Act I
Spring 1965.
"I think you're ready, Mr. Kuryakin," Alexander Waverly said. "You'll be fine. Do try not to call me for anything less than an emergency, won't you?"
"Yes, sir," Illya Kuryakin said. He watched the Old Man scoop up his brown fedora and light spring topcoat, watched as the steel door to Waverly's office slid open and closed behind the tweed-clad figure. Then he took off his own dark suit coat, revealing his U.N.C.L.E. Special in its black leather shoulder holster, draped the coat on the couch, and went around behind the big circular desk to sit in Waverly's chair.
"You're on deck," Napoleon Solo had told him two days ago at lunch in the commissary. The Chief Enforcement Agent skimmed a sheet of paper at him, and Illya just managed to keep it from landing in his beef and barley soup. "Night watch in The Big Chair. Otherwise known as The Hot Seat."
"You Americans and your quaint idioms," Illya said. He scanned the sheet. 2300 WED 14 APR -- 0700 THURS 15 APR: Kuryakin, I. (SEC 2). He handed it back and took up his spoon. "Why is it that Mr. Waverly wants each Section Two member to stand a watch?"
Solo shrugged. "The Old Man tells me nothing and explains less. I had to do it; we all did."
There was a gleam in Solo's eye. Illya scowled, wondering if his new partner knew more about this than he was letting on. "This is not some humiliating initiation, as in your college fraternities, is it? If so, I categorically refuse."
"No, nothing like that. And even if it were, you'd have a hard time refusing Mr. Waverly."
"True."
"Don't worry about it. You stood bridge watches in your Russian navy days, right? You'll be fine."
Illya shrugged. He was a pragmatist. You prepared carefully for your task, whether it be a bridge watch or an U.N.C.L.E. mission; you marshaled all your forces, put forth your utmost. The rest was up to fate. He spooned soup. "And how are you doing with that Thrush defector? Code name Vulpin?"
"There's been a shakeup in the organization of the Thrush satrap out on Long Island, and to save his own neck, Vulpin says, he's decided to come in." That, Illya knew, was the latest term in the intelligence community. One no longer defected or "came over," one "came in." "He says he'll only surrender to me."
"I wonder why."
"Maybe I have an honest face."
"Perhaps we need a new dictionary for this definition of 'honest.'"
Solo grinned. Then he sobered. He picked up the second half of his turkey club sandwich, put it down, and raised his coffee cup instead. "He's scared, Illya."
"No mystery. Thrush is not an employer one can leave at will. As your banks say, there are severe penalties for early withdrawal."
"Sure. But -- Three times this spring he's been ready to come in, and each time he's ditched me. Each time he sounds more . . ." Solo frowned. "There's an edge of something nasty, something almost hysterical, in his voice."
"A trap?"
"I don't think so. Though of course I'll wear a tracer pin so you can track me when I meet with him early Thursday morning." Solo shook his head. "It gives me the creeps. He sounds unstable. If he didn't have important intel for us, I'd skip the whole thing."
Illya had smiled. "When you report while I'm on watch that night, I shall be sure to give you the benefit of my sage advice. . . ."
Now, Illya scanned the console atop the desk before him. Amid the blinking lights and switches, the red key for Channel D stood out.
Illya swiveled to place a hand on the palm control on the wall behind him. The door slid back to reveal the long-range communications alcove, with its screens and links to the powerful computers that served every division of the United Network Command for Law and Enforcement. Illya had used a similar console in the London office late last year, when he and Solo were investigating that affair of the dead seals. He'd made sure he was checked out on this one. But it was still . . . intimidating, to think that with a flick of a switch, he could command an agent in Bombay or --
The hall door slid open and Sarah Johnson came in. "Raven-haired Sarah," as Solo called her. She looked crisp and cool in white blouse and gray skirt. Under her arm she carried a black binder with the U.N.C.L.E. skeleton-globe logo.
"Good evening, Miss Johnson," Illya said gravely. Sarah impressed him. She had a wry, woman-of-the-world quality that he liked. And of the steady stream of executive assistants Waverly had tried in the last two years, she was the one who had lasted. "You are here late."
"Sarah, please." She strode around to the side of the desk and opened the binder for him. "Standing orders from Mr. Waverly. When a Section Two does a night watch, a senior exec assistant pulls the same watch."
"I'll endeavor to be no more trouble than I can help."
She smiled. "Good. I've put Channel D on hold while I get you settled in. Now this is the night order book, with the names of the duty officers for each Section. Here, any orders left by Mr. Waverly, with notes on ongoing top-priority affairs."
She took him through the book, and then through a swift refresher on the console and computer link setup. "We've just added the capability, with the new pen transceivers, of tying in multiple communicators. The phone company refers to it as a 'group call.' We can set it up from here, or from Comm Central down the hall. . . ."
At last she straightened. "Any questions?"
"Where will you be?"
"Right where I'm needed. Anything else?"
"Some tea, please. Black and sweet. And could we have some music?"
"I'll dig through the reel-to-reel library. Tchaikovsky?"
"Far too sentimental." He preferred jazz, but -- "Prokofiev?"
A grin. "I'll see what I can do." Channel D chimed, and Sarah checked her small gold watch. "Hold's over. Time for you on stage." She nodded to him and was gone with a flick of her skirt.
Illya took a deep breath and touched the key for Channel D. "Night officer Kuryakin here."
The first two hours were not bad. As he'd expected, most of the calls came from the half of the world that was awake: seven a.m. in his beloved Kiev, noon in Bangkok, five p.m. in Sydney, and sunset along the Date Line as it slashed through the empty reaches of the Pacific.
He dealt with two low-priority calls. One from Rangoon, on which he and the local agent conversed in Esperanto, was a progress report on a terrorist cell possibly financed by Thrush. The second came from a young English agent named Slate, requesting the registry of a ship in Sydney Harbor which he suspected was part of a smuggling operation. Illya handed them both off to Sarah. She would unearth the information for Slate and file the reports for Waverly to read in the morning.
At one-thirty a lull came. He loosened his tie, slid on his tinted hornrims, and flicked through the night order book. A heading caught his eye.
Priority Two: Defection, Thrush agent Vulpin
Analysis: Vulpin, real name Charles Sandoval, Number Three (Chief Financial Officer; see dossier) in Thrush satrap centered on Hampstead, Long Island. First contacted NYC HQ 3/1/65 re: defecting. Preliminary intelligence indicates this would be major blow to Thrush's operations in tri-state area. Detailed agent N. Solo, 2/1, per request of defector, to meet at 0630 GMT, 4/15/65.
Odd that he should request Napoleon specifically, Illya thought. He found and touched the intercom key. "Sarah?"
"Right here."
"Would you please bring me the dossier on Thrush CFO Vulpin, real name Sandoval, Charles?"
"Will do."
Illya clicked off. He slid the binder away and reached for his briefcase and his current book.
Channel D chimed. "Night officer Kuryakin."
"Sounding efficient," Napoleon Solo said. "How's it going?"
"As well as can be expected," Illya said. "I begin to understand why Mr. Waverly often looks so tired. Where are you?"
"Across the street from our fox's den. There's even a light in the window for me. Check my tracer?"
"Sarah?" Illya said. Standard procedure called for her to monitor.
"West Eighty-seventh, between Columbus and Amsterdam," Sarah said after a moment.
"Confirmed," Solo said. "One forty-one West Eighty-seventh. Not the sort of neighborhood I like to find myself in at one-thirty in the morning. Two scruffy-looking characters in front of the next decrepit brownstone are discussing the price of heroin, and I've already had two, ah, 'ladies' of the evening hint to me about their skills. I've heard this neighborhood is due for urban renewal, but right now I don't think even Thrush would want it."
"Which is probably why," Illya said, "Vulpin chose it for his pied-a-terre."
"Right. According to him, he's had this bolt-hole for a while. No one else knows about it." In the distance, Illya heard a bus thunder past on one of the avenues. "I'll leave the channel open; monitor me. When Vulpin and I come back, I'll deliver him via Port Three."
Illya nodded. Del Floria's, the agents' entrance, would be closed at this hour. Port Three was the parking garage entrance. "If your car hasn't been stolen, of course."
"Always looking on the bright side," Solo said. "Tell Mother I died game." Then there was the sound of wind, of distant car motors, and of Solo's steps as he crossed the street.
"Monitoring," Sarah's voice said, and Illya closed the channel. He took off his hornrims and tapped them thoughtfully against his chin. He wished he could be there, watching Napoleon's back. If Solo, whose instincts had kept him alive time and time again, was on edge about this --
A Records clerk trotted in with Vulpin's dossier, and Illya signed for it. He slid his glasses back on and scanned the file.
Charles Sandoval, aka Vulpin, was forty-five. He had first surfaced as a "financial advisor" (Money launderer, thought Illya) to a Cleveland mobster with Thrush ties in 1950. When that alliance had come apart, he'd joined Thrush and worked his way up as money wizard to a series of satraps all over America. He'd been in his current high position in the Hampstead nest since 1961. One ex-wife. No children. Hobby: piloting light aircraft. No known vices.
A black-and-white picture, obviously taken with a hidden camera, showed a lean, balding middle-aged man in a dark suit, stepping off a commuter train. He looked like a million other New York businessmen -- harried, shoulders hunched, eyes narrowed as he glanced around -- but for some reason Illya thought of a prey animal being hunted by a wolf. Or a fox.
Illya stared out at the darkness beyond Waverly's tall slim windows. Office lights gleamed in that darkness.
Sandoval was an accountant, not a Thrush assassin or saboteur. That explained why Waverly was willing to send Solo in. But . . .
He was leaning toward the intercom key again when the hall door slid aside and Sarah shot in. Her dark hair was disheveled, and her face paler than usual.
"Illya!" she said. "Something's wrong with Napoleon!"
Illya swiveled to the console, but before he could find the button to cut in Solo's channel, Sarah was there. Her fingers flicked over the board.
From the speaker came rustling sounds. In the distance, faintly, a car horn brayed. Quick light footsteps sounded.
Illya seized the mike. "Napoleon? Napoleon, come in!"
A voice spoke in a harsh whisper.
"Is this U.N.C.L.E.?" it said.
"Night officer Kuryakin," Illya said automatically. "Let me speak to Mr. Solo, please."
"I'm afraid your Mr. Solo won't be up to talking for a while," the voice said. "He'll be fine when he comes to, all wrapped up in a chair. I don't want to damage him if I don't have to. Right now you'll talk with me."
An undertone of sly triumph in the voice made Illya's scalp prickle.
"Mr. Vulpin, I presume," said Illya.
"Is that your code name for me? Never mind. I don't need to know that."
"What do you want?"
Vulpin chuckled. "They think I'm unaware of what they're doing, what they're planning. I've seen their little looks. How they stop talking the moment I come into a room. They think I don't know . . . but I've been recording, stashing away proof of their schemes. Enough to blow them all sky-high."
"Who is 'them'?"
"Don't play stupid. Thrush, of course. Both Eastern and Central are aware of me. They know I'm their enemy. But I'm aware of the Others. They've waited too long. It's my move now."
Illya caught sight of Sarah's face. She looked as if someone had hit her hard between the eyes. He had no doubt he looked much the same. He said, "That's why Mr. Solo is there. To bring you to us so we can help you."
"Don't lie to me!" Vulpin's voice dripped with contempt. "You think I don't know you people and Thrush are just part of something much bigger? Something so big even the President is afraid of Them? You just want to use me, to shut me up, to please your masters as They pull your strings. Well, I have my own plans. I want money, and I want a plane out of the country, tonight."
"We can't --"
"You'll have a car bring me to LaGuardia Airport. Once there, I want a jet with enough fuel to get me to San Cristobal, in the Caribbean. If the plane's not right, if there isn't fifty thousand American dollars aboard, if you try anything, I shoot your agent and go underground. It's my only chance to stay alive, to stop Them. The tree of liberty must be refreshed with the blood of tyrants. You've got one hour."
"Mr. Vulpin --"
"One hour," Vulpin said, and the line went dead.
Act II
Now, Illya thought, now it's a Priority One.
For an instant he felt a wild desire to drop the microphone and rush up to Eighty-seventh Street. He could turn the desk over to Enforcement's duty officer, scout out the territory, do whatever had to be done to stop this man. . . .
And if he failed? Solo would be dead, and he would have failed Waverly and the Command, and his friend Solo too, by leaving his post. No.
"Shall I call Mr. Waverly?" Sarah said.
Illya shook his head. "Not yet."
"Even to inform him --?"
"Not yet." Illya glanced at the master clock in the comm alcove. 1:51. Very well. We use what we have. "I need city maps of that block, the most detailed available. Then get me whoever is on duty in Medical, and the same for Enforcement."
"Medical?"
"We must learn about our enemy before we can defeat him."
"The current psychiatric term is 'paranoid personality disorder,'" Dr. Koenekamp said. His ruddy face glowed on the color monitor in the comm alcove. "From that tape you played me, I'd say Vulpin fits. Mistrust, suspicion, hypersensitivity to other people's words and actions. Hostile and unpredictable. Paranoids believe they are the focus of continual persecution, of conspiracies big and small."
"How do we deal with him?" said Illya. The hall door slid open and Jim Martinez of Enforcement strode in.
"You don't," Koenekamp said. "You can't reason with him. He'll shift his premises so that he always has the 'right' answer. It's incurable and gets worse with age. The medical community believes the only way to handle true paranoiacs is drug therapy; there are some exciting new drugs on the market now. . . . Ironic, isn't it?"
"That Vulpin is part of Thrush, a very real conspiracy?"
"That too. But you realize, don't you, that his paranoia may have been a survival characteristic. Perhaps he always had such tendencies, but under the pressures of his work in the world of Thrush, his inability to trust and eagerness to believe in conspiracies centering on him might actually have allowed him to thrive."
Koenekamp looked happy. "This will make a very interesting paper. Please try to keep him alive so that I can interview him, won't you?"
"No promises, Doctor. Thank you. Kuryakin out." As Illya swiveled to face Martinez, he glimpsed the clock. 2:05.
"Situation?" asked Martinez. Compact and dark-haired, he projected a solidity and confidence Illya found reassuring.
Illya filled him in. As he spoke, Sarah hurried in with a packet of slides in hand.
"A paranoid," Martinez said when Illya finished. "Great. Why San Cristobal, though?"
"It's one of the few nations that aren't signatory to U.N.C.L.E.'s charter," Sarah said. She pressed a button on the console, and a slide projector rose from its concealed compartment in the table. "They won't turn him over to us. And normal extradition procedures will give him time to flee somewhere else."
"What can we do?" Illya asked.
"Not much," Martinez said. "When I was with the Bureau --" Martinez, Illya knew, had been an FBI agent in Chicago before joining the Command "-- there was talk of creating a dedicated squad that would specialize in negotiating with hostage takers. Nothing ever came of it, though I understand Scotland Yard is working on it. . . . Mainly we stall for time. He's keyed up right now, but he can't maintain that level of energy. If nothing else, he'll get tired."
"We have --" Illya swiveled to the clock and back "-- thirty-nine minutes."
"Then get him on the horn. Talk to him. Let him rant. Point out that you can't honor his demands, you need more time, Waverly's got to authorize it, he's on his way but he's not here yet, and so forth. If Napoleon's conscious, get Vulpin to let you talk to him. That could help."
"Why?"
"We want him to start seeing Napoleon as another human being instead of merely a pawn in his game."
"Ready with the city maps," Sarah called.
The television-like monitor on the wall lit with a diagram. In one corner Illya spotted a code number, probably from the New York Department of Streets.
"The entire block of West Eighty-seventh between Columbus and Amsterdam," Sarah said, "looking uptown. Most of these buildings are divided into walkup apartments."
Martinez nodded. "Tenements cut up into as many apartments as the law permits, sometimes more."
"One-forty-one," Sarah said, "is on the uptown side of the street." She pointed to the upper half of the diagram. "According to Mr. Solo's notes, Vulpin said his apartment was Four-A. We don't know if that's front or back --"
"The front," Illya said. "Napoleon said Vulpin had a light in the window for him." He rose and inspected the diagram. "Ah. An alley, here, along the west side. And a fence encloses the rear yard."
"Once you're past that fence," Martinez said, "you're at the back door. Most of these buildings are set up just like that."
"Very well. Mr. Martinez, please detail two men to the rooftop, here --" Illya tapped the building directly across the street from Vulpin's "-- and two more to the rear door of Vulpin's building. Warn them they must not be spotted under any circumstances."
"Acknowledged." Martinez paused. "For the rooftop guys. Will you need sniper skills?"
Illya was aware of Sarah looking at him. "If you have someone with that training," he said. "However, no one, repeat, no one is to move without my express order."
"On my way." Martinez hurried out.
"Sniper skills?" Sarah said quietly.
Illya felt as if sand were under his eyelids. He dropped into Waverly's chair and glanced at the clock again. Thirty-two minutes left.
"If we must," he said. A sniper would have to use a live round. Sleep darts fired through the U.N.C.L.E. Special carbine were notoriously inaccurate, and the agent would have only one chance to hit his target.
Sarah looked weary. She put the slide projector remote down and sat at the table, facing him.
"My father was a Marine," she said. "A sniper in the European theater. Sometimes one man with a rifle can save the lives of an entire company. But Illya . . . this man Vulpin's not some hardened pro assassin. He's sick and frightened. Shooting him -- shouldn't that be our last resort?"
Illya sighed. "We have not yet reached that extreme, Sarah. Please get me Napoleon's channel."
Sarah rose, stepped into the comm alcove, and touched keys. A light began to flash on the console. Suddenly Vulpin's voice erupted from the speaker. "Who is this? Who are you?"
"Kuryakin," Illya said evenly. "We need to talk."
"Time's running out for your friend." Vulpin sounded hoarse, an edge of near-panic in his voice. "My plane and my money. Don't waste time. Get them."
"We are working as fast as we can. You should know that I cannot approve any of this. We have called my superior, and he is on his way here now."
"Don't try to stall. I'm wise to all your tricks. That's how I've stayed alive this long."
"Of course. You should know, however, that the first thing Waverly will ask is whether Napoleon, Mr. Solo, is still alive. If he's dead, your bargaining chip is gone."
"I didn't kill him. I'm not one of you undercover butchers."
"Then let me speak to him."
Silence. Illya wondered if he'd pushed the man too far. He heard footsteps. More silence. Then a faint groan. "Illya . . ."
"Hello, Napoleon," Illya said. With an effort he kept his voice even. "How are you?"
"Trussed like a Thanksgiving turkey. I want the number of the jetliner that landed on my head, too."
"We're working to get you free."
"Good." Solo's voice changed. He said low and fast, "Don't give in to him on any account, Illya. If he gets --"
"That's enough!" Vulpin snarled. "There's your proof, Kuryakin. Now get moving."
"Collecting that kind of money, arranging for a plane -- all of that will take --"
"No," Vulpin said. "No more time. You think I don't know about your will-sapping devices? I know you need time to beam ideas of giving up into my mind! No! The deadline stands!"
In the silence, Sarah said, "He's switched off." She turned to look at Illya. "He's right, you know. Napoleon, I mean."
"Yes. If we give in to this man's demands, it will be open season on U.N.C.L.E. agents and personnel all over the world. We cannot allow him to blackmail us."
Sarah's hands gripped each other, so tightly the knuckles were white. "How? He's got all the cards."
Illya ran a hand through his hair. She was right. As long as Vulpin held Napoleon . . .
His gaze fell on his briefcase. How foolish he'd been, to hope for a quiet shift, reading his new book --
A hot wild excitement roared through him. Of course! He smiled at Sarah. "No. We have cards of our own."
"What cards?"
Illya patted the gleaming console in front of him.
"These," he said.
2:42.
"Circuit established," Sarah called from her seat in the comm alcove. Her voice was controlled and even. "Team Able, report status."
"Agents Giordano and Huckabee in position on the roof," crackled from the left speaker above Sarah's shoulder. "Lights on in Vulpin's room. Window shut."
Illya was pacing before Waverly's windows, microphone in hand. "Giordano? Can you see Mr. Solo?"
"Affirmative. He's tied to a chair. Our target has moved him up near the window. He looks conscious."
Damn, Illya thought. Our quarry is smarter than we thought. With Napoleon there, Vulpin knows we will be reluctant to shoot.
"Acknowledged. Mr. Huckabee?"
"Ready," came the drawl. Huckabee was an Arkansas farm boy, a former sergeant in the U.S. Army Special Forces. Illya pictured his lanky frame sprawled atop the dark roof, eye glued to the telescopic sight of his U.N.C.L.E. Special carbine.
"Will there be problems with the shot?"
Huckabee snorted. "Back home, mah daddy used to shoot the wings off flies. This is a lot easier. Though Napoleon might catch some flying glass."
"As Mr. Waverly is fond of saying," Illya said, "we must break some eggs to make our omelets. Stand by, please. Team Baker, come in."
"Agents Montaigne and Nakamoto," Jason Montaigne said from the right speaker. "In position. Awaiting signal."
Illya had worked with him last month during the Dr. Dabree affair. A Negro, he was a former college defensive tackle who could maneuver his six-foot-five, two-hundred-seventy-pound body with the dexterity of a dancer. His voice was a deep rumble. "Shoot the wings off a fly, Huck? This I gotta see."
"You bring the fly and the whiskey," Huckabee said, "and Ah'll show you how we do it back in the hills."
"You're on. Mr. Kuryakin, we have the door of Four-A in sight."
"Very well. The moment you hear Mr. Huckabee shoot, you are to move. Do not wait for my order."
"Acknowledged. Standing by."
Illya took a deep breath. His blood seemed to hum under his skin. He glanced at the clock (2:47), let his breath out, inhaled again, and nodded to Sarah. She was biting her lip. Her eyes were wide and dark.
Gotov, he thought. We go.
He barked:
"Huckabee! Fire!"
From the left speaker came the blap! of Huckabee's silenced Special on the rooftop three miles away. Illya imagined rather than heard the crack and tinkle of slug-shattered glass. He shouted, "Jason! Go!"
Even as he said the words the right speaker erupted with a crash of wood and metal against plaster. Vulpin roared something wordless. A second blap!, this one seemingly so close that Illya had to resist the urge to duck.
Another gun made the flat spitting noise of a sleep dart. Someone moaned. A pause, and then something heavy thudded with a rustle (clothing?) to the floor.
Silence.
Despite the air conditioning, Illya Kuryakin felt sweat burst on his forehead and trickle down the small of his back. He remembered the microphone in his hand. "Jason? Jason, come in!"
A long moment went by, and then Jason's voice rumbled from the right speaker. "All clear, Mr. Kuryakin. Vulpin is neutralized."
"And Mr. Solo?"
"Bleeding but intact," Solo said, and Illya felt relief wash over him. "Jason, I tell you, I've never been so glad to see anybody as when you charged in here like a bull rhino."
Jason Montaigne sounded embarrassed, as he often did when someone complimented him. "I just imagined that door was an LSU lineman, and I had to go through him, that was all. . . ."
"So you had Mr. Huckabee put a low-velocity bullet through the upper part of the window," Alexander Waverly said.
The master clock read just after seven a.m. Gray light showed at the windows of the Old Man's office. Illya stood, hands clasped behind him, on the far side of the table. He felt tired and hungry, but at peace. "Yes, sir."
"Reasoning, I expect, that as this man Vulpin was not a trained field agent . . ."
"A trained agent, when the glass broke, would immediately expect an opponent to come through the door, and would fire one or more rounds into it."
"And would only then deal with the threat at the window. Instead, Mr. Solo says, Vulpin jerked around when the glass shattered, giving Mr. Montaigne his opportunity to kick open the door. Which is why you chose him, for his size and speed."
"Correct. Vulpin got off one shot with Napoleon's gun -- Napoleon told me he felt the bullet go past his ear -- but Jason put a five-hour sleep dart into him before he could shoot again."
"How is Mr. Solo?"
"One of the shards from the broken window sliced his forehead, and he'll have a headache, but he'll be fine. Vulpin is in Medical, under restraint. Dr. Koenekamp is rubbing his hands together over him like a scientist with a new specimen."
Waverly nodded. He put down the night order book and began patting his pockets for his pipe and tobacco.
Illya said, "While Vulpin held a strong hand -- Napoleon -- we had an equally strong hand: our modern communications web and the ability to link our transceivers together. It essentially allowed us to be everywhere at once, to surround Vulpin and outflank him. Communication was the key."
"Hm." Waverly had found his pipe and pouch. He thumbed tobacco into the pipe's bowl. "What gave you the idea?"
Illya smiled. He opened his briefcase, took out his book, and held it up for Waverly to see the title on the bright dust jacket, Understanding Media: The Extensions of Man. Under it was the author's name. Marshall McLuhan.
Waverly chuckled. "I see. Quite risky, Mr. Kuryakin, but it worked."
"Thank you, sir."
Waverly nodded again. He got his pipe lit, puffed, flicked the match into the ashtray. His gaze was steady on Illya's face. "Do you see now why I have all Enforcement agents work a watch in this office?"
"So that we'll know what you go through?"
"In part." Waverly puffed and stared past Illya at the brightening windows. He said quietly:
"This organization has the highest esprit de corps of any I've ever known. I wish to keep it so. This may not be the best way to do it . . . but it is my way."
Illya waited.
"Mr. Huckabee and the others took your orders last night because they know you have taken the same risks they have. If one of my men must give up his life in the course of a mission, I want him to do so not only because of the oath he's sworn to uphold the Command's ideals -- but also because he knows the man ordering him to it has considered every other option before giving that order. And the only way to ensure that, I feel, is to see that each field agent has been in this chair and felt the weight of that responsibility."
Illya regarded his chief and thought, I have much to learn from this man. "Yes, sir."
He was at the door when Waverly called to him. "Mr. Kuryakin?"
"Sir?"
Alexander Waverly's basset-hound face crumpled into one of his rare smiles.
"Well done," he said.
THE END
(We wish to thank the United Network Command for Law and Enforcement, without whose assistance this narrative would not be possible.)
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