Act I "You Can Concoct Some Diabolical Scheme."
May 14, 1966: 9:14 p.m. U.N.C.L.E. HQ
Mark Slate said, "This damn mask stuff itches."
April Dancer's starched white nurse's uniform crackled as she turned from the wall mirror in their small office. "Don't scratch."
Mark sighed. "I hate undercover."
Seated in front of him, Kurt Steiner smiled. Light from the makeup kit on the desk glittered on his steel-rimmed spectacles.
"But you are so good at it," he said. "Hold still, please." His voice held a tinge of German accent: Holt shtill. He dabbed spirit gum onto the latex piece he held and pressed it onto Mark's chin.
Kurt still dislikes me, April thought. Or disapproves of me. Maybe both. Well, that's just too bad.
She watched as Kurt tapped putty onto the construct that was now Mark's face, smoothed it, flicked at it with a soft powder-laden brush.
At last he said with satisfaction, "There." Dere. He wiped his hands on a towel. "Amazing, isn't it? What can be done as long as the bone structure is similar."
April blinked in astonishment. Mark's phlegmatic, rather mournful face, with its short dark hair and dark eyebrows, was gone. Instead a square reddish face with a button nose, framed by thick white hair, peered back at them.
"My teacher developed the materials and the techniques," Kurt said. "A brilliant stage magician and actor's actor named Hand."
"We should try to enlist him." Mark rose and peered at his new image in the mirror.
"He has left the stage. Rumor says he lends his services to another U.S. intelligence agency."
"Oh. Well, I like what you've done. My mother would think I was a stranger. She'd actually be polite to me."
April grinned at him.
"Welcome to New York, Mr. van Gelder," she said. "Do you plan to buy any more hotels while you're here?"
"I repeat, this is nothing more than a recon mission," Napoleon Solo had told them three days before in the audio-visual briefing room at U.N.C.L.E. Headquarters. "Not a raid. You can defend yourselves, of course . . . but getting the information out is top priority."
At the console, Case Officer Heather McNab flicked a switch. On the viewscreen appeared the façade of a whitestone building. In front, a Yellow Cab disgorged people before a canopy reading AUSTEN EAST.
"Why not a raid?" April said. "If we know this hotel is a Thrush front, a satrap—and only blocks away from here—"
Solo turned to her. As she often did, April thought how normal and charming he could look when he smiled; and how much, when he was not smiling, he resembled a clean-shaven Satan. He was not smiling now.
"Normally we would," he said. "But Section One feels it's too soon. We need to know just what kind of activity Thrush is centering there. We suspect its primary purpose will be as a conduit for intelligence going to Central. And if so . . ."
"We can feed them what we want them to know," Mark said.
"Exactly. False data that we give them every reason to believe is true. What our friends in Washington and London are starting to call 'disinformation.'"
"Who's in charge there?" April asked.
Solo nodded to Heather. On the screen appeared the face of a sixtyish man with dark thick hair and a Van Dyke beard. His silver tie was a sharp contrast to his dark suit, as his bright blue eyes contrasted with his reddened, leathery skin.
"One Caesar Huston," Heather said in her light sweet voice. "Age fifty-eight. A senior member of Thrush."
"Illya, Mr. Kuryakin, and I dealt with him in his stronghold in West Texas last year," Solo said. "He destroyed it and got away. We've been hunting him ever since. Clearly he's darkened his hair, dropped the Western duds, and gone into the hotel business for Thrush."
April studied the face, committing it to memory. Talk about gall, she thought. He comes back and sets up shop right under our noses.
"Along with his bodyguard and chief gunman," Heather said.
Now the screen showed a younger man, bronze-skinned, with dark straight hair and a hooked nose. His gaze was flat and incurious, like a lizard on a desert rock. April fought a shiver.
"Cuelga," Solo said. "Part Cherokee; all trouble. Chief of security for the Austen."
Mark nodded. "You and Kuryakin can't go in because Huston and Cuelga know you. So it's up to us."
"How can we get in?" April asked. "The grand opening party Huston's having this weekend?"
Solo smiled.
"As Mr. Waverly is fond of telling us, I'm sure you can concoct some diabolical scheme. However, I'll toss out one suggestion. You've heard of Herman van Gelder?"
"Eccentric multi-millionaire?" Mark said. "Buys hotels the way kids buy airplane models?"
"The very one. Our information says he made a bid on this hotel when it came on the block, only to be outbid by Huston's Thrush-backed consortium. That may suggest something to you. We understand he's going to be in New York for the next few days. Have your mission plan on my desk by noon tomorrow. Good luck."
"Mark?"
"Hm?"
"I've been going over the bio Section Four has on van Gelder. Seems he majored in chemistry, at Blair University."
"Blair, in New England? I don't . . . Wait. Isn't that Mr. Waverly's alma mater?"
"It is! And they're about the same age. Do you think—?"
"Thank you for seeing us on such short notice, Mr. Van Gelder."
The multi-millionaire's smile was crooked. "Normally I don't take phone calls from strangers, Miss Dancer. You've no idea how many solicitations I get. But when you mentioned that old rascal Alex—And I'm never too busy to see a pretty young lady. You're from the South, aren't you? Alabama?"
"Mississippi, sir. Biloxi, to be exact."
"Hm. Nice town. So old Alex wants a favor from me, hey? And he always told me I'd never amount to anything. Ha! Well, you tell him I've not gotten so big I'd forget an old fraternity brother." Van Gelder spun his wheelchair to face his assistant. "Pritchett! See to it these two have whatever they need!"
Act II "You'll Learn Something to Your Advantage."
May 14, 1966, 10:02 p.m.
The Lincoln limousine slid down Second Avenue. In the back seat, April wore her nurse's outfit, complete to thick-soled white shoes and a starched cap. Next to her, Mark, the image of van Gelder, was blinking myopically. In character, she knew; the billionaire was legally blind. He brushed lint from his tuxedo lapel and straightened his tie.
In chauffeur's uniform and cap, Kurt Steiner piloted the Lincoln with smooth flicks of the wheel.
Kurt was a Section Two recently seconded from Berlin, where he had worked with Illya Kuryakin. Illya had recommended him. "I have some little talent with disguises, but Mr. Steiner is superb. Use him."
For some reason, however, Kurt disliked her. During meetings he spoke only to Mark, used formal language when forced to deal with her ("If you would pass the sugar? Danke"), and—unlike Mark—generally ignored whatever she had to say.
She'd cornered him last night after their pre-mission briefing. "Okay," she'd said. "What's your problem?"
"Bitte?"
"You either don't talk to me at all, or you treat me like a secretary. What is it?"
Kurt's face was expressionless. "Women do not belong in Enforcement."
"Ah-ha." April had heard this so often she had her rejoinder ready. "Mr. Waverly and the other Continental Chiefs don't think so."
"They have their reasons," Kurt said politely. "And I have mine. Excuse me, please." And he'd taken his coffee cup and walked out of the briefing room.
Why? April wondered now, staring at the back of Kurt's neck as he drove. She'd considered going down to Records and pulling his file—as a Section Two on assignment, she had the right to inspect the record of anyone below the rank of senior officer—but decided at last she didn't care. Whatever his problem is, he's welcome to it.
Get over it, April reminded herself. It's not as if you weren't warned.
"Some Enforcement agents may be difficult," Mr. Waverly had told her in her first interview with him after being posted to New York. "Some will feel you lack the capabilities of a male agent, his physical strength and so forth."
"I have different capabilities, sir." Sitting for the first time in the big room with the tall windows, the nerve center of the Command's headquarters for North America, April fought the urge to be overawed.
"Hm! Quite so. Your skill with weapons will level that playing field, too. Second, some agents may think you are trying to replace them."
"That could happen with male agents too. Do Mr. Solo and Mr. Kuryakin worry about being replaced by up-and-coming agents?"
Waverly smiled. "Hardly. Of course, there's no one at present who could replace them. . . . Lastly, there's the issue of chivalry. Some male agents will have the unconscious urge to, ah, protect you from danger."
"I can handle myself in a crisis, sir."
"And that will prove itself, or not, in the fullness of time. Well, then. Rest assured, Miss Dancer, that any complaints from male agents about your sex will receive short shrift in this office—as long," and Alexander Waverly fixed her with a cool eye, "as you do your job. Now run along, I'm sure you have a desk full of work to occupy you."
That's it, April Dancer thought now. I just want to do a good job.
As the limousine swung into East Forty-ninth, her hands tingled as they had before the Moonglow affair. Fear and excitement flashed through her and swept out, leaving a high cold determination.
Mark slid on his dark glasses. "Ready?"
"As I can be."
"Good. Be careful with that tranq ring—don't stick yourself. You'll be out for five hours."
"Yes, Daddy. May I go to the malt shop tomorrow after school?"
"Very funny."
Smoothly Kurt halted the limousine before the flood-lit façade of the hotel. A doorman pulled the Lincoln's door open, and the growl of car motors and of human conversation came to April. Here we go, she thought.
Nice to be super-rich, April mused as she pushed "van Gelder's" wheelchair through the walnut double doors to the Windsor Room. Your secretary makes a couple of phone calls, and bingo, here comes a messenger with an invitation to Huston's grand opening party for the hotel. I'll bet Huston wants to show van Gelder what he missed out on.
Inside, the Windsor Room was opulent. Thick wine-dark carpeting with gold pentagons; a mahogany bar with crystal goblets sparkling under the gleam of the chandeliers. Three burly men in dark sport coats stood along the walls, watching. Thrush "security," April thought.
On a low dais at the far side of the room, Horst Jankowski was noodling on the piano, a variation of his "Walk in the Black Forest" hit from last year. Next to him, Cilla Black, the British songstress who had just finished a run at the Plaza, was humming along.
On the floor, guests stood in groups, laughed, chattered, drank. Waiters drifted among them with trays of cocktails and canapés. April recognized a retired NYPD Homicide inspector and his son, the bestselling mystery writer, chatting with a former deputy mayor. By the bar, a famous novelist/talk show guest chirped in his Alvin the Chipmunk voice at the former First Lady's society-hostess sister. In her cap and uniform, April felt like the dowdy poor cousin come to the big city.
She wondered what Kurt would think when he saw the tape.
The wheelchair was another of Section Eight's marvels. A tiny camera in one arm and a tiny audio bug in the other fed sound and images to a video tape recorder under the seat. As functional as those the TV networks used, it was the size of a volume of the Britannica. The VTR could record for only fifteen minutes; a pause switch lay under Mark's left hand.
Mingle for a while, April thought, record everything we can, and then we're back to HQ for Intelligence to examine and analyze—
"Van Gelder!" boomed a voice.
The taller of the two men coming toward them wore a white dinner jacket. Not an off-the-rack one, either, April saw. It had been tailored for his wide shoulders and long arms, and to disguise his short powerful torso.
"Arthur Roesgen," Caesar Huston said, extending a leathery hand to Mark. "Owner of this place. What d'you think of it?"
Be careful with this fox, Solo had told her. Gunrunner, mercenary, Nazi collaborateur, and now high up in Thrush. Huston's been landing on his feet longer than you've been alive.
Close up, Huston seemed larger than life. His blue eyes twinkled, and he smelled of bay rum and cigar smoke. The Texas accent Solo had told her about was gone; in its place was a New England twang.
Mark drew his white eyebrows down in a scowl. "Don't think much of it. You decorate it yourself?"
Huston laughed. "Don't be a sourpuss, now, just because we outbid you. When your man called, I was glad to send you an invitation. Wanted to check out the competition, didn't you? And I'll admit I wanted to show off." He gestured at his companion. "My chief of security, John Silva."
"Pleased," Cuelga said with a nod.
He was a bit heavier than in his photos, April thought, his hair now as close-cropped as Napoleon Solo's, wearing a gray sharkskin suit and silver tie. He didn't offer to shake hands.
"And this would be—?" Huston smiled at April. His teeth were strong and white.
"My nurse, Miss Collins," Mark said. "Goes with me everywhere. Keeps me from having any fun."
Huston laughed. For a moment his blue gaze lingered on her, and she felt as if she were being X-rayed down into her bones. Then his attention swiveled back to "van Gelder." "So? What d'you think?"
"Big talent here tonight." Mark aimed a thumb toward Jankowski, who was rendering "A Taste of Honey." "Your budget's bigger than I'd have thought."
"That's nothing. We're negotiating with that other British songbird, what's her name? Clark, Petula Clark, to come in next month. Our plan is to make the Austen into the New York hotel, more famous than the Plaza or the Algonquin."
"'Our' plan? Who're your investors?"
"Can't tell you that." Huston was smiling. "But give me ten minutes, and you'll learn something to your advantage."
"Not interested."
Huston's eyes narrowed a fraction, and April felt alarm scream through her. Out of character, Mark—
"Never thought I'd see the day Herman van Gelder turned down a chance to put a few dollars in his pocket." Huston shrugged. He was watching Mark closely.
Out of the corner of her eye, April saw, Cuelga didn't really move, but he somehow became more alert.
Mark blew out his breath in exasperation. "Came here to listen to some music, see what you'd done with the place you snatched away from me. And now you want me to work. Hell. No rest for the wicked. All right, dammit. Speak your piece."
Huston seemed satisfied. "Not here. My office. We'll talk turkey." He turned and headed for a door on the far side of the room.
Cuelga gestured. "After you."
What was that novel you read in college? Catch-22? April thought wildly as she pushed Mark and the wheelchair after Huston. If there was ever a Catch-22, this is it. We'd never have gotten in here without posing as the well-known van Gelder and his nurse—but that brought us to Huston's attention.
Her scalp prickled. The kind of attention that can get you killed. . . .
Act III "Remember Your Heartburn, Mr. van Gelder."
May 14, 1966: 10:39 p.m.
Huston's tenth-floor office was as richly appointed as other parts of "his" hotel: walnut paneling, thick carpet, deep brown leather armchairs, a small bar. Oddly, for the Austen was well air-conditioned, one of the two windows stood open. A fresh warm breeze riffled papers on the desk.
"Never cared for the canned air," Huston said, settling behind the desk. "Customers demand it, but I like a little real air now and then."
He saw April's glance toward the stainless-steel panel in the far corner. "My own private elevator. My father's boss had one in his office, he owned a chain of hotels in New England, and I always said I'd have one in my office someday."
He flicked his desk lighter and lit a cigar. "Brandy?" he asked Mark. "Cuban?"
"Remember your heartburn, Mr. van Gelder," April said in her prim nursemaid voice.
"Then I'll take a bicarb if I need one," Mark growled. "Be quiet, woman. Let me live a little. Brandy it is."
Cuelga moved from the door. Without wasted motion he uncorked a bottle, poured, brought the snifter to Mark, and stepped back to his station.
At no time had he looked at April. She knew, though, in the atavistic prickling of her spine, that he was aware of her. But . . .
"John," Huston was saying, "we've got some business to do here. Take Miss Collins out, get her a drink."
"Thank you, but I'm on duty," April said.
"Some coffee, then. We'll let you know when we're done."
"Right, Mr. Roesgen." Cuelga swung the door to the anteroom open, and with a last glance at Mark, April stepped through and left him alone with Caesar Huston.
The anteroom was more Spartan than Huston's office. Two straight wooden chairs, an electric clock on the wall, a water cooler, and a walnut desk adorned with a Remington typewriter. As Cuelga shut the door, the room went peculiarly silent. Soundproofed? April wondered.
"Coffee's there." Cuelga flicked a hand toward a percolator on a small stand in the corner.
"Thanks. Do you want any?"
"No." Cuelga parked a hip on the desk, one leg swinging. He took what looked like a tiny Japanese transistor radio from a shelf, plugged the earphone into his ear, and switched it on.
April poured coffee into a thick paper cup and sipped at it. A bug in the office, she thought. He's listening to Huston and Mark.
Her blood hummed. Moving with care, she strolled around the room. She knew Cuelga was aware of her, knew where she was at every moment. And yet . . .
. . . it was not a man's awareness of a woman.
April knew she was attractive to men, and usually the attention pleased her. She knew when a man's eyes were on her, when he liked what he saw. Cuelga's attention to her was chillingly different. Was he one of those who preferred other men—?
No. She remembered a line from a Dashiell Hammett story. I'm a hunter, and you're just something that's been running in front of me.
Like that: a predator's awareness of the prey, even when the predator has just fed . . .
"Have you worked for Mr. Roesgen long?" April said, to be saying something. Nurse Collins would do that.
"A long time," Cuelga said.
"What's it like? Security, I mean."
"Like anything else." Cuelga's voice was curt: Don't bother me.
The clock ticked over. 11:06. 11:07.
With the coffee in her right hand, April slid her left up and used the thumb to activate the needle on the tranq ring, reminding herself not to clench her fist or squeeze the cup.
11:08.
"I've worked for Mr. van Gelder for, oh, years," April said. "He's tough to put up with sometimes. I hope you won't say anything to . . . What is it?"
For Cuelga had stiffened. He rose to his full height, yanking the earphone out and dropping the "radio" to the desktop. One hand shot under his coat.
It's now, April thought, now, go, go—
She threw the coffee into his eyes.
Cuelga yowled and pawed at his scalded cheeks. April clapped her hand down on the exposed back of his neck. She felt the needle go in and discharge its five-hour sleep juice in the instant before she skipped back.
Cuelga slapped at his neck as though at a wasp sting. "What the hell!" He lunged toward her, his hand snaking out of his coat with his pistol. But something was wrong with his legs. He stumbled, then dropped to his knees. His eyes rolled up and he crashed face down to the carpet.
Bless you, lab boys. April darted forward and scooped up the gun. Browning Hi-Power, nine millimeter. Check the loads, good, safety off, go!
She leaped to the inner door, wrenched at the knob, plunged through.
By the window, Mark and Huston were grappling with each other. Mark, latex shreds on his cheeks and forehead, was squeezing Huston's throat. The remains of his latex van Gelder mask lay like a discarded snakeskin on the carpet.
Huston had his forearm jammed under Mark's chin and was steadily forcing the senior agent's head back. April could hear a weird grunting sound coming from Huston's chest. If he were trying to kill a small animal that wouldn't lie still, he might make that same sound.
Huston slammed Mark's head back against the window frame. Mark slumped, stunned. With a snarl of glee, Huston gripped Mark's tuxedo lapels and heaved him toward the window. Ten stories down—
No time to shout. No time for anything else. Two steps to the left, and now Mark's struggling form was no longer behind Huston.
April Dancer swung the Browning up, sighted, fired.
Act IV "Was This Some Kind of Test?"
May 14, 11:09 p.m.
The muzzle blast was deafening.
Caesar Huston let Mark go. He staggered back, arms outflung, until he hit the window frame. Blood bloomed on his shirt front. His thick lips drew back in a snarl. Eyes wide and glaring, he stumbled forward.
Without hesitation April squeezed the trigger a second time.
The bullet hurled Huston back again. His head slammed into the window frame, but his body kept going, back and then through the open window. In an instant he was gone.
April lowered the Browning. Her hand felt numb from the recoil.
Mark straightened. He peered out the window, and nodded once. He was panting as he wiped at his bloody mouth and stumbled toward her. "Good work, partner."
"Cuelga's down," April heard herself say through the ringing of her ears. "I gave him the sleepy juice."
"The gun?"
"Cuelga's. Remember, they taught us at Survival School not to leave guns lying around?" God, her heart was trying to run in all directions at once. "What did Huston want?"
Mark mopped his face with his handkerchief. His breath was easier. "Invited me to join Thrush. Oh, he never used the name, but he painted this grand picture of a worldwide conclave of men and women who want to steer the world in the right direction, save it from its 'mistakes.'"
"Gah."
"That's what I thought. But something made Huston wary. He held up a picture, and I forgot for a second I was supposed to be legally blind. He went for his Colt, there, and I knocked it out of his hand, but God! Twenty years older than me, and I thought I was fighting a gorilla."
"Never mind. We'd better run. Those shots'll bring guards on the double."
Mark stared at her. He scrubbed at his forehead with a palm. "I wonder. Is this room soundproofed?"
"Yes! I couldn't hear you and Huston. And Cuelga had to listen via a bug!"
Mark grinned. "Then we've got a little time. You interested in causing our friends some trouble?"
"I'm your girl—"
In minutes it was done. Mark's van Gelder mask and white wig stuffed under his jacket; Cuelga's unconscious body stretched on the floor of the office; his Browning, wiped of April's prints, enclosed in his hand.
"When he comes to," Mark said as he took Huston's Colt .45 Peacemaker from atop the desk, "he'll find the NYPD have a few questions for him. Hold your ears." He thumbed back the Colt's hammer and squeezed the trigger. The big gun thundered, and when April turned to look, she saw a neat bullet hole in the paneling.
"Like 'How come your gun killed your boss?' And—" She pointed at the bullet hole "—'How come he shot at you?'"
"Right. Thrush may throw him to the wolves, in which case he's out of commission."
Mark thrust the .45 into his cummerbund. He stepped to the wheelchair, bent, whipped loose the small VTR from its niche under the wheelchair, and tossed the box to April, who caught it one-handed. Then he pressed a hidden button on the frame. "Or they'll have to tie up legal resources to spring him. Either way, we win."
The chair sizzled. Smoke rose from the arms and wheel hubs. Frying the cameras and bugs, April thought, so Thrush won't get the technology. "But that'll screw up our frame of Cuelga."
"As we used to say in Philly, 'Whaddaya want for nothin'?' Come on!"
Mark hit the button for the private elevator in the corner. The door slid back, revealing a tiny gunmetal box barely big enough for two adults. They crammed in, April pressed the GROUND button, the door shut, and the box hummed downward.
April peered at the panel. Two more buttons below GROUND. "A shame we can't find out what Huston has down in those sub-levels."
"Remember what Solo said. Just a recon mission, not a raid."
"I think this stopped being 'just a recon mission' a while ago!"
The elevator stopped and the door slid open. A dimly lit corridor yawned at them, empty. Pipes snaked overhead. Air-conditioning units thrummed somewhere, and she smelled roasting meat. The kitchens?
They hurried up to a cross-corridor, at the end of which lay a door with a red EXIT sign above it. "I love that word," Mark said, and put a hand to the door lever.
A voice barked:
"Hey! Where you going?"
April shot a glance over her shoulder. One of Cuelga's security men stood at the intersection of the corridors. His hand dived under his sport jacket.
They didn't hesitate. They banged the door aside and shot out into an alley lit only by orangish work lights.
Mark swung left and broke into the heavy flat-footed run that somehow allowed him to cover ground almost as fast as she could, and she raced alongside him. As they passed Huston's crumpled body, Mark tossed the .45 down by one outstretched hand.
April glanced at the body. One look was enough. She filed the snapshot in her mind; no time to examine it now. A bullet whanged off a dumpster, another puffed dust from the wall near her head, and then they were at the alley mouth and out to the right.
Mark jumped into a shop doorway, and April crowded in after him. Breathing hard, he fished out his pen communicator. "Open Channel L . . . come in, Channel L—"
"Channel L here," said Kurt Steiner's voice. "Status?"
"On the run. Pickup . . . Point Chekhov."
"As you Americans like to say, roger. Two minutes."
"Check. Slate out."
They hurried up the avenue past closed, half-lit shops. Beyond East Fiftieth they came to a wider alley halfway down the block. There they huddled, peering out. The street was deserted; at the next corner, a lurid red neon sign winked BAR off and on, off and on.
As she caught her breath, April felt coldness wash through her. The image of Caesar Huston's crumpled, utterly still form came to her in a strong wave.
"Excuse me," she heard herself say in a prim little voice. Carefully she stepped away from Mark, bent over, and vomited.
She heaved and heaved for an endless time, feeling Mark's firm hand on her shoulder and then holding her forehead, until there was nothing left to heave up. She straightened, wiping her lips. "Sorry."
Brakes screamed. April looked up to see the big black Lincoln in the middle of the street with Kurt at the wheel, gesturing wildly. They yanked open the rear door and sprang in, and Kurt had the big car squealing its tires up the avenue even before Mark could shut the door.
"What went wrong?" Kurt said.
"Huston tumbled," Mark said. "He'd have thrown me out of his tenth-floor window if April hadn't shot him. We got—"
"Dancer?" Kurt stared at her in the rear view mirror. "You killed Huston?"
"Yes," April said.
Kurt nodded. He glanced at her in the mirror again, a look she could not read. Then he spun the wheel. The big Lincoln careened right onto East Fifty-second, missing a parked panel truck by inches, and accelerated eastward.
May 15, 1966: 1:56 a.m.
"Good work, all of you," Napoleon Solo said. He fished the rewound tape reel from the recorder, tossed it up and caught it. "True, Thrush will realize we're on to their hotel satrap. But you did them some serious damage. And who knows what we'll find on that videotape?"
April, Mark, and Kurt were ranged around the desk in Mark and April's shared office. Kurt looked sleepy; a stolid Mark sipped at coffee. As for April, she felt hollow, like a rotting log in a forest.
"What about the police?" she said. "Our frame . . ."
"Oh, the NYPD will figure it out." Solo rose, smiling at her. "Mr. Waverly and I will have to explain. But not before they put Cuelga through the wringer. And Thrush may well decide he's too much of a liability now, and snip him off the way they tend to do with loose ends.
"April, Waverly will get the transcript of this debriefing in the morning, but he'll want to see your final report first thing Monday." Solo touched her shoulder. "Again, good work. Get some sleep, all of you."
The corridor door swished open for him, and he was gone.
"Ach." Kurt rose and stretched like a big blond cat. "Some schnapps, and some sleep, yes." He turned to April. "Dancer, I must apologize. I was wrong in my earlier judgment. Welcome to Section Two."
"What the hell?" April burst out to Mark, after the door slid closed behind Kurt. "Was this some kind of test? A damn initiation?"
Mark rubbed a stubby-fingered hand across his face and set his coffee down on the desk.
"Not the way you mean. April, you crossed an important threshold tonight. You killed someone in the line of duty—"
"Tell me about it."
"Let me finish. A lot of Section Twos never have to kill during their entire time in the field. But there's always that chance. I've done it. Of course Solo and Kuryakin have done it." He paused. "So has Kurt."
April said nothing. She now understood that odd glance Steiner had given her in the car. It had been one of compassion.
"Some can't," Mark said. "They freeze. No matter how much training and desire they have, they can't kill another human being. And that's okay. They're not cut out to be field agents. But an agent who can make the correct snap decision, and act as you did tonight—thanks, by the way—"
"You're welcome."
"An agent who steps up like that . . . now we know he, or she, can be relied on under fire."
"And that's what it takes to be in the club?" April heard the wise-ass tone in her voice and hated it.
Mark rose, stretched, leaned against the desk. His voice was quiet.
"Not a 'club,' April. There's more to it than that. There's how you reacted to killing Huston."
"Tossed my cookies, you mean."
"Put it this way. How do you think Cuelga reacted the first time he shot or knifed or strangled someone? You think he tossed his cookies?"
"Hell no. Probably patted himself on the back—if he thought about it at all."
"Exactly. That's the difference between you or me, and killers like Huston or Cuelga." Leaning over, Mark touched her shoulder as Solo had. It felt warm and good.
"We're supposed to be on the side of the angels. It should give us hell to kill somebody. The last thing we want in U.N.C.L.E. is somebody who shrugs off the act of taking a life, or worse, enjoys it." He straightened. "You get me?"
April nodded. "How did you—?"
"Got drunk."
"Does it ever . . . get any easier?"
"It better not," Mark Slate said.
April nodded again. She was exhausted, and wanted nothing but a hot bath, a glass of wine, and a good sleep. With that, she'd be able to face tomorrow.
She looked up at the nearing-forty man who was her partner, and who already felt like a father to her. Or an older brother—or, okay, go ahead, make the joke, an uncle. She chuckled.
"What's so funny?"
"Oh, nothing. Mark? You trained Mr. Solo, right?"
"Yep."
"How did he react when he . . .?"
"Come on. I can't tell you that. You want to know, ask him."
April Dancer smiled, a full-bore, hundred-watt smile.
"Believe me," she said, "I will."
THE END
(We wish to thank the United Network Command for Law and Enforcement, without whose assistance this narrative would not be possible.)
(9/22/11—10/11/11)
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