you? What’s their game?”

“I’m not sure, but I know I figure into their plans and you will, too, if something happens to me.”

“And if something doesn’t happen to you?”

“She’s going to kill you.”

Kuryakin shifted uncomfortably and looked at his partner.

“Great. Multiple choice from hell. Got any ideas?”

“Not a one. But I don’t plan to become entertainment for these goons. Where there’s a will, there’s a way, I always say.”

“Funny. I’ve never heard you say that before....”

“Stick around. I’m full of cliches.”

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

They took Napoleon into a laboratory where a strange little man with a gleeful expression set about poking and prodding the U.N.C.L.E. agent, and finally pronounced Solo “perfect” for their purposes.

The last memory Solo had involved a long and entirely wicked needle.

In the meantime, Illya sat morosely in his cell, mentally calculating the odds of his getting out of there alive. Things were not looking very promising.

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

It happened a total of seven times in four days. And in each instance, the witnesses were absolutely positive in their identity of the perpetrator.

The first incident involved a meeting in the home of a high-ranking Middle Eastern diplomat. A stranger appeared in the diplomat’s drawing room and sprayed it with bullets. No one was killed, but there were several injuries.

The other incidents were similar. The same man would appear, fire a weapon or throw an explosive and disappear as quickly as he came.

The final episode involved the one place no one would have expected: U.N.C.L.E. headquarters. The man walked into Del Floria’s, nodded to the proprietor, moved into the curtained-off booth, pulled something from under his suit jacket, placed it on the floor, and then left as quickly and quietly as he came.

The woman monitoring his movements from inside U.N.C.L.E. immediately set off an alarm, to which the bomb disposal unit responded. The shop was cleared and the item was defused and taken into U.N.C.L.E. for analysis.

The man was not seen again.

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

“Well, Dr. Simmons? Your conclusion?”

Simmons looked at his boss and adjusted his glasses. He utterly despised being pulled out of his laboratory, but when Alexander Waverly demanded one’s presence, one went. The scientist took Waverly through the bomb’s construction. “It’s not a simple one. It would take someone with a degree of sophistication to build it.”

“Any fingerprints, Dr. Simmons?”

Simmons shifted nervously from foot to foot.

“Well?”

“Yes, sir. We found prints, Mr. Waverly. Identifiable ones on the inside sections of the bomb....”

“Identifiable?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Will you please get on with it?”

“Um, yes Mr. Waverly. As you suspected, the prints belong to one of our agents. Illya Kuryakin.”

“No possible mistake?”

“No, sir.”

“Thank you, Dr. Simmons. You may be excused.”

Waverly waited until the doors closed behind the scientist before addressing the room’s other two occupants, both Section Two agents named Little and Vertel. “Sir, that coincides with the other sightings we’ve had. All identified the assailant as agent Kuryakin,” Vertel said.

“Yes, gentlemen, I understand that. But I don’t believe Mr. Kuryakin has been magically transformed into a Thrush agent during the days since he and Mr. Solo have, uh, disappeared. If I had not seen the tape of him leaving that bomb in Del Floria’s myself....”

Waverly drifted off in thought, then turned to the screen at the end of the room. “At any rate, I’m still not convinced it’s Mr. Kuryakin leading us all on a merry chase. Marc Magriffe’s involvement should not be discounted by any means.” He turned to the front of the room. “Now, gentlemen, may I direct your attention to the screen where you will see Sheik Ahmadhi, a respected Middle Eastern potentate. The Sheik is holding a reception at his New York residence two days from now. The guest list is a who’s who of the Middle East. I’ve tried to talk the Sheik into canceling his little get-together, but he’s adamant, as well as a bit obstinate. I have managed one concession, though -- he’s allowing U.N.C.L.E. to be present, but he requires absolute discretion. I don’t need to tell you both the problems an incident in this country could cause to peace efforts in that part of the world. I am counting on you to head up the security detail. Please formulate your plans and get back to me within 24 hours.”

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

The last person Waverly expected to find walking through his door was Napoleon Solo. The dark-haired agent looked a bit worse for the wear -- after all he had been held captive by Thrush for the better part of a week -- and he certainly could have used both sleep and a shave. But U.N.C.L.E. doctors gave Solo a thorough examination and pronounced him fit for duty.

After cleaning up, Solo reported to Waverly’s office.

“I’m pleasantly surprised to see you, Mr. Solo. We had, I’m afraid, given you up for lost.”

“As you see sir, I’m very much found, although there were a few times I must admit the outcome was in question.”

“Let’s not waste time, Mr. Solo. How did you manage to escape the Magriffes and what can you tell us of Mr. Kuryakin’s fate?”

Napoleon’s face grew somber at Waverly’s mention of his partner.

“They’ve done something to him, sir. I don’t know what. They took him out of the cell and to their laboratory. They brought me down a few times, too. Tested me -- had me answer some questions. I can’t even remember it all. Then they brought Illya in and put him through the same tests. They must have liked his responses. They sent me back to the cell and I -- I never saw Illya again. But Monique did mention him to me. She told me they only needed one U.N.C.L.E. agent to succeed and they had him. She said they were going to kill me in the morning. I still had what I needed to pick my cell’s lock and I knew by then there were cameras in the hallways. So when night came, I made it look as though I was in bed asleep, slipped out of my cell, took a guard hostage and made him show me the way out.”

“And Mr. Kuryakin?”

“I would have to assume he’s been indoctrinated into whatever plan the Magriffes have for the Sheik’s reception.”

“You know about that?”

“Yes, sir. They made it clear that was their goal.”

“Mr. Solo, is there a chance it’s Marc Magriffe -- not Illya Kuryakin -- causing the mischief lately?”

Napoleon was slow in replying. “I’ve thought of that. Yes, sir. There’s always that chance. In fact there are two different scenarios we could be confronting: Illya’s dead or disabled and Magriffe is impersonating him or he’s been brainwashed or otherwise forced to work for them.”

“Or he could be a traitor.”

“Never. I know him. That’s simply not an option.” Waverly sighed and checked the paperwork in front of him. “I see where you’re scheduled for debriefing this afternoon. Good. I’m ordering you to take a few days off afterwards, have a bit of a rest....”

“No, sir. I mean, I need to be at that reception. Don’t you see, Mr. Waverly, if they’re going to use Illya -- or someone impersonating him -- to accomplish their dirty work, then I have to be there.”

“Mr. Solo, I need someone at that reception who will not hesitate to put a bullet into Mr. Kuryakin if that’s what needs to be done. I know how close you two have been. I don’t believe you could, uh, dispose of him if you had to in the line of duty.”

“With all due respect, sir, I’ll know the difference between an imposter and the real thing. And if Illya has been brain-washed or even something worse, then I’m inarguably the best man for the job. No one knows him or how he thinks as well as I. And if he has to be... eliminated... then I’ll do whatever’s necessary.” Solo paused for a moment. When he spoke again, his voice was low and quiet.

“And he’d never expect it to come from me...his best friend.”

There was a long silence while Waverly tamped down the tobacco in his pipe. Then he nodded at Solo. “Very well, Mr. Solo. I hope you’re spared the difficulty of such a decision.”

“I do, too, sir. I do, too.”

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

Illya had no idea where Solo was. He hadn’t seen him since the beefy guard had taken Napoleon away. And he wasn’t sure exactly how much time had passed. There were others being kept in the cells nearby, although he never saw anyone. He did occasionally hear other voices, what sounded like conversation, but he could never quite make it out. Finally he asked a guard who else was being held.

“Just people they use for their experiments. You know.”

“No, I’m sure I don’t. What type of experiments?”

The guard smirked. “You’ll find out soon enough. Now don’t talk to me again. You’ll get us both in trouble.”

Eventually the same guard came for Illya, took him from his cell and announced he would be Miss Magriffe’s evening’s entertainment.

“What happened to Mr. Solo? Is she through with him?”

“Solo? Oh the guy in the lab? Believe me, he’s already history, my friend.”

“What do you mean by that?”

“Don’t worry about it. And don’t ask too many questions. And you stay on your best behavior when you’re with Miss Magriffe, do you understand?”

Illya understood perfectly. And he knew any escape attempt had better work the first time, because there probably wouldn’t be a second one. He waited until they were out of the narrow hallway and almost to Monique Magriffe’s personal suite before he made his move.

Spying a heavy pushbroom leaning in a corner, Illya made a sudden lunge, grabbed the broom and using the handle as a battering ram, slammed it hard into the guard’s stomach. The guard grunted in pain and dropped his gun. Illya scooped it up, brought the gun butt across the back of the guard’s head, and took off down the hall. The alarms would start any moment and he would need to move quickly.

But he wasn’t leaving without Napoleon. Or at least without knowing what had happened to him.

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

The guests had been arriving for several minutes now and agents Little and Vertel, along with their teams, had the perimeter covered. Solo breathed a sigh of relief as car after car pulled up only to disengorge Arab men of obvious rank and importance. He dreaded the possibility of seeing a blond head emerge from one of those cars.

He may disguise himself, Napoleon thought, then immediately dismissed it. Illya was not a traitor. He would never believe it. If he was guilty of the offenses he’d been accused of, then there had to be some reasonable explanation. And, Napoleon thought, he was going to find it. He only hoped he would find Illya before anyone else did. If it was Illya. And if it was, that he wouldn’t have to kill him.

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

Illya’s luck was holding. The lab was deserted. And there was no sign of Solo. Kuryakin knew he needed to keep moving whether or not he found Napoleon. Where was everyone? He was positive there would be bells and sirens going off at this point. But it looked as though the building had been abandoned.

Illya had his back to the door, studying the contents of some notebooks he’ d found. He never heard the lab door open. Interesting formulas, Kuryakin mused. But a sound, so faint as to be almost imperceptible, drove his instincts into gear and he quickly spun and dropped behind a lab table.

Monique fired and missed, then she, too, sought cover behind a metal table. “Come, come, Mr. Kuryakin. Let’s not play games. You should realize by now that you will never get out of here alive. And even if you did, it’s too late. You cannot save your friend. Mr. Solo is ours, courtesy of some wonderful chemicals that will wear off too late to save him, or the people he’s so well-programmed to kill. So, be a nice little U.N.C.L.E. agent and give me the gun. I promise I will let you live if you cooperate.”

Illya moved carefully around the lab, staying behind the tables, where Monique couldn’t see him. Keep talking, he thought. Just keep talking, so I can get a fix on you.

Suddenly she laughed, a laugh filled with evil joy. “You actually think you’re going to beat me, don’t you? Oh this is wonderful fun! But I don’t have time to play with you, Mr. Kuryakin. I’m afraid I’m late for the party and thus must dispose of you much sooner than I’d planned. Come on out like a good boy.”

Illya flattened himself on the floor and looked under the table. Yes, he could see her now, or at least her feet and knees in the two-inch space under the table. The trouble was it wasn’t possible to shoot her from that angle. But it did give Illya an idea. The metal table against the wall -- it’s leaves down, providing a heavy steel surface -- if he could aim just right, he could possibly bank a shot off the table to ricochet approximately where Monique was hidden. It might not hit her, but it could flush her out. Concentrating on the precise angle and steadying his hand, Illya fired and was rewarded by a metallic clang as the bullet slammed into the table, followed by Monique’s angry screech.

Leaving cover, she jumped up, leveling her gun in Illya’s direction and fired a long volley. None struck their target. Illya risked a quick peek and saw blood. Well, he thought, at least I hit her.

Another series of shots rang out. He rolled into the open, bringing his gun up with him, firing just as Monique turned and pulled the trigger. The force of the blast threw Monique’s aim off, but she still caught Kuryakin in the forearm. His gun flew from his hand and he rolled back behind the table. He heard a clatter as Monique fell to the floor. Grabbing the only weapon he could find -- an empty syringe -- Kuryakin carefully made his way over to Monique’s side.

She was bleeding profusely from the abdomen. It didn’t look good. “You’ve stopped me, but you haven’t stopped us. I’ll have the last laugh. Solo’s going to die and so are all those other people at the party. There’s nothing you can do, U.N.C.L.E. agent. Nothing. And when it’s over, my brother will see you get what’s coming to you....” Monique lapsed into a fit of coughing. “I’ll meet you in hell,” she spat at him.

“Not if I can help it,” Illya said, bending down to feel for a pulse. There was none -- Monique Magriffe was dead. He collected both weapons. Now, he thought, I need to find out where this little party’s being held and what they’ve done to Napoleon. And he began to methodically search the lab for answers.

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

Napoleon yawned. It was getting late and things had gone well. No bad guys had shown up -- and no Illya. That last thought was both reassuring and disturbing. Even though Napoleon was certain Illya would never plant a bomb in Del Floria’s, he had to admit the man on the tape certainly looked like his partner. And the fingerprint...well, that was easy enough to explain. He knew for certain that Illya would never willingly betray U.N.C.L.E..

He glanced at his watch. Nearly 11 p.m. and no incidents to report. Another hour or so and it would all be over. He decided to stroll around the room one more time for good measure.

Vertel was in place near the door. Little was stationed by the French doors leading to the garden and other agents were strewn around the mansion and grounds like a human safety net. Nothing -- not even an agent as good as Kuryakin -- could get through them.

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

Illya found it fairly easy to make it to the mansion’s roof. He’d climbed a tree and dropped lightly from an overhanging limb. Skidding gently down the roof, he’ d shimmied down onto an upstairs balcony, sprung the lock and walked inside. It was dark, but he could hear music and voices downstairs. Pulling his gun out, he carefully let himself out onto the landing and began to work his way over to the stairs.

No. He couldn’t just walk down the stairs. That was as good as painting a target on his forehead. He’d have to find another way down, preferably one that didn’t attract a lot of attention. He ducked into one of the upstairs bedrooms, the ghost of an idea forming in the back of his mind. Five minutes later he walked down the stairs without anyone paying him the least bit of attention.

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

It was exactly 11:15 when Marc Magriffe stepped out of the closet where he’ d been concealed for several hours. It would be good to clear out of this place. But first he had to certain everyone saw him, particularly the Sheik. With his head bowed and face concealed, Magriffe walked quickly into the main ballroom, taking note of the U.N.C.L.E. agents and their positions. Solo was standing near the punchbowl, speaking amiably with a fat man in a burnoose. Magriffe stared at him, willing him to look up, which he eventually did. They locked eyes. Magriffe smiled and raised his hand in greeting.

Illya! Napoleon saw him standing across the room. He looked odd, a little worn, perhaps tired. But he smiled at Napoleon -- smiled -- surely that meant something.

He couldn’t possibly be a traitor!

Napoleon had begun making his way through the crowd to Kuryakin when a shot rang out. There were screams and panic and people running. U.N.C.L.E. agents dove to protect the dignitaries, and Illya dropped to the floor.

“Illya!” Napoleon yelled the name and sped up to a run, drawing his gun.

Another man, an Arab in a burnoose and robe also ran toward the fallen Kuryakin. The Arab got there first and grabbed Illya’s arm, pulling off the U.N.C.L.E. agent’s wristwatch. Napoleon looked on with amazement, then grabbed him. They struggled, but Solo -- with a strength fed by anger -- had the upper hand. He yanked the man’s hand up and pulled the watch from his grasp.

“No, Napoleon. You’ve got to let me have it!”

That voice. That voice. Napoleon’s head hurt. He knew that voice. He faltered in surprise and the man in the burnoose him pressed his advantage, scooting out from under his weight, grabbing at the watch. Napoleon resisted, but weakly. He wasn’t sure what was happening. His head hurt. It was buzzing and he felt dizzy. The man in the burnoose reached down and grabbed Solo’s wrist, pulling his watch off, too before making a frenzied sprint across the room and out the garden doors.

He’s stealing my watch, Solo thought giddily. How strange. A thief plying his trade at time like this! All of a sudden he felt terribly tired. I wonder why he wanted my watch? Solo glanced tiredly at the body next to him, barely hearing the gunshots the other agents fired at the fleeing man in the burnoose. Then there was an explosion, loud and violent enough to shake the building. And darkness rushed up to meet him.

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Napoleon leaned back on his pillow. He felt like a pin cushion. The U.N.C.L.E. scientists had spent the better part of two days prodding him and testing his blood to see what Thrush had deposited there. He was good and darned tired of it.

He looked at his watch and realized he no longer had one. Well, he could definitely put that one on his expense account. The door opened, catching his attention, and Mr. Waverly entered.

“Mr. Solo. I understand you’ve checked out clean and the doctors will be releasing you this afternoon.”

“And not a minute too soon for me.”

The door opened again, admitting a young nurse pushing a wheelchair.

“And is the patient ready for his visit to the lab?” she asked.

“No, the patient is not ready. You can take that thing away and tell the lab I’m not going,” said a voice from the other bed.

“Oh come on, Illya. I had to do it. It won’t hurt you.”

“I don’t have any drugs in me, thank you. Just a few scrapes and scratches and they’ve been taken care of, so you can take that thing and go away.”

“Uh, Mr. Kuryakin, since you’re awake, I’d like to ask you one question. How did you know the bomb was activated through Magriffe’s watch?”

“It was all in the lab report, sir. First they conditioned Napoleon to remember their version of our captivity and planted the suggestion that he attend the party. Then Marc Magriffe made a shambles of my reputation by all his dirty dealings disguised as me. They’d outfitted Napoleon with the watch, which of course was a bomb, and Magriffe was to make certain Napoleon was in just the right place -- about the center of the room -- then he would exit. When he waved at Napoleon, Magriffe was counting on his loyalty to me to bring him forward, not cause him to shoot first and ask questions later. And that’s when Magriffe set off the vibrations.”

“Vibrations?”

“Yes, sir. The watch was designed to vibrate for a couple of moments before it detonated.

Napoleon was programmed to gradually lose consciousness when the vibrations commenced, so he would be unable to leave the room. That left Magriffe free to flee from the explosion.”

“But he never counted on you.”

“That’s correct, sir. Monique planned to kill me and then drive over to the party, pick up her brother and celebrate what they hoped would be Thrush’s gratitude. But after disposing of Monique, I managed to get there in time to foil their plan. I found a burnoose upstairs and that allowed me to crash the party. Everyone was looking for blond hair in a room full of men wearing traditional Arab garb, so I blended right in. And that allowed me to get the bomb out of the room before it exploded.”

“So, why did you take Magriffe’s watch?”

“Because, according to the paperwork I found in the lab, the bomb could also be inactivated using his watch, as well as detonated. I just didn’t have time to punch all the right buttons, but fortunately I did have enough time to toss it in the swimming pool.”

“Fish pond.”

“Fish pond?”

“Yes, Mr. Kuryakin, that is the Sheik’s fish pond. Or I should say it was a fish pond. Now it looks rather much like a crater, I’m afraid. I would dock you two gentlemen for the damages, but the Sheik was so grateful to U.N.C.L.E. that he insisted it was no problem.”

“Dock us for the damages?” Solo asked, amazement in his voice.

“Yes, gentlemen. After all, it was private property. But the Sheik says if you two will just stop by and clean up the mess you made he’ll let it go,” Waverly said, a slight twinkle in his eye.

“I’ll do it, but I’m not wearing pink,” Illya said.

“And this time, you get the commode brush and all the privileges that go with it.”

“That’s your job, remember? I drive....”

And Waverly let himself out of the room, leaving an exasperated nurse with an empty wheelchair behind him.

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