The Vinea Vitreaus Affair
by Charlie Kirby

Prologue

The normally quiet hush of the Napa Valley was, this morning, shattered by angry voices, as the Napa Valley Wine Makers Association held an emergency meeting. In the long wine-tasting hall of the Franciscan Winery, men and women crowded around the large oak table, each arguing in loud demanding tones, their anger directed at a seemingly innocent sheet of paper that the Chairman held.

Everyone, except for one man. Brandon Zimmerman, the heir apparent to the Clos du Val Winery, was bored, incredibly bored, for his heart, soul, the very fiber of his existence no longer was here, but in New York. He flicked a nonchalant eye down the sheet of paper that was causing all the hoo-ha and then closed his eyes to recite the note mentally.

"The Housewives Regimen for Unsopping Sodden Husbands warns you now! Early last spring, the Napa Valley was sprayed with a new strain of virus. You can now see the results in your vats. Unless the Napa Valley puts up a ransom of one million dollars, per winery, we shall return and coat the Valley with a permanent dose of the virus. We shall await your decision. You have until October 10th."

"Big deal," Zimmerman muttered. The world could get along without Napa Valley wine just fine in his opinion. Even his family had other sources of income besides the grapes. He surrender to boredom and began to doodling in the margins of the announcement. He drew lines, squiggles, anything to keep from dropping off. Wearily he looked back down at the paper and his heart leapt to his throat when he saw what the first letter of each titled word spelled - THRUSH...

Chapter One: "...Off hand, I'd say an excellent year for grape juice..."

Two figures, clad in white fencing togs, squared off against one another. While the blond, shorter figure had speed and strength behind his thrusts, he lacked the finesse with which the second, dark-haired figure parried the lunges.

The silence of the gym was shattered by a warning blast of a horn, informing the first man that he'd, once again, fumbled over the foul line.

Shaking his head wearily, he marched back to assume an en garde position. The taller figure loomed close, twirling the top of his rapier in the face of the first, tempting him, teasing him to attack. The response was predictable and quick; the first leading with a Dépassement at his antagonist, only to be squawked at again by the horn.

"Game, Illya," announced Napoleon Solo, pulling the mask from his smiling face and sliding the gloves from his hands. "You always lead with that. You know it's called a Russian Lunge, don't you?"

Illya Kuryakin, born Russian, flopped down on the mat. He was disappointed with his performance and chastised himself for it. Fencing was not his forte, having learned only enough to avoid cutting off his own foot. No, fencing was Napoleon's love, not his. He sat up and tried to catch his breath as Napoleon joined him on the floor. Unlike Illya, whose hair was plastered to his forehead from exertion, he was barely sweating and not the least bit out of breath. Of course, he'd merely stood still while Illya had done all the attacking and let his partner wear himself out.

"Next time, Napoleon, I choose!" Illya pulled his knees up to rest his arms on them. "That was some workout, for me. Look at you; this is supposed to be your exercise plan, not mine. I don't need to lose weight."

Napoleon smiled affectionately at the grumbling. "Your problem is that fencing is a refined gentleman's sport and let's face it, my friend, a refined gentleman is one thing you'll never be." He patted a muscular shoulder affectionately. "It's like the difference between baroque and rococo. One is brute physicality, heavy ponderous, unavoidable and absolute. The other is light and airy, but with a flare and a strength that is hidden by finesse. You are Baroque."

"I wouldn't be if you hadn't insisted on borrowing money from me last night,' Illya muttered, then grinned slightly at Napoleon's groan. "You're buying lunch, by the way."

Napoleon's retort was lost as the loud speaker above their heads crackled to life. "Agents Solo and Kuryakin, report to Mr. Waverly's office as soon as possible."

"ASAP, I wonder what's going on." Illya accepted Napoleon's hand up. 'I thought we were desk bound for a while."

"As did I and it must be something big if they're calling us in." Napoleon led the way into the locker room, avoiding the other agents that wandered in and out. "Thank God for crises."

Fifteen minutes later found Napoleon and Kuryakin seated in front of Alexander Waverly, Section 1, No. 1. The old man's wrinkled face was even more so today and he fumbled with his pipe incessantly, not a good sign overall. His mind, capable of working on several problems at once, affixed itself to the one in front of it - a bottle of red wine - as the aged, still-powerful hands uncorked the bottle and poured three glasses.

"Mr. Solo, your reputation as a wine connoisseur precedes you. May I have your opinion of this?" Waverly handed both men a glass and settled back in his chair.

Illya peered curiously at his glass, frowning at the sediment resting in the bottom, as Napoleon tasted the wine. A knot of confusion worked across his brow and Illya watched, obviously amused by Napoleon's actions.

"Nostrovia." Finally he lifted his glass to his lips, downing the contents in one swallow. "I don't know much about wine," Illya responded, concentrating on the aftertaste. "But it is certainly the sweetest I've ever tasted. Is that normal?"

"Well, Mr. Solo?" Waverly left his own glass untouched, instead lighting his pipe.

Napoleon discarded his glass and picked up the bottle. "This year's Inglenook? Off hand, I'd say an excellent year for grape juice, but a terrible one for wine. In fact this actually shouldn't even exist."

Illya glanced from Napoleon to Waverly, puzzled, but since neither man made a move to speak, he picked up. "What do you mean, Napoleon? How can it not exist when it sits in front of us very much in existence?"

"My dear Illya, this bottle indicates that this wine is of this season's crop and a red wine is fermented for at least six months. So, for that matter, is a white or rosé. With the harvest in the fall, the earliest you should see a red is the summer of the following year. This belongs in a fermenting vat, certainly not in a bottle."

"Exactly, Mr. Solo." Waverly spoke softly, commanding their attention. "This bottle was sent up from Napa Valley by Brandon Zimmerman, one of our Section 2 men, along with this note. Apparently something is very amiss in Napa Valley." Waverly pushed a sheet of paper at him.

Napoleon lifted the paper and quickly disregarded the obvious doodles, shifting instead to the sheet's heading, the capital of each word colored in. He scanned the message before sharing it with his Russian partner. Illya pulled out his glasses and perched them on his nose, studying the note thoroughly, finally pulling them off and handing the note back to Waverly.

Nothing was said for a long moment while Mr. Waverly relit his pipe, Napoleon grappled with a bothersome idea and Illya idly fingered his glasses.

"I think we're in serious trouble this time," Illya finally murmured.

"Please elucidate, Mr. Kuryakin." Waverly leaned back, giving the agent a free rein.

"I'm sure that Section Eight has already started to analyze the chemical makeup of this 'wine,' for lack of a better word. Whatever they find, it'll be phenomenal. THRUSH has found a way of keeping this wine from fermenting, a relatively simple thing to do, but I'll wager they didn't take the easy route, and I shudder at the implied connotations. However, all is not lost; it's not permanent." Illya rose to peer out the only window in the U.N.C.L.E. building, his mind miles away in thought.

Napoleon caught the slight bewildered look on Waverly's face and silently thanked Illya for letting him see it, but he knew a similar look graced his own face. He climbed to his feet, offering his hand, "Congratulations, Illya, you've just had an entire conversation with yourself. That's not easy, you know. Would you mind playing it again, for my sake?"

"Certainly, Napoleon." Illya turned back to his friend innocently. "What part didn't you understand?"

"Everything after 'We're in serious trouble this time,'" Napoleon urged, folding his arms.

Illya returned to the table. "Obviously THRUSH has developed a strain of virus that halts the fermentation process, but, as indicated in the note, it's temporary unless a second dose is applied." Illya waited for Napoleon's agreeing nod before continuing. "Considering all we know of THRUSH, I feel secure in deducting that blackmail a handful of vintners is not a motivating factor here."

"You think they're using Napa Valley as a test site for whatever this virus is." Illya nodded and Napoleon continued his partner's train of thought. "And I'll bet whatever it is it isn't likely to be confined to just grapes. THRUSH is more far-seeing than that. I see what you mean." Napoleon tapped Illya's arm absently with a forefinger. "We could be in dire straits this time."

"Which is exactly why you and Mr. Kuryakin are booked on the next flight to San Francisco," Mr. Waverly said quietly. Both men turned at his voice, having forgotten his presence. "Mr. Solo, with your wine expertise and Mr. Kuryakin's scientific knowledge, I'll expect an answer from the three of you before the 10th."

"Three, sir?"

"Arsene Corica, from our Sicilian office. He'll be joining us in a few minutes. From San Francisco, you'll proceed to the Napa Valley to tour some of the various affected wineries. Perhaps you can pick up a clue as to where and how the virus was introduced."

"At least it will be educativo, educational." A soft, Italian-accented voice came from the doorway. There stood a tall, brown-haired gentleman, a smile playing across his slender face.

"Arsene! Welcome to New York." Illya walked over to shake his hand and slap the man on the back, closely followed by his partner.

"Bon giorno, Illya; it is good to see you again. And Napoleon; is that really you this time?" Arsene grasped Napoleon's hand heartily. "Or am I seeing double?"

"We've been lucky to keep it down to one since the 'August Affair.'" Illya remarked, smiling at the inside joke. Only a few agents knew about the multiple Napoleons. "Believe me when I say, one is more than enough."

"Still knocking the hearts out of the young ladies, Napoleon?" Napoleon flicked an eye over at his grinning partner and nodded.

"It's a tough job, Arsene, but one does what one can," Napoleon joked as Mr. Waverly, frowning disapprovingly, answered the demanding ring of his phone. He consulted the instrument quietly while the three men talked amongst themselves. His face worked for a moment before cradling the receiver.

"You gentlemen will contact me as soon as you reach our San Francisco office. Have a nice flight." He abruptly dismissed the trio, his mind already grappling with a new problem. Napoleon gestured to the door, even as a second pair of agents brushed past him into Waverly's office, reporting to him on another cause. Napoleon nodded to the pair and followed his companions out

Chapter Two: "If I waited for Napoleon, I'd be dead."

The stewardess glided her way down the narrow aisle to where the three men sat, one reading and two arguing quietly. The latter two paused as she handed them their drinks, but started up again the moment she left.

"And I say 'The Hungry I,'" Napoleon maintained firmly from his aisle seat. "The food is excellent and the entertainment always outstanding."

"Sciocchezza, nonsense, why eat club food when there are so many outstanding restaurants to chose from in San Francisco? Armenian, for example" Arsene said, from Napoleon's left. "I've been told there is an excellent one in...some place called the Castro?"

"We probably don't want to go there, the three of us...together. All right; Illya will break the tie." Napoleon leaned across Arsene's lap to tap Illya's thigh with two fingers. The head bobbed up and Napoleon paused, waiting for the eyes to focus upon him. Illya tugged off his glasses and studied his partner seriously.

You have the deciding vote, partner. What's it going to be for dinner tonight -The Hungry I or, shudder, Armenian?" Illya flicked blue eyes from one face to the other and back.

"And you are willing to abide by my decision?" he asked finally. "Completely and absolutely?"

"Absolutely, mio amico," Arsene answered, smiling.

"If I must." Napoleon wasn't quite as gracious. "Just remember who's doing your next salary review."

"Solo mio, that's blackmail," Arsene protested, his handsome features dismayed at the turn of events.

"And you think I became CEA on good looks and charm alone? Decide, Illya."

"Then I shall take the third option, Chinese," Illya said with a finality that Napoleon knew too well. When Illya used that tone, Napoleon could spot a lost cause.

"Ugh." Napoleon's cultured palate cringed at the thought. "Illya, be reasonable..."

"Napoleon, if I were reasonable, I'd be married with a dozen kids and teaching physics in some small university in Russia, not chasing you all over the place." Illya thumbed his glasses back and returned to his book.

Napoleon sighed, then a smile played across his lips and he leaned close to Arsene, whispering, while Illya glared over his glasses at the two. "Then you agree," Napoleon said, sitting back.

"Assolutamente." Arsene's face brightened. "Absolutely."

"Agree to what?" Illya asked, frowning.

"Well, son." Napoleon let the cool blue eyes focus on him before continuing. "Arsene and I agree to Chinese on one condition."

"And might I inquire as to the nature of this condition?"

Together, Napoleon and Arsene chimed, "Russian treat!"

"The Russian pays?" Illya verified the long-standing joke between himself and his partner. He considered for a moment before gravely nodding. "Very well, but I pick the restaurant." Illya pointed a warning finger.

Napoleon shifted his attention from Illya back to Arsene. "Beware of consenting Russian, means big trouble for unwary relatives."

"I think we just bit off more chop mien than we can chew," Arsene muttered, wary of Kuryakin's easy compliance. "What are you reading, mio amico?" Arsene leaned over to peer at the text in Illya's hands. "Is it physics?"

"Organic chemistry," Illya corrected. "Just trying to bring myself up to speed. It's been a long time since I've had to deal with it on a practical level. I'm also familiarizing myself with the chemical changes that occur during the initial stages of the fermentation process. I'll leave the rest up to Napoleon."

"Physics, chemistry, I'll never make it out of Section 2 as a scientist."

"It's easy, Arsene," Illya explained. "If it stinks, it's chemistry; if it's green or wiggles, it's biology; and if it doesn't work at all, it's physics. At least that's how my quantum physics professor at the Sorbonne explained it to me."

Napoleon frowned at the book Illya held. "I'd like to think of myself as a wine expert, but I don't know the chemical reasoning behind it." He indicated a page. "Where does this all fit in?"

"There are three stages in all, Napoleon," Illya said, pulling his glasses off and tucking them away. "You take your initial starch solution and add diastase, which is a direct synthesis of malt, and you end up with maltose. Then to that you introduce a second enzyme, a yeast derivative, to make glucose. And in the final stage, you add carbon dioxide and additional yeast to result in your primary wine before the aging process. This is, of course, for small scale fermentation. In large scale fermentation..."

"Ask a silly question," Napoleon muttered. "Never mind, Illya, I'm just glad you understand the process. For now, that will be enough." He held up his hands in the classic 'I surrender' pose. "So, tell me, Arsene, is this your first visit to San Francisco?"

"Yes, it is, and I was wondering if you could tell me, about this Golden Gate Bridge - it looks more orange than gold..."

A bitterly cold wind blew off the San Francisco Bay as Illya led the way through Chinatown, up Washington Street after they abandoned their rental car in a parking garage.

Arsene pulled his top coat closer around his neck in a vain attempt to keep the cold from any further access and Napoleon shivered as a chill worked its way up and down his spine, his conservative brown suit as effective against the cold as a feather against a tank.

Only Illya ignored the icy bite, leaving his trench coat open and flapping as he walked. "This reminds me of my days in Siberia," he explained and then he paused for a moment to get his bearing and then led the way down a small side street, named, appropriately enough, Waverly. Weaving in and out of local residents, tourists, cars and other obstacles, he finally to ground to a halt before a dingy building. Above the door hung a sign that announced this was 'The Universal Café.'

"This is it?" Arsene asked, the Italian in him wincing. "It's very....what is the word... modesto?"

"Unassuming?" Napoleon guessed and Arsene nodded tightly. "Yes, that's one way to describe it. Hole in the wall would be another."

"This is it." Illya triumphantly pushed the door open. Immediately they were met by a burly man, who looked more like a sumo wrestler than a Chinese waiter.

Napoleon opened his coat to let the warmth of the restaurant in, trying not to be too obvious in his studying of the interior, most of it hidden by a non-romantic lack of lights, while Illya conversed with the waiter in Chinese.

"Where did you acquire a taste for Chinese food, my Russian friend?" Napoleon asked as the waiter led them back, deep into the restaurant, away from prying eyes.

"The same place I learned the language, Napoleon, the Russian Navy, Illya said easily as their waiter motioned them into a private booth.

Napoleon slid down onto one of the bench seats and warily examined the table. It had been deeply scarred by a younger generation that had felt the need to declare their love or who did what with who for how much or who had what social disease. All their comments were now immortalized beneath a thick coat of resin. Napoleon whiled away a few moments reading them until he was interrupted by a strapping example of oriental young, who plopped a water glass in front of him. Then, abruptly, Napoleon remembered his companions

Arsene stared at a menu, finally whispering, "Napoleon, what in the name of good taste is Sub Gum Gai Ding?"

"You got me, Arsene. Ask Illya, it's his ball game."

"Trust me, Arsene," Illya assured. "Everything they serve is edible or at least biodegradable."

"Order for me, Illya," Napoleon said, flipping his menu closed. He knew when practicality took over.

Arsene continued to study his menu, finally shaking his head. "And me also, please. The only things I'm sure about on the entire menu are the beverages and I'm still working on the preserved Lychee."

Both men listened as Illya placed their order, in Cantonese, and Napoleon noted the look of amazement on the waiter's face as he lumbered away.

"What did you chose, or should I ask?" Napoleon had finally warmed up enough to shrug off his top coat and hang it on a hook behind his head.

"The dinner for four; it was the easiest." Illya answered with an indifferent shake of his head. "Oh, you both do like sake, don't you?"

"Illya, didn't they teach you how to count in Russia? There are only three of us," Arsene protested.

"You've obviously never been around Illya during meal time, Arsene, or you'd never have said that," Napoleon said, eyes twinkling. "He makes up the extra person, but I'd advise you to keep your hands well away from his mouth. We had one agent that got too close and now we call him 'Lefty'."

"Napoleon," Illya protested, mock hurt in his voice. "You know the doctors are always after me to put on a few more pounds, unlike some people at this table."

"Touché, Mr. K," Napoleon said, grudgingly. "Again with the Russian Lunge." To Arsene, "Sorry, old joke."

Illya shrugged his shoulders, accepting the tray of sake and glasses from the waiter. "Old UNCLE agent."

Arsene flopped back on the bench and unceremoniously loosened his belt. "Oh, mi Dios, such a meal I've never seen. It reminds me of the banquets the Romans were so famous for."

Napoleon leaned against a wall at the end of the table and nodded in agreement, watching Illya dutifully work his way through the remainder of the pork chow mien. "Don't you ever give up, Illya?"

The Russian gulped down his mouthful and regarded Napoleon earnestly. "I am an U.N.C.L.E. agent, Napoleon. I don't know the meaning of the word surrender. Besides, it's part of my upbringing. You know, 'Waste not, have not.' That sort of thing."

"It's, 'want not', Illya." Napoleon corrected, rubbing his forehead. He was feeling the effects of one too many glasses of sake. "There was enough there for seven people."

"Or one hungry Russian.' Arsene sat up to sip his tea. A familiar bleeping catching him in mid-motion, but Napoleon was the first to silence his communicator and bring it to his lips.

"Channel D is open, Solo here," he responded more crisply than he felt. Arsene leaned closer to hear and Illya chewed slowly, his face intent.

"Zimmerman, sir, progress report. I've got a lead of sorts. I think they're bringing the virus in through the Noyo Harbor at Ft. Bragg."

"North Carolina?" Napoleon asked, glancing over at his partner. Illya shrugged his shoulders.

"No, Ft. Bragg here in California, just up the coast from you. The Coast Guard has reported some unusual activity around the area. Also, I've managed to establish a working rapport with one of their officials, Eric Carlton."

"I'll run a background check on him, Napoleon." Illya flicked open his own communicator and began to murmur into it.

"How are they bringing it in, do you know?"

"Yes, sir, they're using a..." A gurgle followed and Napoleon stared down at the instrument and held it closer to his mouth.

"Zimmerman? Zimmerman!" He heard a thump and then a strange voice.

"Say good night to Mr. Solo, Mr. Zimmerman. You won't be talking to him again." The channel went dead with a crunch.

"I hate this damned feeling of helplessness!" Arsene slammed a hand down on the table. 'That was the sound of our only lead being eliminated and we sit here useless, completely out of commission."

"Only temporarily, Arsene," Napoleon reassured the man with a tight smile. "Tomorrow, we start out payback. You head directly for Ft. Bragg and try that coast guard lead. Milk him dry and then hang him up. I don't want any outside involvement if it can be helped. We've already lost one good man,; I won't have more. Be sure and check with headquarters before you leave; they should have the ID check finished by then. Illya and I will continue on to Napa Valley as planned, and, Arsene, be careful." Napoleon's hazel eyes were cool, the look in them detached, a look that had seen so much danger, too much suffering and yet still blazed with an undaunted spirit.

The Italian nodded his consent and stood. "I think perhaps it is time to rest before heading out again."

The three men entered the parking garage and Napoleon welcomed the shelter it provided from the drizzle outside. At the far end of the garage, two men lackadaisically tossed a Frisbee back and forth, occasionally bouncing it off the hood of a car or the floor. Illya glanced uneasily at the pair as he dug into his jacket pocket for their ticket.

What's the matter, Illya? Is that Sub Gum getting to you?" Napoleon followed his partner's gaze.

"No, I just thought I recognized one of them."

"Your imagination must be working overtime, Illya," Arsene assured him and clapped him on the shoulder. "How could they look familiar?" He watched as a third man stroll away in search of their car.

"I don't know." Illya moved restlessly, staring over his shoulder into the streets and then Napoleon's attention was caught as one of the two Frisbee players hurled the disk, with a murderous intent, at the back of Illya's head.

"Illya, look out!" Napoleon shoved the Russian out of the Frisbee's path as it whizzed past to implant itself firmly into a column of concrete. Illya, off balance, fell against Arsene as Napoleon yanked his Walther P-38 free of its holster.

"Damn, they play rough," Illya said, upholstering his own weapon. 'Must be some of Baldwin's boys."

Both of the attackers had fled behind a car and had their guns out, a more tradition weapon of engagement between them and their foes. Likewise, Illya took refuge behind a blue sedan to escape from the bullets.

Who?" Arsene had his gun out and aimed for a clear shot as one attacker made it to the safety of the registration stall

"The local head THRUSH and us being in town only four hours." A ping by Illya's head gave him all the incentive he needed; he drilled several shots off into the concrete around the gunman's hiding place. "Maybe we should forget to mention this to Mr. Waverly, Napoleon, what with our last visit here and all."

Arsene, puzzled, smiled at him and shook his head. "You will have to tell me about him later. I'll be back; I have a certain party to look up." He slipped off between vehicles and Illya followed him, wiggling his way between the cement wall and parked cars, slowly approaching his quarry.

Napoleon spotted him and sent up a frenzy of gunshots, hoping to sound like two people, but the ruse failed as one of the two antagonists also noticed the Russian. He spun to fire upon the agent. Illya stiffened and staggered a step before collapsing. Napoleon planted a mercy bullet firmly into the gunman's chest as the remaining shooter blasted of a round at him and dipped back behind the cover of a car.

Napoleon waited anxiously for a hint of action from Illya, but Illya remained motionless on the ground. Napoleon considered making a break from his own protection to aid the Russian, but froze as he saw the gunman warily creep from behind his protective cover and slowly approach the fallen UNCLE agent.

Belatedly, Napoleon realized Illya was setting himself up as bait and, obligingly, Napoleon waited for a clear shot. Then, unforeseen, the gunman positioned himself directly behind a cement support beam, blocking Napoleon's only good view of the action. His anxiety grew as he watched a shadow, cast to unreal proportions, take aim at Illya's prone form.

A shot rang out, Illya twitched and Napoleon charged from his cover. He rounded the beam to see Illya sitting up, calmly dusting off the knees of his pants and casually watching Arsene examine the fallen THRUSH.

"First time I ever had to shoot a man in the back," Arsene said, brushing his thick brown hair into place and offered Illya a hand up.

"I'm just glad you did. If I waited for Napoleon, I'd be dead now." Illya gracefully came to his feet. "What happened to number three?"

"Left him sleeping in the back of someone's station wagon." Arsene pointed over his shoulder. "I very nearly broke my knuckles on that one's head. You grow them tough here. Not like back home."

Napoleon dug through the pockets of the first gunman, pulling out a set of keys, some gum, a business card and a half sucked bit of lint covered candy. "I think we'd better make our goodbyes." Napoleon began to scan the area for their car. "I really don't want to be around when the local color shows up. San Francisco cops have a tendency not to be impressed with our ID cards."

Chapter Three: "At least pretend you've got bones."

Illya Kuryakin leaned back in the bucket seat of the U.N.C.L.E. car and closed his eyes, affecting an air of severe ennui. The wind from his open window brushed past him and nestled its way through Napoleon Solo's usually neat hair. It was odd that Napoleon chose to drive, but he'd been adamant that morning. Illya was bored and slightly car sick, but he gave voice to neither complaint.

Instead, he chose to complain about the one thing that actually could make a difference. He opened his eyes and studied his partner's profile. "I still think you would have been better off with Arsene. I know nothing about wine, Napoleon."

"Possibly, but you're my partner. If I am going into a bad situation, I want you at my back." Napoleon flicked his gaze over to Illya briefly and then back to the road. "Besides, Arsene doesn't have the scientific background for this."

Illya pointed to a sign. "There you are, Napoleon, Inglenook Wineries, that way." He gestured to a nearby hilltop decorated with a large Spanish-style house with vineyards sprawled out in all directions around it. "Just stay close; if they want more than scientific chit chat from me, I'm in trouble. I know what I like, but I couldn't tell you why I like it."

"Don't worry, my friend. I'll never be out of panic range." Napoleon headed the car up the narrow driveway to the main house, keeping a minimum amount of attention on the road and admiring the fields that stretched out around them.

"I'd often wondered how grapes were grown commercially," Illya said as he also scanned the fields filled with stubby vines, now devoid of fruit and leaves. "In all my travelling I've never seen a commercially producing vineyard before, just the small family run estates."

"Most people are surprised to see how they're grown and even more startled at the actual wine-making process. It's not really that complicated a process, the truth be known. The difficulty comes in with the aging and balancing of the tannins and sugars and of knowing just the right moment to stop the fermentation process to give the wine its best balance and complexities."

"Yes, please don't get out of earshot," Illya murmured.

Napoleon slowed the car in front of a long row of white marble stairs. The building's doors opened as he cut the engine and a rotund little gentleman, beaming from ear to ear, descended the stairs three at a time.

"Mr. Solo? Dr. Kuryakin? Am I glad to see you two."

"Mr. Domingo, I presume?" Napoleon pulled his muscular frame from the car agilely and offered his hand. "I'm Napoleon Solo of the FDA." He flipped his wallet to allow the man to view the falsified document while Domingo continued to pump his other hand. "I certainly hope we can be of service to you in some small way."

Illya, grateful for the distraction Napoleon provided, tugged on his jacket to conceal his shoulder holster and P-38.

"Mr. Domingo," Napoleon started, rescuing his hand.

"Philip, please."

"Philip, this is my partner, Illya Kuryakin. He's the technical end of our team."

Illya snapped forward in a quick bow, hoping to spare his hand from the rigorous workout that Napoleon's had gotten, but the elfin man snatched up the Russian's hand and squeezed it in a powerful grip.

"Dr. Kuryakin, a pleasure. We've taken all the samples that you requested and I'll have a worker load them while I take you on a tour of Inglenook. We don't usually conduct tours, you know, but for our saviors, I couldn't resist."

Napoleon and Illya exchanged looks of disbelief and Napoleon cleared his throat. "I wouldn't go so far as to call us saviors, Mr. Do...Philip. That's putting considerable faith into our organization. I hope we don't disappoint you."

"Nonsense, I know you're capable. I have all the confidence in the world in you. Besides, I don't often get an opportunity to show my winery off and love to snatch up every offer I get. Everyone at the Association gets tired of me going on and on, except for Brandon, of course."

"Brandon? Zimmerman?" Illya's eyes shifted back to Napoleon in question.

"Where is the old boy?" Napoleon asked nonchalantly. "I thought he'd meet us here."

"It's a real shame he couldn't." Domingo led the way down a worn path. "He spoke very highly of you two. In fact, it was his idea to call you people in. He said if anyone could unscramble this kettle of birds, you two could."

"Those were his exact words?" Napoleon picked up the meaning, but smiled at the man, assuring him nothing was amiss.

"They didn't make any sense to me, either. He spends too much time in New York, if you ask me. Anyways, he's off to Ft. Bragg to sell some wine to the local restaurants for the upcoming Bacchus celebration."

"Bacchus?" Napoleon's mind began a frantic search through the prominent names on the wine circuit.

"Bacchus was the Roman god of wine, Napoleon," Illya murmured and Napoleon nodded. "He's usually pictured as a slightly inebriated, portly man astride an ass. The Romans held huge banquets in his honor each spring, to celebrate planting, and each fall, to celebrate the harvest. Those banquets later degenerated into the drunken orgies the Romans became so famous for, hence the word bacchanalia." Illya paused to examine a grapevine, running a slender hand over the branches.

Domingo clapped him on the back, happily. "I have such learned men here. We are saved."

"The proverbial counting chickens," Illya muttered, kneeling by the base of the vine, crumbing a clump of dirt, feeling the texture as it filtered through his fingers. "My knowledge of wine extends only to the limits of a text book, I'm afraid." He rose, brushing the earth from his hands and smiled gently. "Napoleon's the real expert. I'm just along as excessive baggage." He tugged a small vial from his coat pocket and bent to fill the tube with a sample, his mind racing over the possibilities. Napoleon's quiet voice interrupted his thoughts.

"Are you going to join us, Doc, or commune with the flora all day?"

It was then that Illya realized he was alone. Standing, he snapped a lid on the tube, secured it in his pocket and doubled his normal brisk pace.

Napoleon and Domingo had halted by the doorway of a long, barnlike structure and Domingo gestured them in.

"Gentlemen, the mechanics of wine making is not terribly romantic anymore, but much more efficient." He guided them between the stainless steel equipment, glistening and reflecting in the white tiled room. It more closely resembled a lab with its test tubes, centrifugal chambers and glass tubing than what Illya would have envisioned as wine making equipment. Domingo continued on. "This is our lab where we control and test our wine throughout its fermentation. It's always been quite adequate until now. One moment, gentlemen." He turned and held up a bottle, caked with dust. "This is an Inglenook 1851, considered by many as our finest year. I propose a toast to your success." The man deftly uncorked the bottle and poured out three glassfuls of the deep red liquid.

"To our hopeful success," Napoleon corrected, accepting a glass and holding it up to the fluorescent light to admire its contents.

"No, Mr. Solo, complete success. We have to be optimistic." Domingo inhaled the wine's bouquet as if it were a treasured perfume and then took just a sip, breathing through his mouth to aerate the mouthful.

Illya watched the two, momentarily entertained, before regarding his own glass with all the interest of a man confronted by a plate of raw squid.

Napoleon sipped the wine, rolling it around on his tongue and relishing the flavor as did Domingo.

Illya shrugged his shoulders in a gesture of impatience and announced, "Nostrovia!" Then he tilted the glass back, draining it as Domingo stared and Napoleon sighed deeply.

"Illya," he said finally, "You're supposed to sip wine."

"I know, Napoleon, but I was thirsty," Illya responded mildly as he set his glass aside.

Domingo cleared his throat and gestured onwards. "If you'll follow me." He started through a cement doorway. "I'll show you the major mechanics." The two U.N.C.L.E. agents trailed after him into another chamber, much like the first, but housing only a short, squat, stainless steel tank.

"This is our stem-crusher. It can handle up to 100 tons of grapes a day." The Spanish gentleman indicated the contraption. "In the case of the whites, it removes the stems and skins and gently squeezes the juice from the grape."

"What about the reds?" Illya eyed the machine.

"With the reds, the stems are removed, but the skins remain as a natural source of tannin, giving the reds their color and dryness," Domingo explained, then pointed to a trough. "Through here the juice that naturally seeps from the grapes prior to the squeezing is collected. With the whites, the juice is mixed with the must - the machine-crushed juice, and with the reds, it's kept separate until the secondary fermentation takes place." There was a rack of glasses and he reached for one and poured another measure of wine from the bottle he carried and offered it to Illya before refilling Napoleon's glass.

"So much for the beautiful women foot-stomping the stuff. I had always thought that was why you were into wine, Napoleon," Illya said, accepting the glass with a smile

"I'm afraid that went out about 1874, Mr. Kuryakin, except for our festivals and whatnot. This is far more practical and sanitary."

"It's at this point that the sulfur dioxide is added, isn't it?" Napoleon interrupted.

"Yes, for the inhibition of the wild yeast and bacteria. It's wonderful to have such informed guests."

"Did you check the sulfur?" Napoleon, curious, pressed on. He sipped his wine delicately.

"All of us did, even sent a sample to San Francisco, but the results came back negative. Nothing had tampered with it."

"So much for easy."

"Nothing is ever easy for us, Napoleon. Besides, we know it to be a virus and a viral infection would have nothing to do with sulfur dioxide. The damage was done before it got in here." Illya patted the drum affectionately. "Or after it left."

Napoleon was spared a comment as Domingo led them into a third, much larger room, filled with huge vats.

"This is our fermenting room and this is where we first noted the trouble. Our whites are fermented in closed steel drums with the temperature closely regulated, so we didn't even notice them until afterwards. Our reds, however, are fermented up here." The man led the way to a ramp way that wove between its way to a series of catwalks strung between the huge oak vats. His voice echoed eerily in the wooden drums. "This should be filled with this year's Inglenook, but we had to empty them."

"When did you first notice something was wrong?" Napoleon glanced over the railing into the empty vat.

"Initially, when the yeast is added, the activity is, of course, slow, but gradually, say two or three days, this would be a mass of seething, churning liquid. We have to go through and punch down the cap that forms from the grape skins to keep the whole thing from exploding, that's how forceful the fermentation process is. Anyways, by Day 4, when nothing was happening, I got worried and checked the whites. Nothing was happening, so naturally I contacted the other wineries. The story was the same all over. A day after that, we received that bizarre note from that temperance group and Brandon suggested we contact you. I don't mind telling you gentlemen that I was plenty worried until now, of course." Domingo climbed down from the catwalk and into yet another long cement room, this one lined with barrels. "And finally, this is where the wines are stored previous to bottles. Our racking room is right below us, if you like to see it."

"Shouldn't be necessary." Illya joined them after an examination of a tank. "How long is the wine kept here?"

"Depends on the type of wine, the whites can be held up to four years, the roses, from three to six months, the reds no less than six months. Exactly how long after that they are released on the market is up to the individual cellar, whatever he feels in the wine's maturity. By holding them in the oak casks they age and drink up the natural flavor of the wood and can be kept like this for years, as opposed to bottles. Now bottles are more convenient, but they have to be rebottled after 25 years, so it counteracts itself."

"I fully understand," Napoleon agreed as he finished up his wine and procured Illya's now empty glass from him.

Domingo took the glasses from him as they entered a final room. This one, in contrast to the steel and concrete, was oak-paneled, with a long table in the center, and the walls were covered with racks of bottles.

"Welcome to my private tasting room, Mr. Solo, Dr. Kuryakin. I purposefully placed it here so I can guide people through the winery beforehand. Have a seat please." He motioned to the table.

Napoleon gracefully lowered himself into a chair, watching Illya wander about the room. "Illya," Napoleon ventured, indicating a seat. "Why don't you join me?" Napoleon made the question a command, knowing how the agent often had a habit of ignoring him on such matters.

Illya wearily flopped into a chair beside Napoleon, and as Domingo turned his attention to the wine, and Napoleon took the opportunity to lean close to his fellow agent.

"Illya, I'd watch this stuff. Wine is not something to drink heartily when you're sleepy or hungry and you look both."

"I sat up all night with the lab boys on this. Sure hope they came up with something pertinent." Illya leaned back and sighed. No matter how you cut this, today had long day written all over it.

Napoleon skillfully handled the powerful car, even though he was beginning to experience a slight buzz in his ears. He glanced over at his partner and wondered how much of the same buzz Illya heard as the Russian lolled back, a serene expression on his face.

"Illya, I think maybe you've had enough. Perhaps we should skip the Chappellet Vineyards." Napoleon slowed the car to a stop in front of the winery.

"And disappoint Mr. Chabel...Chal...what was his name? Mr. Waverly would have our reputations." Kuryakin struggled with the door, until he remembered it opened vertically. This struck him as particularly funny and he chucked as he surveyed the brown, sandstone, fortress-like structure. Heavy grapevines covered the walls, reminding him of seaweed and he panicked for a moment thinking he was underwater.

"Welcome to the Chappellet Vineyards," a voice rumbled at them from behind the vines.

Napoleon felt his spine tighten as the figure emerged from the shadows. A tall, aged man, his shoulders bent from work, but still with a definite air of dignity in his step and manner. "I am Don Ellis Chappellet, the grandfather of Napa Valley wine." He gestured proudly with a wrinkled, cracked hand.

"A THRUSH of nasty proportions," Illya mumbled, swaying just the slightest. He reached for his gun, forgetting it was now secured in the glove compartment of the car. He pawed at his armpit, making an extensive search of the area for the missing weapon. "Napoleon, it's gone; they've taken it, it's gone!"

"Easy, Illya, it's in the car. Chin up, we're from the FDA, remember?" Napoleon slapped him on the shoulder and then held his hand out. "Mr. Chappellet, Napoleon Solo, pleasure to meet you, Sir. Thank you for letting us visit, it was most generous." Napoleon once again flipped out the fake ID card and indicated Illya. "My partner, Illya Kuryakin. You'll have to excuse him, I think he's visited one too many wineries today."

"I have not," Illya protested, taking a step front, but ending a step sideways.

"Wine is to be enjoyed, Mr. Solo, to its fullest extent and is to be largely partaken of. If you'll accompany me to the tasting room?" The man began to walk towards the vine-laden building, and then softly, to Napoleon, asked, "Exactly how much wine would you say he's had? I'll adjust his glass accordingly."

Napoleon smiled obliged. "If my estimate is correct, about three bottles give or take an ounce or two."

"And he's still standing up? That's admirable."

"That's Russian."

By the time Napoleon half-carried, half-pushed Illya to the car, he was starting to have doubts as to his own abilities to handle the U.N.C.L.E car. He was feeling a serious buzz from his own imbibing and he'd been very careful about his wine intake.

"Come on, Illya, old man." He braced the rubber-kneed Russian against the car, using both hands to open the passenger's door. In the minute it took for him to do that, Illya slid from the car to the ground and was agreeably sitting, looking at the gravel. "Oh, are you going to be sick." Napoleon regarded him momentarily. "I'm not letting you live this down for a long time. Up we go." He pushed him over into the driver's seat and slammed the door down.

"But, Napoleon, I can't drive. I don't have the key," Illya protested, struggling unsuccessfully to right himself.

"That's correct, Illya, but I have no intentions of having you fall out the door before I can shut it." Napoleon rounded the car carefully, avoiding the dips and holes he hadn't noticed earlier. Finally he got his door opened and shoved Illya back into the passenger's seat.

"Cut it out, Napoleon. I feel like a beash ball.' The fair-haired agent flopped, boneless, to the other side of the car and began to laugh.

Napoleon turned serious, briefly, before smiling. He watched Illya slide down the bucket seat to the floor and look up at him, quite somber, before laying his back against the seat, laughing. "Damn it, Illya, will you sit up? At least pretend you've got bones!" Napoleon hauled him back up into the seat, only to have him slide back down. "All right then, sit there!" Napoleon slammed his door and started up the car. "I just hope you stay plastered until we get to Ft. Bragg or this could get real tricky."

Napoleon maneuvered the sleek car around the narrow, twisting roads to Ft. Bragg. Illya had passed out just outside of Calistoga and now slumbered, half on the floor, half on the seat, in an impossibly comfortable position that only a drunken man could find. Napoleon considered him, curious, for it was the first time he had actually seen Illya drunk enough to warrant passing out and the two of them had tied some on together in the past. Was it Illya's unfamiliarity with wine? Napoleon didn't think so. He'd seen his partner down two bottles in the course of a stakeout with even batting an eye. No, there was something else going and it made Napoleon realize just how much of Illya remained a mystery, even to him. In spite of their years of friendship and working together, there were still large portions of the man's life no one was privy to, not even Napoleon.

"Probably a past event in your life today, my friend," Napoleon murmured. "But were you celebrating or trying to forget it? Guess I'll never know and you aren't likely to tell me now."

He suddenly heard the "slip-slop" of a helicopter. Napoleon darted an investigative look and his hands tightened on the steering wheel as his foot clamped the gas pedal to the floor, sending the car up to a brisk 80 mph. He only needed one look at the black helicopter that hovered too close to the car, evenly pacing them, to know that THRUSH had sent a welcoming party

"Wake up, Illya; we've got company." Napoleon shook his companion's shoulder, but received only a mumble as the Russian changed position, never gaining consciousness. Napoleon tried again. "Damn it, Illya, wake up; I need you!" He let the limp shoulder go. "All right, I don't need you. Napoleon, old boy, it looks like you're on your own."

He coaxed the car up to 100 and tugged down a small mahogany panel, rapidly punching his ID code into the targeting computer behind it.

The lines of machine gun fire blanketed either side of the car and Napoleon heard the faint pings as the bullets ricocheted off the bulletproof shielding.

"If you want to play rough, boys, that's fine with me." Napoleon addressed the copter as it shot overhead and rounded for another attack as he quickly reviewed his choices for weapons. "Laser cannons... road's too crooked... smoke screen... ineffective... flame thrower... no, definitely not the flame thrower. Ah, guided missiles, now there's something I like." He kept his eyes locked to the road, squealing around a curve and barely missing an oncoming car. The helicopter bore down again, the bullets sending up clouds of asphalt.

As he started over the hill, Napoleon slowed the car and the pursuing craft sped overhead. Approaching the crest, he slammed the car to a mighty halt that lifted the back end off the ground. Illya crumpled up against the dashboard, oblivious to the battle around him. Napoleon pulled the Russian toward him, flipping the passenger's door up to expose the rocket mechanism hidden there and locked the door into place. Then he rested his finger on the launch button, waiting.

A few seconds passed, then several. Napoleon guessed that the copter was awaiting him over the crest, ready to lay waste to the car at point blank range. He could hear it hovering and then the turbines speeding up.

"That's right, be nice inquisitive little THRUSHies." The glass bubble peeked over the crest and Napoleon punched the button. The car shook with the force of the launch and a second later, there was an explosion. Hugh billows of black smoke rolled from the craft as it fell to the fjord below "And scratch one pernicious helicopter." Napoleon dropped the door, engaged the motor and quickly urged the car up to several miles beyond the speed limit, egged on by a secondary explosion. "Must have hit the gas tank," he explained to a non-interested Kuryakin.

He had driven about twenty miles when a groan drew his attention and he smiled at the slim Russian who crawled up into his seat.

"Welcome back to the land of the living," Napoleon said, glad to have someone to talk to again.

"I feel like shi... what happened?" Illya's bloodshot eyes caught the rising smoke on the distant horizon.

"A slight altercation with a THRUSH helicopter. You slept through the whole thing."

"You should've wakened me." Illya used the door as a brace.

"You'll probably have a bruise where I tried to." Napoleon slowed the car for a hairpin curve and Illya's wine-flushed face grew pale. "How are you feeling?" Napoleon inquired mildly.

"An unfair question, especially since you have the advantage. Suffice it to say I'd have to get better to die." Illya closed his eyes and Napoleon watched him gulp several breaths and felt a sympathetic pity for the younger agent. He, himself, had had such a hangover once, the day after his graduation. He didn't remember a terribly large amount of the time, save some uncomfortable memories or passing most of the following day in front of a toilet. He maneuvered the car around a second hairpin. "Just another ten miles, Illya, and we'll be in Mendocino; fifteen minutes after that, Ft. Bragg. You'll feel better once you've rested."

"It would be impossible to feel worse," Illya admitted, pulling his hands over his damp face

"Look at it this way, at least all that Chinese food is digested by now. I'd hate to be sick on a stomach full of chow mien or Moo Goo Guy Pan."

"Napoleon, please...," came the whisper. "Take pity on a dying man."

"Could I ask what possessed you back there? You know better than to drink like that."

"I plead the Fifth...no, not a fifth of anything on second thought. I thought my years of vodka drinking left me immune to wine."

"Some wine can have higher alcohol content than your strongest proof vodka, especially if you're not used to it." Napoleon slowed for another curve. "Try to go back to sleep. It'll be better with your eyes shut."

"The last time I had someone tell me that I ended up hogtied with my own belt and bruises that lasted for a month."

"Hmmm, you'll have to share that story with me when you're feeling better." There was no response and Napoleon realized he'd lost the Russian again.

Chapter 4: "Doesn't he work for INTERPOL?"

Napoleon bounded up the heavy, wharf-like stairs of the Harbor Lite Hotel to the second floor. There was a misty nip in the air, similar to that of San Francisco, but not as pronounced. He paused on the landing, leaning against the wood railing, waiting for his partner. Kuryakin, usually the faster of the pair of them, slowly made his way up the steps, hauling himself up the gradual incline by the balusters.

"You go on without me, Napoleon. I'll catch up," Illya mumbled as Napoleon retraced his steps to the Russian's side. "With any luck, I'll fall through the slats and it will all be over."

"Come on, partner." Napoleon placed a supportive hand beneath an arm. "Let's see how Arsene is doing." Together they walked to their pre-assigned room and then Napoleon stopped, swinging an unbalanced Kuryakin behind him.

"What's wrong, Napoleon?" Wordlessly, Napoleon pointed to the partially ajar door. He slipped the Walther from its holster and pressed a hand against the door. Swinging it open, he stared first down at his gun's near duplicate and then up at the brown-haired, dark-eyed Italian holding it.

"Arsene!" Napoleon let out his breath.

"Napoleon, you surprised me. I wasn't expecting you for another hour. You must have made good time." The agent moved back into the room. "I was just having a snack; would you care for a kipper?" He turned off the television set as he passed it.

About the room were scattered various pieces of infra-red equipment, spot lights, a radio set, and several still unopened crates. Arsene sauntered to a small table, lifting a tin. Napoleon entered, followed by a still shaky-kneed Kuryakin, who shut the door, then leaned against it for support.

"Illya, you're always hungry, here!" Arsene thrust the can at him and Illya started a color change from white to green.

"The bathroom's back there, Illya." Napoleon pointed to a door to Kuryakin's immediate left and then turned the television set back on.

"You're too kind, Napoleon, excuse me." Illya made the distance in two determined steps as Napoleon decreased the volume and relaxed back on a bed to ease his own headache.

Arsene looked anxiously after the Russian as he pulled a manila envelope from beneath a pile of paper. "Napoleon, I missed something. What's wrong with him? Is he carsick?"

"I'm afraid that Illya became momentarily human and did something I'm sure he won't be repeating soon. You should have seen him about three hours ago. He was quite happy then. Have you contacted Mr. Waverly yet?"

"No, I was waiting for you. You had no trouble then?"

"Well, not exactly." He pulled out his communicator and spoke into it. "Open Channel D please."

"Do you have anything further on THRUSH's progress, Mr. Solo?"

"I'm afraid not, sir. The people at the wineries were very gracious and more than generous, but not very helpful. In each case, it was the same. It was during the secondary fermentation that they noticed a problem. Illya said that since it's a virus, it was most likely entered prior."

"Has Mr. Kuryakin been able to go over the reports that were forwarded to him?

"Not completely, sir, but he's working on it. "

As soon as he's reviewed them fully, have him contact me immediately."

"Yes, sir. Solo out."

Arsene whistled. "Mr. Waverly did not sound happy."

"He's not the only one. I'm not terribly thrilled either. THRUSH is already on to us. I had a welcoming party on our way here."

"Trouble?"

"For them, not us, but I was hoping for more of an advantage." Napoleon shook his head slightly. "It's beginning to get late; let's go grab something to eat and nose around the dock area," Napoleon suggested, pulling his sports jacket closed.

Arsene nodded his excusal, leaving for his own room, and Napoleon paused in front of the bathroom door. "Illya, are you still alive?" A groan met him and he continued. "Arsene and I are going to dig up some local color. There's a package on the bed and Mr. Waverly wants to talk to you when you drag yourself out here and had a chance to review it. Have you got all of that?" A second mumble answered and Napoleon smiled ruefully as he pocketed the room key and went in search of Arsene.

Napoleon and Arsene returned to an empty room. "Illya?" Napoleon poked his head around the door to a spotless bathroom. "We are in the right room, Arsene?"

"Two-eighteen, just like it says on your key." Arsene moved into the small space, checking equipment. "Look, the report is gone, too. Something might have happened up him; maybe you should try your communicator."

"No, I'll let Illya check in with me. He probably decided to go off on his own."

"As sick as he was?"

"And probably feeling guilty as hell, if I know him..." Napoleon picked up on Arsene's frown of concern. Don't worry, Arsene, he can take care of himself and if THRUSH is messing with him now, I feel sorry for them. Hell hath no fury like a annoyed Russian. There's nothing more we can do tonight, so I suggest a good night's sleep. It may be a while before we have the privilege again. By the way, did you get a boat?"

"I've made arrangements with the dock master for a two-man schooner, the Svyetlana."

"Sounds Russian." Napoleon set up the telescope to focus on the small Noyo Harbor that sprawled out in front of the balcony. Then he turned on two tiny sensor devices located on either side of the sliding glass door.

"THRUSH detectors," he said as Arsene, inquisitive, joined him. "I don't want any unwelcome guests tonight." Together they watched the traffic flow over the bridge that spanned the Bay.

"That's an awful steep embankment." Arsene peered down over the railing of the balcony to the sharp incline below them.

"That's why THRUSH agents have wings, Arsene," Napoleon amended as he programmed the night camera for time lapse.

"How quickly I forget." Arsene smiled and nodded. "Sleep well, my friend."

Napoleon flinched in his sleep, struggling to free himself from the THRUSH who had sneaked up behind him. He locked his hands around the neck and held on as realization began to trickle back to him, along with a thick voice.

"Excuse me, Napoleon, but could you remove your fingers from my larynx?" Illya broke his partner's grasp easily and rubbed his throat.

"Sorry, I thought you were a THRUSH." Napoleon flipped on a bedside light and blinked at the sudden brightness.

"If you're going to get nasty, I'll leave. Listen, I just finished studying that report. We are in serious trouble unless we get this bottled up and fast. Get dressed; I'm going to get Arsene."

By the time Illya returned with a bleary-eyed Italian, Napoleon had managed to pull on a shirt and pants and was working on his shoe strings as Illya entered, dragging a reluctant Arsene behind him.

"But it's the middle of the night, Illya, couldn't this wait until morning?" Arsene protested, stifling a yawn.

"No."

"And you were so worried about him, Arsene," Napoleon muttered, tying his shoes.

"Why would you be worried about me?"

"Exactly my point." Napoleon stood and gestured to the door. "After you, partner."

Illya led them through the darkened Harbor Lite parking lot and then a block into the modest harbor town, finally stopping at a dimly lit restaurant.

The woman at the counter smiled as they entered and Illya moved directly to a booth far from her. From behind a cushion, he removed a torn, smudged and scribbled upon envelope and spread the contents onto the table as Napoleon and Arsene joined him.

"All right, Illya, what's so important that you had to drag us out of bed and through the night to this place?" Napoleon asked, yawning, but remembered to smile charmingly at the waitress as she set down a carafe of coffee and cups.

"After you and Arsene left, I pieced my stomach together and managed to crawl out to the bed. I figured I'd better check in with Waverly, so I briefed myself on the preliminary report and checked in with home. I came down here for some coffee and to studying on the reports in greater depth. When I was through, I wished I were draped over the toilet again."

"Don't keep us in suspense, Illya, for God's sake," Arsene pleaded as he picked up his coffee cup. "What is THRUSH up to?"

"THRUSH has devised a way of reversing right molecules to left," Illya announced somberly.

Napoleon and Arsene exchanged puzzled glances before Napoleon urged, "And?"

"There's nothing more, Napoleon, that's enough. We can only hope that it confines stop at tartaric acid. Don't you understand the significance of this?" he asked plaintively, ruffling the sheets between his hands. He looked from one to the other and shook his head. "Obviously not..."

"Okay, Smart Russian, enlighten us. What are right and left molecules and how does it relate to wine fermentation?" Napoleon conceded

"And tartar acid," Arsene added.

"Tartaric acid, Arsene," Illya corrected, sighing mightily. "And you, Napoleon, if you only pursued chemistry as diligently as the females of our species, you'd win a Nobel."

"I find the existing chemistry between a man and a woman all I care to delve into, my friend."

"Tartaric acid exists in many fruits, most prominently grapes. It was also the acid that Jean Baptisa Biot experimented with."

"Doesn't he work for INTERPOL?" Arsene interrupted, his lips pursed in thought.

"No, I don't think so." Illya smiled slightly. "He was a French chemist in the early 1800's and one of the first to work with optically active and inactive molecules. He spent most of his career trying to figure out why some molecules refracted light to one end of the spectrum and others to the opposite end. His puzzle was solved by Louis Pasteur in 1874."

"Ah, now he I am familiar with, for pasteurization," Arsene re-established himself and Illya nodded enthusiastically.

"Yes, he was most famous for that, but his contribution in other fields of the sciences cannot be overlooked. He discovered that there were indeed right and left molecules. He made a racemic solution, and through a microscope, he separated the molecules as to their handedness, left or right, left rotating light in one direction, right, in the other. He then discovered that the same thing could be accomplished by employing a certain type of plant mold. However, one thing he could not solve was how to turn the molecules from one handedness to the other, a problem that frustrated him to his dying day."

"I seem to be missing the relevance of all of this," Napoleon admitted, folding his hands on the table. "What does all of that have to do with wine fermentation or even to anything THRUSH would be interested in?"

"The human body is only capable of ingesting right molecules, Napoleon, the lefts pass through as inert material. Pasteur found that nearly every racemic solution is made up of 50% right and 50% left. Tartaric is no exception. When THRUSH found out how to convert right, or d-tartaric, molecules to l-tartaric molecules, the yeast had nothing to bond with, hence, non-fermentation."

"An excellent way to drop the bottom out of the wine market and cause some bankruptcy, but still that's small potatoes for THRUSH," Arsene argued, pouring a second cup of coffee. "Wine is hardly a vital part of America's economy. France, maybe, or Italy, but not America."

"Agreed, Arsene, but only instead of grapes, say, they chose to target sugar beets or sugar cane, or wheat, or even something as simple as milk, changing the molecules from 50/50 to 100% left molecules?"

"They would pass through the human body in an inert state." Napoleon finally grasped the situation. "The more we eat the less nourishment we'd gain. We'd stuff ourselves to starvation."

"Now I understand and I wish I didn't," Arsene muttered.

"Hence my earlier comment," Illya murmured, taking a swallow of coffee. "Somehow we've got to cut off the lab and the supply of that virus and keep them from producing any more of the stuff." Illya dropped the papers, feeling very tired. He leaned back against the unyielding plastic, waiting for Napoleon.

"We know Zimmerman spotted some sort of traffic taking place here, probably raw materials, and by ship, at least that would be my guess." Napoleon traced a design on the table top. "Arsene, what did the Coast Guard have to say. Is there anything suspicious going on in the Bay?"

"No, there's a lot of night fishing in the area, so ships are always coming and going. However, there is this glimmer of hope. The Coast Guard does report considerable activity going on in an until-recently abandoned vineyard, up towards the Russian Gulch area," Arsene reported.

Illya toyed with his cup, peering up at the two men through his wheat-colored bangs. "It sounds as good a place to start as any..."

Chapter 5: "You're looking at her."

Illya Kuryakin paused on the dock before the gently swaying schooner. While Russian Navy had left him proficient with boats, but he still didn't like them. He pulled his pea coat shut and gazed back up towards the hotel room. A faint red dot, negligible except to a trained eye, was all that pinpointed the darkened room and Napoleon Solo's vigilant watch.

He brought the pen to his lips, speaking softly. "Napoleon, can you read me?"

"Loud and clear, Illya, and I have you on my scope. If they try anything, I'll be able to watch."

"Somehow that doesn't fill me with confidence. Let's hope they don't go after you instead for messing up their helicopter. How much should I tell the captain? He should at least know who and what we are."

"Providing he's not a THRUSH plant. Use your discretion, but off-hand I'd advise no more than absolutely necessary. If you don't trust him, I'm sure we could arrange to have a Coast Guard cutter escort you."

"Wouldn't that raise a few eyebrows? No, if he's Russian, I'll be able to tell you before we leave port. If you don't hear from me within ten minutes, assume either that all is go, or that I'm possibly unconscious. Out." Illya securely tucked the communicator into a back pocket of his jeans and shifted the canvas knapsack he carried. Taking a deep breath, he strolled easily up the gangplank and looked around for the captain. His eyes quickly spotted a figure, bent in examination of a docking line. Illya flexed his hands, instinctively, and approached. "I beg your pardon, but where do I find the captain?"

"You're looking at her." The heavily-accented answer came as she faced him and squared a pair of broad shoulders. "You would, perhaps, like to make something of it?"

"Absolutely not," Illya answered evenly. "I believe you are expecting me. I'm Illya Nichovich Kuryakin." He snapped forward slightly.

"No, I wasn't expecting a fellow countryman. I'm pleasantly surprised." She wiped her hands on her pants and extended one. "Welcome to the Svyetlana. I'm Captain Kearta Mikhailovna Locovsky." Gravely she shook his hand as he smiled faintly.

"0H80:F5=B>8 =0720=85, O A:070; 1K, GB> K O2;O5B5AL 3@C78=A:88," Illya said easily slipping into his mother tongue. "By your accent and name, I'd say you're Georgian."

"Da, Batumi, very good. You will excuse me if I leave off the 'comrade,' but it makes many of the peoples I work with most nervous. And I prefer to speak English. Despite our location close to the Russian Gulch, actual Russians make the people here nervous."

"Of course. Can we get underway?" Illya dropped the knapsack and rolled his shoulders, relaxing the cramped muscles.

The woman flashed forward, grabbing a handful of Illya's coat and, with a firm expression on her face, glared at him. "Let us get one thing straight before we leave port, Comrade.' She slurred the word into an insult. "This is my ship, I give the orders. I do not take them. Those are my terms and if you don't like them, then leave now!"

"I'll stay," Illya responded easily, bringing up a hand to finger a tendon in her wrist. Just as casually, he clamped down on it until the hand fell away, temporarily paralyzed. He released the wrist and she cradled it, glaring as he continued. "I am more than agreeable to let you call the shots, Captain, but I am on a very tight schedule. There are some rather nasty birds I'm hunting and I don't want them migrating on me, so with your permission, may we leave?"

She shook the life back into her hand and grudgingly muttered, "Can you free the bow line?" She tucked her blonde braid beneath a knit cap. "Or do you know bow from stern?" she added contemptuously.

"Captain Locovsky, I have spent many years in the Russian Navy and I most certainly know starboard from port as well as stern from bow. Now, if there are no other nautical terms you wish to throw at me, I do have a job to do and would like to get on with it." Illya effectively undid the prescribed rope and smiled at her, not sure if she was going to spit on him or punch him or both.

Instead she laughed, a sound as crystalline as her eyes. "I like you, Illya Nichovich, you've got H0@K, um, and she made an appropriate gesture. "Balls. I normally wouldn't let a man talk to me like that, but I'll make an exception for a fellow countryman...this time. As soon as we're underway, I will show you the rest of the boat."

Illya stretched his stiff legs and shifted to find for a more comfortable position. It felt as if he'd been crouched at the railing for days instead of just a few hours. Sigh, he lifted the specially-designed night binoculars back up and scanned the dark water of the Pacific for something, anything, suspicious. He felt a presence at his side and cast the captain a sidelong glance, his mouth hinting at a smile.

"I thought you'd be ready for some coffee, Illya Nichovich." She handed him an oversized mug and leaned against the railing, her collar pulled up against the spray. "Have you spotted anything?"

"I'm not even entirely sure of what I'm looking for yet," Illya admitted, taking a sip of the coffee and stopped. It had been a long time since he'd had true Russian coffee. He was interrupted by a shrill on/off bleeping and he handed the cup back to her. Reaching into his back pocket, he deftly brought the communicator to his mouth, feeling the Captain's curious stare as he thumbed open the channel. "Kuryakin," he said into the pen.

"How goes it, old man?" Napoleon's distorted voice met him.

Illya smiled over at Kearta. "Quiet, too quiet. They're probably pulling the pass off in front of my nose and I don't even see it. Either that or they're onto us already."

"The voice of the eternal optimist. It could be an unscheduled night, you know. Keep on it and report if you see anything. I'll contact you in another two hours. Solo out."

"Who was that?"

"My partner. He is keeping watch from the hotel." Illya continued to stare at the instrument for a long moment before sighing resignedly and replacing the pen. "He is warm, dry, and comfortable. And I am here..."

"Feeling the wind in your hair and the spray upon your face. You are the lucky one." She watched Illya sip his coffee and finally added, "And yet, all this time, I thought you were joking or that it was some story to keep me from getting too nosy."

"Kearta Mikhailovna, I am a Russian! I never tell stories... well at least not on the job or when I don't have to. All I've told you is true. This is very serious and very dangerous work."

"Good. I like serious danger." She raised her chin in defiance as she handed him back his cup. "It will remind me of home."

Illya brought his glasses back up, studying the unrelenting Pacific. "Do you know much about the area?"

"All you would need to know, why?"

"Do you know of an old winery that sits just outside of Mendocino, up from the Russian Gulch?"

"You mean the Van Deutch place?" At his nod, she continued. "It was abandoned back in 1963, put out of business by the bigger places in Napa. It was originally built as a monastery and later converted into a winery, somewhere around '42, I think. It is of Spanish design and stands three stories high, with the vineyard set down and to the back of it. Enough?"

"Almost; can you take me there?" Illya persisted in his study of the ocean.

"Why don't you just meet me at noon and I will give to you the cook's tour of the area. Agreed?" She held out her hand.

"Why not? Napoleon's always telling me that I should fraternize more with the natives." He reached out and shook the hand, careful to keep his grip neutral. "I'll meet you at the entrance of the Harbor Lite Hotel, but if I'm not there, you will understand."

"You'll be there," she stated, withdrawing her hand and gulping down the rest of her coffee. "I insist."

Chapter 6: "For the glory of our homeland, Comrade."

For the second time in less than twenty-four hours, Napoleon was awakened from a sound sleep. This time it was from a THRUSH water torture. He fought until he woke enough to place the sound as the shower. A check to the bed beside him verified the guilty party. Napoleon dragged forward an arm and lined it up with the partially open eye. What was Illya doing up at 11 a.m.? He'd only gotten in six hours previous He stretched in the sheets, closing his eyes contentedly. Nothing was getting him out of bed until noon, at least.

The bathroom door opened and Napoleon caught a glimpse of Illya's naked form in the mirrored niche that stood in the hall. "You're up early," Napoleon said, watching Illya towel dry his hair.

"Sorry, didn't think I'd wake you. Usually you sleep like a rock."

"A log, Illya. You have plans for today?"

"The Captain is taking me on a tour of Mendocino and Ft. Bragg and, as an added attraction we're going to visit an old winery. If it's anything like the others we visited, it should have an extensive laboratory that could be worth looking into. If THRUSH is indeed manufacturing the virus there, it may give us a chance to cut it off at the source."

"No heroics, Illya; I don't want you taking chances, not without a backup."

"I plan nothing of the sort. I know how you hate to be left out. It's just going to be some general nosing around. What about you?" Illya abandoned the mirror for his suitcase and rummaged through it.

"Abalone fishing... for submarines. According to the last report that Zimmerman made back to San Francisco, there had been some underwater activity picked up. It was reported to the authorities, but we have convinced them to let us handle it."

"Just take care that it doesn't handle you, my friend." Illya pulled on a tee shirt and then dropped the towel to yank on a pair of undershorts. "Would you prefer backup? I can always put the captain off for awhile longer."

"No, divide and conquer. If I get into trouble, I'll whistle."

Captain Locovsky led the way up and down the steep, narrow path of Mendocino as Illya studied his surroundings, carefully storing any bit of information that he might need, his photographic memory neatly filing it away. Gradually, he became aware of the woman's voice, close to his ear.

"...some meal you put away. You must have made your mother very happy." Kearta held up in front of a store window, her eyes lingering on a black, strapless evening gown.

"It made my mother very unhappy. There were several mouths to feed and never enough food. It raises havoc with my metabolism."

Rounding a corner, Illya's attention was caught by a long, squat structure, decorated with Alaskan totem poles and carvings. Instantly all of his carefully-cultivated spy instincts welled up as he thought he spotted a familiar face in the crowd that had gathered in the building's parking lot. "What's that?"

"The Arts Center. Mr. Itasaka must be having another karate demonstration. He gives them once a month for any interested onlookers who might not, otherwise, sign up for his class. Come on, let's watch for a bit." She tugged him closer, while his common sense pulled at his heels, warning him of danger. Intently he searched the faces in the crowd for the man he'd seen moments before, but whoever he was, he was staying out of Illya's view. Resignedly, he paused to watch the Japanese perform a series of moves, only to be badly copied by a dozen white-clad students.

"I will have to take this class someday. Karate has long been a fascination of mine." Kearta kept a killing grip on Illya's arm as she regarded the teacher, watching his every move with a keen eye.

"He's leading them up to an Ouchi Gari, I bet. They'll never make it. They are still too unskilled for anything of that kind," Illya informed her.

"Oh, you are familiar with this then?" Kearta asked innocently and Illya, still intent on the crowd, missed the subtle change in her tone and nodded.

"May I please have a volunteer?" The Japanese sensei studied the crowd.

"Illya Nichovich will," Kearta spoke loudly, giving the surprised agent a push forward.

"No, he will not," Illya protested, taking a step back. The last thing he needed was to draw undue attention to himself.

"You won't be injured, young man; I assure you," the man murmured, placating as he approaching him.

"It's not me I'm worried about," Illya replied sotto voce. "I hold black belts in a variety of disciplines. It would not be a fair contest."

"Go on, Illya Nichovich; you can't back out now." She caught his blue-eyed glare evenly. "For the glory of our homeland, tovarish."

"Seeing as there's no gracious way of squirming out," Illya sighed, struggling out of his jacket in a peculiar manner, and then he handed it to the woman, murmuring, "Hold this and please don't let anyone see the holster or the gun. I don't think U.N.C.L.E. needs the extra publicity right now."

He toed off his shoes before walking onto the mat. Dressed in his usual black from head to toe, he contrasted dramatically with the white-clad sensei.

"What we shall attempt, students, is Ouchi Gari." He turned to Kuryakin. "Are you at all familiar with martial arts, my friend?""

"Yes, I am, Sensei." Illya answered, still studying the crowd as he bowed absently. He assumed a defensive stance, patiently awaiting the man's move. The Oriental reached out abruptly and grabbed him. Despite his best efforts, Illya responded as he had been taught. He rolled his captured arm and slid it nearly loose, then wrapped his own arms around the instructor in an unbreakable bear hug. He slipped his right leg forward, pivoted with his hip and brought the Japanese down into an unceremonious heap, all within the matter of seconds.

"I'm sorry." Illya broke the ensuing silence. "That's why I refused. I tend to react as I was trained, whether I want to or not. Perhaps you'd better pick another volunteer." Illya extended his hand down.

"I was aware of your abilities as you approached the mat. You did not study in America." Sensei Itasaka rose effortlessly, dusting off his hands.

"Tokyo and Osaka, after a fashion," Illya said, smiling at the man's observation.

"I have not had a worthy opponent in a considerable period, sir. Would you consider a demonstration for my pupils?"

Illya thought for a long moment as he studied the crowd. He sized the man up and shrugged his shoulders. "Very well, as long as you promise not to make a fool of me too quickly." He swept his hair back from his eyes and the bowed again, waiting for a hint of movement.

After the first few throws, Illya decided that this man's style was frighteningly like that of his own sensei back in New York and that gave Illya the advantage. The Russian consciously kept his own skill in check. In the middle of a chest block, Illya froze, allowing the teacher to drop him to the mat, but Illya's eyes never left the face of one of their attackers from San Francisco. Quickly, Illya rolled up, ready to give chase, only to feel the Japanese's hands on him. Desperation overruled discretion now, and within three moves and fewer seconds, Illya left the sensei, lying dazed on the mat and was hot after the THRUSH, pausing only to scoop his jacket, holster and gun from a startled Kearta.

The THRUSH bolted for the street, heading for a back alley. Kuryakin, in stocking feet, pushed on as fast as he could, oblivious to the pavement jarring beneath his feet. He ditched the jacket and holster, keeping only the P-38. The THRUSH leaped up to grab the edge of a fence and Illya stopped, aimed and buried a bullet squarely in the back of his neck. The man gurgled and collapsed, straddling the fence.

Illya heard a gasp behind him and whirled to see Kearta there, her eyes wide, her face flushed. "You killed him," she accused finally as she panted for breath.

"Afraid I didn't have much choice. He couldn't be allowed to report back. THRUSH can't know of our presence, not yet." Illya pushed the man over the fence and he felt into an overgrown tangle of brambles. Then he took his shoes, the retrieved holster and jacket from her. "Let's move. In case he did get word off, I need a look at that winery before it's too late." He strapped on the holster and crammed his feet back into his shoes. The woman remained, unmoving, staring at the fence. Illya glanced over, then he shoved her, hard, and her eyes flashed a warning at him. "Now there's the Captain I know. Let's go."

Napoleon Solo glided through the water, effortlessly, just off the Russian Cove. He found skin diving a sport both relaxing and invigorating. A flick of his flippers shot him past a vicious-looking clump of barnacles and he watched a seal slide by in pursuit of a fish. Abruptly he saw something else, something sleek, silver and definitely out of place. His hand tightened on the metal-piercing harpoon mounted in the spear gun he carried as he swam closer. At a safe distance, he pulled out a tiny underwater camera and clicked off several shots. Satisfied, he removed the cartridge and slid it beneath his mask into his mouth, an added precaution, if he remembered not to swallow it. He drew alongside the submarine, his hand tracing the black bird, its wings raised in defiance against the world - a thrush. Why THRUSH had the need to festoon everything they owned with that symbol was beyond him. Using the sub for a guide, he edged up to a porthole and peeked in.

Stacked in one part of the sub were a series of containers with 'N.V.' stenciled on the side. Napoleon guessed that stood for Napa Valley and reached for the camera again when he felt the water currents around him change. He reacted too late, catching a glimpse of a ankle weight heading for his skull.

He woke feeling cold, cramped and stiff. Trying to stretch an unyielding limb forced him to ascertain that he was bound, an uncomfortably frequent habit of his. He moved his tongue around in his mouth, amazed that he'd managed to not swallow the film cartridge. Wondering whether it was even worth the effort, he finally cracked open an eye. His arms and legs were securely tied together wrist to ankle, as he had guessed; his mask, task and flippers were gone, which explained the cold, and he sat, braced up against a rock with the Pacific Ocean lapping at his ankles. A cave-like roof and the water slapping around him gave him an unnerving twinge in his stomach.

"Hello, Mr. Solo; it's so nice of you to 'drop' in. Sorry we missed you in San Francisco." Napoleon turned his head too quickly and swayed momentarily, bordering on unconsciousness. With an effort, he fought his way back and, suppressing a moan, focused his eyes on the speaker.

"That will teach you patience, Mr. Solo." The speaker was tall and gaunt, with a shock of beet red hair and pasty skin, and a pair of air tanks hanging over one shoulder. He dropped the tanks on a ledge and waded over to Napoleon, bending down to check the bindings.

"Hans Dietrich," Napoleon growled. "I should've known you'd be back like a bad check. My mistake was not killing you the last time we met!"

"Yes, that was your mistake. You U.N.C.L.E. agents are so soft. And speaking of soft, where's that nasty little sidekick of yours? Nobody leaves me tied up naked in the middle of a women's health spa without settling a score with me." Dietrich leaned close to yanked an already tight bond even tighter.

"Last I heard he was somewhere in Asia...Hong Kong, I think." Napoleon winced as the bindings cut into his flesh. Whatever he was tied with, it wasn't rope. "I haven't heard from him for awhile. We had a parting of the ways a few months back."

"Did he want what you were selling?" Dietrick's voice had a nasty edge to it. "Nice try, but please, don't do me the insult of lying, Mr. Solo. Everyone knows the two of you are inseparable. Wherever you are, he'll be quick to follow...just like ...what is the phase, star-crossed lovers."

"I don't think that's the right phrase, to be honest," Napoleon replied as evenly as possible. "I don't want to seem ungracious, but may I ask why you have me sitting here? It's a little chilly." He worked his arms against his bonds, trying to remain surreptitious.

"Well, Mr. Solo, you might say that the tide has turned on you. Yes, I rather like that. Oh." Dietrich raised a finger in thought. "By the way, that is actually monofilament that we're using for your bonds. Barnacles will have no effect on them, but I suppose you'll want to find that out for yourself. There is simply no way out this time."

"Nonsense, I haven't run into a THRUSH trap yet that couldn't be sprung. After all, I'm still alive."

"A state sadly temporary, I assure you. Auf Weidersehen, Mr. Solo." The diver swung his mask into place and disappeared beneath the icy waters of the Pacific, leaving behind a disconcerted Napoleon Solo.

"Fifty thousand THRUSH in the world and I had to pick one who would think of monofilament," Napoleon grumbled as he unsuccessfully worked at his wrists. "Illya, where are you when I need you?"

Illya pushed closer to the ground, using the grass and bushes as a cover. The door to the lab was so close he could practically touch it. A slight rustle from his left drew his attention to the captain. After a heated battle that resulted in her refusal to show him the winery, he'd relented and let her accompany him. Now she flattened herself against the ground with a mixture of anticipation and apprehension on her tanned face.

Illya studied the stone structure that was his target. Just as the woman had said, it was of Spanish design, three stories, with the structure that housed the lab sitting just slightly back from the main building. On the terrace below the back of the house, the garden had been converted into an improvised landing pad. Three black helicopters sat, silently awaiting their cargo, while several guards roamed restlessly about the area. "They must be using the copters for spraying," Illya whispered.

"Most of the growers do; they're not as fast as planes, but they can get lower, thus reducing excessive spraying to the other crops." Kearta unconsciously matched his tone, keeping her voice soft.

"Is there any way to get any plans for this place? That's, of course, providing that THRUSH hasn't gathered them up already." He shifted uneasily. "If we're going to infiltrate, we're going to need a way in and, more importantly, a way out."

"There should be something in the library or maybe the local museum. Can we go now, please? The rifles those men are carrying make me nervous."

"Not until I get a look at that lab. If they're synthesizing the stuff somewhere else, then it won't do us any good to knock off this place."

"Sort of like closing the barn door after your neighbor's stolen your wife."

"Sort of." Illya dug his toes into the loose earth and braced himself for the spring. "You sit tight and don't move. I'm going in there. If you hear any alarms, just take off. Head back to the hotel and wait for Napoleon. He'll be your best bet. Under no circumstances come looking for me. Do you understand?"

"I understand without liking it."

"I'm not asking you to like it. It will just be safer for both of us if I am not preoccupied by the need for your well being. I'll be back as soon as I can."

He vaulted forward and slammed himself against the side of the building. Not hearing any alarms or guns, he edged to a window and peered in. After flicking a glance left and right, he slid through the open window. Illya landed quietly, crouched, and then straightened to look at a gun pointed at his midsection.

"It's so good to see you again, Mr. Kuryakin." The red-haired man chuckled at the U.N.C.L.E. and he jerked his head toward him. Two guards moved in to search Illya as he sighed and raised his hands to rest them on top of his head.

"Dietrich, I thought you were dead."

"Ah, yes, a similar misconception shared by the soon-to-be, if not already, late Mr. Solo." The German held the Luger steady as an assortment of weapons was removed from the Russian's person. Finally the guards moved away and Dietrich regarded the pile, shaking his head. "They certainly are arming you well. We could practically outfit all of THRUSH with this."

"Is Napoleon here then?" Illya ignored the man's ramblings, using the time to study the lab's interior.

"I'm afraid that you won't be seeing him again, Mr. Kuryakin." Dietrich took a step closer. "Now, there's that little matter of the health spa..." He took the opportunity to bury his fist in the slim Russian's stomach. Illya doubled over from the blow, gasping, and the guards dragged him roughly to his feet, steadying him so Dietrich delivered another.

"A mere taste of what awaits you, my dear Illya, but now I suspect you'll want the usual ranting and ravings of a lunatic mind of how we're going to take over the world this time - sort of par for the course. I shan't disappoint you." He stopped to slam the fist again into Kuryakin's stomach. As the guards hauled Illya upright, the German stalked to a counter top and leaned a hip against it. "We intercepted this formula about ten months ago, from some obscure little man in Belgium, of all places. He... met with an unfortunate accident before completing his work, but in his honor, our scientists picked up where he left off. We were able to adapt the formula quickly to tartaric acid, but I will admit that we're having a touch of a problem with additional conversions. However, I am confident of our success and, in the meantime, we'll be able to pick up a pretty profit from the wine growers and still carry on with our experimenting." He grinned at Illya with all the warmth of an executioner sizing up his victim.

"Why are you telling me all of this, Dietrich?" Illya replied flatly, licking his lips. "Can't you get anyone else to listen to you?" He was ready for the blow this time, letting himself ride with it down to his knees. "If you're going to kill me, then get on with it, but don't make me listen to any more of this drivel."

Illya let the two pairs of hands lift him before exploding into action. Within seconds there were limp forms where unprepared guards stood moments earlier. Illya dove for his Walther, while an outraged Dietrich emptied his Luger after him. Using the lab bench as protection, Illya's hand snaked up for a beaker, hurtling it at the seething, swearing Dietrich. In a panic, the man turned away, protecting his face from the splattering fluid and Illya used that moment to heave himself race across the lad and hurl himself through the open window.

Kearta startled when Illya came crashing out. He rolled and dashed towards her, very conscious of the gunfire behind him.

"Kearta, go! Get back to the car! I'm right behind you!"

Not waiting to see if he was or not, Kearta ran for the car, remembering to keep low. Illya watched her and then dodged to the right. He dove into the cover provided by some low bushes and held his breath. A moment later, pounding feet approached, paused and headed off down the path. Assured that he was now behind his pursuers, Illya jumped up to his feet and ran smack into another guard. Of course, if it wasn't for bad luck, he'd have no luck at all.

The THRUSH swung and Illya managed to avoid the blow, landing one of his own instead. They pounded on each other, until Illya felt that the captain had had more than enough time to reach her car and then he ended it, brutally and efficiently.

He dashed back in the direction of the car, relieved to see the woman anxiously watching for him. Panting and blood covered, he pulled open the driver's door and slid behind the wheel, barely given Kearta the chance to wiggle out of his way.

"Bozhe Moi, Illya Nichovich, what happened?"

"Not to worry; not too much of it is mine..." He floored the accelerator and wrestled the car around onto the road. "If you know any old prayers, this might be a good time to say one. I don't think we can out-run them."

"We won't have to. Head for Mendocino!"

Ignoring the throb in his stomach and pounding in his jaw, Illya raced the car down and around the snaking road. Kearta held on, her face one gigantic grin. It was as if the pursuing cars that pumped bullets at them didn't exist. Illya didn't bother to return the fire or even slow down as they approached the outskirts of the town. Suddenly Kearta grabbed his elbow and pointed to a narrow opening. "Turn right, now!"

Illya didn't argue, especially since the car was beginning to smell of over-heating. He aimed for the ridiculously tight space, mentally crossing his fingers.

The Capri slid through the space, scraping some paint slightly and sending up a shower of sparks as it did. The pursuing cars weren't quite as fortunate. They were just slightly wider than the Capri. The lead driver realized his error too late as his car was crammed into the opening, then slammed from behind by a chase car.

Kearta turned in her seat to watch and laughed, then she flopped back around and Illya headed for the main road at a more sedate and legal speed. The chase went out of the THRUSH as they tried to separate one car from the other.

"I use that sometimes when I'm in a hurry and a trooper sees me. The patrol cars, they do not fit well, you see, for that alley was made for horse-drawn buggies.' She broke off, laughing. "That will teach those C1;N4:8 to mess with Russians."

"You're something, you know that?" Illya said, keeping his eyes on the road as they drove down the side street as a more sedate pace. Behind him, he could hear police sirens.

"I have been told so, yes."

Napoleon had long since lost the feeling in his toes and despite the protection of the wetsuit, his legs were rapidly joining them. The water was chest high and he was beginning to experience nausea and dizziness, both opposing him in his fight to stay upright on his rock.

"Well, Napoleon," he said out loud, just to hear his own voice. 'Looks like you may bite the final bullet this time." He worked futilely at his wrists, ignoring his shortness of breath and the bite of the salt water on the ragged skin. He reasoned it was getting late, for he had lost the reflected rays of the sun long ago, misplacing all sense of time, the void being filled with a well of hopelessness. Then he saw the blond head.

"Illya!" he cried as the figure drew closer, never wondering how the Russian had, once again, managed the impossible.

"You're close, try Alicia." A singsongy voice greeted him as a body raised itself out to the water to half stagger to him. "I don't know who you are, but you'll be dead meat if you stick around here much longer.' The wetsuit that clung to her gave Napoleon an excellent impression of her figure and he felt a return of the Napoleon luck. She brushed her hair from her face as she drew closer and shined her light on him. "Oh, you're tied up.'

"You think perhaps I'd sit here of my own volition? Madame, you apparently take me for a fool." Napoleon stopped, his teeth chattering. Another wave slapped his chest and he managed a weak smile. "Could you possible undo these knots? I'm expecting a very important phone call."

Green eyes twinkled at him as she smiled. 'If that's your sense of humor, now I know why they tied you up. They should have gagged you, too." She removed a jackknife from her utility belt and dove beneath the surface.

Chapter 7: "Ah, a midnight THRUSH."

The woman, Alicia, sat on the corner of the bed, shuffling through the notes Illya had made. "Feeling better?" she asked as Napoleon stepped from the bathroom, showered, shaved and feeling human again. She'd already had the opportunity to change from her wetsuit into her street clothes.

"Very much improved, thank you, Alicia." He paused to inspect his dark hair in the mirror.

"I'd like to meet your roommate, Napoleon. He must be very interesting if his notes are any indication. You don't very often meet a man who knows shorthand."

Napoleon frowned and joined her on the bed, turning the pages towards him. "It isn't shorthand, it's Cyrillic, I think. He's Russian." He flipped the sheets sideways, drawing a laugh from her.

"This is some setup; are you FBI?"

"Absolutely not! I'm a photographer, but with such a competitive market it behooves one to have the best equipment available."

"And Ill..."

"Illya." Napoleon rose and walked to the closet.

"He's a photographer too, then?"

Napoleon slipped on his coat and turned away to strap on his holster, hiding it from her. "No, Illya's an ichthyologist. He studies fish," Napoleon added, noting her blank expression. "When I mentioned that I was coming to Ft. Bragg to do some shooting for Photomart, he tagged along. We got separated this morning. He's probably down communing with a carp at this very moment. When he gets involved, he loses track of time."

"He sounds like his name, Ill. Anyone who spends his time with fish instead of you has to be sick."

Napoleon grinned at her, the Napoleon savoir fare fully engaged. "Now, my dear, we mustn't judge others by their names. If we did that, everyone would think I was a short Frenchman." He took her hand gently, letting his charm weave its magic. "I want you to pick out your favorite restaurant." He held up a hand to silence her protest. "Think of it as my way of thanking you for my timely rescue from the California surge.'

"Well, all right, it might wake up some of the resident deadheads. It takes an act of God for a girl to get a date around here. All those local boys care about is fishing and getting drunk."

"Then they are idiots."

"Amen to that, brother. Just let me call my dad and tell him where I'll be and I'll be ready. Will we meet up your sick friend?" Alicia cradled the phone receiver between her shoulder and ear.

"That's a good question. I don't think he'll be joining us. He's pretty much on his own time schedule."

As soon as Alicia began to talk into the phone, Napoleon slid back into the bathroom, locking the door behind him. He pulled the pen communicator up to his mouth, thumbing the channel open. "Open Channel D. Illya, are you there?" He held his breath for a brief second until a familiar Russian-accented voice came back.

"Hello, Napoleon, how was the sub hunting?"

Napoleon gave Illya a brief but concise report, sparing the colorful phrases and adjectives in case Alicia was listening.

"I'm sure that Dietrich will inform any interested party that we are here, so it should start to get fun now. We do seem to be in luck, thought," Illya continued. "While he was alternated between giving me his obligatory speech and using me for a punching bag, he all but assured me that THRUSH isn't any further along in breaking the puzzle than Pasteur was. Because of that, all the culturing is being done here."

"We'd better get ready to move. I wouldn't want them to get itchy and start without us. Did you have any other trouble?"

"No, just the run-in with Dietrich and a chase through Mendocino. Other than that it was a quiet afternoon. Have you checked with Arsene?"

"Ah...Illya, could you check with him? I'm entertaining here and we're just about to leave for dinner."

"Very well, Monsieur Casanova. Out."

Napoleon stepped from the bathroom and Alicia jumped up to meet him, a smile on her freckled face. "Dad said it would be all right as long as you behaved like a gentleman." She adjusted her blouse prettily. "If not, he gave me permission to deck you."

Napoleon was taken aback and he brought a hand to his check in mock hurt. "Me act anything but the gentleman I was raised to be? Impossible!" And he offered her his elbow. "Madame?"

Arsene Corica groaned out loud, his back, neck, and arms one gigantic ache, and the television's blaring did nothing to help his throbbing head. The communicator on the bed blatted for attention and he welcomed the motion. Stretching as much as he could in a few strides, he brought it to his mouth and collapsed on the bed.

"Corica."

"Have our birds tried anything, Arsene?"

"Oh, Illya, thank God it is you! No, nothing, not even so much as to flutter a feather. I've never spent a more boring day in my life."

"Then the news will come as welcome relief."

"News?"

"You've been given your freedom, sort of." Illya hesitated. "How are you at winery watching?"

"I'm a keen student. Allow me a shower and a hot meal and then I'll contact you for directions. How was your day?"

Illya sank into the chair, letting the warm glow of the fire, as well as Mussorgsky's Polonaise, caress him. He sipped at his drink, contemplating both Arsene's question and the aroma that drifted from Kearta's kitchen.

"It was eventful. Be careful while you at the winery. There's a German THRUSH here who's quite clever for all his feathers. He deems extra care. He even tried a doubleheader on Napoleon and myself today. Fortunately, he's a lousy ball player."

"I understand. How is Napoleon?"

"Fine, now, but from what I understand, he was doing some sub watching and got a little too close, resulting in his getting brained and left on a rock with the tide coming in and he an inch or two below the tide line."

"Captured - the natural state of an U.N.C.L.E. agent." Arsene chuckled, working his back muscles.

"That's because of the finesse with which we do it. He was, of course, rescued from a watery death by the subsequent arrival of a lovely young lady.'

"Of course, only Napoleon has such luck. My rescuers are always men."

"That's Napoleon's story now," Illya advised, smiling. "Anyway, he's taking her out to dinner to thank her, so I don't know how long it will be before he's ready to get down to business."

"I don't know how fast you Russians operate; we usually wait for the second date, ourselves.'

Illya stared at the instrument, confusion furrowing his brow. He replayed the conversation and, heaving a sign, corrected the Italian. "I meant U.N.C.L.E. business, Arsene. The Captain and I will be out as soon as it gets dark, say two hours. And Arsene, remember, 'Staunch is an U.N.C.L.E.'s heart.'"

"Stupid fits better and substitute head for heart. I feel like Quasimodo from all this leaning over."

"Then don't slouch. Kuryakin out."

Arsene thought of all the words he'd rather use on the small pen that rested on his chest, but, instead, he wearily rose and shuffled to the bathroom.

"I must have left it in here," Alicia protested as Napoleon unlocked the door to his room. "I know I had it before. I probably dropped it somewhere around the bed."

Napoleon flicked on the lights and cast a wary eye about the room. The sonic detector winked mechanically at him and he prepared to proclaim it safe when Alicia pushed past him.

"There it is!" She knelt on the floor between the beds to retrieve a key chain. "I knew it had to be here. Hello, what's this?" She rose and picked up a half-emptied bottle of wine.

Napoleon crossed the space quickly, deftly removing the bottle from her, and examine the contents through the glass.

"There's a note, too. 'Napoleon, it seemed a shame to waste this, so please finish it.' It's signed 'ink'?" She handed him the note, adding, "Isn't it sort of chintzy to take an unfinished bottle of wine from a restaurant and does he always make his n's backwards?"

"That's Illya's handwriting. I just didn't think he'd be back into wine so soon. He had a rather protracted experience with it a couple of days ago. I guess drinking really does kill brain cells." Napoleon unwrapped the cellophane from a plastic cup and poured a scant amount of wine into it. Holding the glass up to the light, he scrutinized it carefully before hesitantly touching it to his tongue. "Well, it seems to be okay." He paused, sensing the girl's puzzlement at his actions. He glanced again at the sensors. "At least he showed the good sense not to throw it away." He tore the plastic from a second glass. "Would you care to join me, my dear?"

Illya Kuryakin and Kearta Locovsky wandered up the dirt road that skirted the Noyo Harbor and ran parallel to the Harbor Lite. A cold wind cut in, pushing up waves before it.

"It'll be rough tonight," Kearta stated, pushing closer to Illya. I hope you brought your sea legs with you."

"Sadly, no, I left them in my room." Illya waved toward the hotel and froze in midstride.

"What's wrong, Illya Nichovich?" She stopped, staring in the same direction.

"The room lights, they're on."

"I do not understand the significance of that."

"You don't need lights for infra-red photography. Besides, it would make Napoleon a sitting duck. Something's wrong; I feel it. You go down to the dock and I'll meet you. I want to have a look."

He squinted in the dark for the path he knew was there. Finally he spotted it and scrambled up it on his hands and knees. Pausing below the balcony, he carefully hoisted himself onto the railing of the first floor room. "Pardon the intrusion," he muttered to no one as he wrapped an arm around the second story railing. He chinned up and dropped easily over the railing. Pressing down against the wooden deck, he used the porch furniture as a cover. He crawled to the door and peered into it.

Lying on the floor were Napoleon and a woman, no doubt his would-be rescuer. Over them stood a black-clad figure, the white THRUSH emblem obvious.

"Well, a midnight THRUSH." Illya drew his gun and gave the partially ajar patio door a cautious push. Receiving no response from either the warning devices or THRUSH, he increased the space until there was enough to squeeze his slender frame through. He slid the gun into his waistband and removed a decorative belaying pin from an overhanging lamp.

"That damned fool; his notes are nothing but scribbles," the figure growled out loud as he bent over the bed, pushing Illya's note around.

"Smile when you say that, my friend," Illya remarked calmly, allowing the man a brief second of surprise before bringing the wooden stick down upon the THRUSH's head, and the man crumbled without a word.

"What did you say, Matt?" came a second voice. Illya dropped to the floor as the speaker emerged from the bathroom, a roll of film dangling from his fingers. He hastened to his fallen partner and Illya sprang, dragging the THRUSH to the floor. The THRUSH fell, but twisted, landing on his back. Illya followed, landing squarely on the man and the two grappled, a tangle of arms and legs.

The THRUSH dug his fingers into Illya's ears, wrenching his head from side to side hard, playing havoc with his neck vertebrae. In response, Illya hammered away at the THRUSH's face, finally burying a knee in the man's stomach. Illya was suddenly released and he twisted, and then slammed his assailant's head against the floor until the man went limp.

Illya fought his way to his feet, swaying in time to the ringing in his head. He rocked his head back and forth until he heard a reassuring 'pop.' Grunting, he hauled the man up and carried him to the balcony, tossing him over the railing. Not waiting for the crash, he repeated the process with the second. Satisfied that they wouldn't be back and time soon, he brushed his hands together and returned to Napoleon.

He knelt beside his colleague and peeled back an eyelid. "Well, my friend, you're going to have about ten hours of sleep and wake up feeling like unadulterated hell." He heaved Napoleon up and flopped him back on the bed. "My word, Napoleon, the doctors were right; you have put on weight." He placed the woman beside Napoleon, hesitating before pulling up the bed spread. "I'm now this isn't the first evening you've spent in the company of a young lady, Napoleon, but it will be the first time you aren't conscious to enjoy it."

Chuckling softly, Illya reactivated the sensors, setting the frequency to his communicator so should THRUSH try again, he would know immediately, then he checked the cameras trained on the Noyo Harbor, setting them for five minute intervals. Satisfied, he drew the curtains and darkened the room. Cautiously, he drifted out the front door, locking it behind him and trotted down the stairs, braced for any sudden movements.

He fought the rickety gate to the back of the hotel open and stared up at his room, his acute hearing picking up a faint click. Satisfied, he dogged down to the wharf, slowing as he reached it to search for the schooner.

He swallowed the concern he felt as he continued to hunt for the ship. All I need is for THRUSH to grab the Captain, he thought, unable to spot the Svyetlana. Abruptly his arm was caught in a steely grip and reflexes that had saved his life a hundred times before came into play. He spun, twisting and yanking, managing to get a handful of long blonde hair.

Long blonde hair? But Dietrich doesn't have... his mind puzzled, detached from the actions of his body. He stopped, confused, and caught a solid blow in the chin that staggered him back two steps.

"All right, C1;N4:8, you want to fight, come on!" Kearta, her face crimson, held her fists in front of her. Illya held up his hands in surrender.

"You shouldn't sneak up on me like that. Are you all right?" Illya took a step closer and Kearta raised her hands higher. "Kearta, we have work to do now; there's no time for that. Where's the Svyetlana?" He sucked on his cut lip as he waited for her answer.

Faltering, she lowered her fists. "Over there, you headed off in the wrong direction. I was trying to help."

'The next time, yell. I might have seriously injured you without meaning to. There are too many THRUSH around not to be careful.

She rubbed her scalp. "What happened up there? You were so long I was thinking of calling out the Red Guard." She led the way to the schooner.

"Napoleon managed to get a noseful of a sleep-inducing drug. I didn't stop to do a chemical analysis of it, but if it's the one I think it is, he's out of action for the next nine hours or thereabout. I guess we Napoleon without Napoleon." He followed her up the gangplank.

"How did they get in?" she asked finally. "And why can't they just do it again?"

"They got in the same way I did, up through the sliding glass door." He turned his collar up against the wind. "I don't think those two particular THRUSH will be back."

"What if others decide to come through the front door?"

"Not even the maid could come through the front door. The first day I was here, I made some special modifications to the locks." He wiggled his fingers at her. "These are good for more things than breaking pine boards in half." On that note, he left her and went below deck to retrieve his equipment. A tiny heater pushed the cabin's temperature up to a very comfortable level and he contemplated staying there tonight. A violent surge rocked the boat and he grinned ruefully. Another thing the Russian Navy had taught him: if you're going to be seasick, it's much better to be outside than in. The waves weren't quite as violent topside and you didn't have to worry about cleanup afterwards, and the waves were going to be very bad tonight. Gathering up his pack and nerve, he drew a deep breath and plunged up the staircase into the night above.

"By the time I graduated from the University of Moscow, I was completely disenchanted with the Communist Party, so I applied for a visa, in order to work on my Masters in Egyptology. You know Brezhnev, always worried about immortality. When I got it, I headed for America and didn't look back, until now. Seeing you, a fellow Russian, has made me homesick." Kearta stopped in her soliloquy to rub her hands together briskly. "What about you, Illya Nichovich, have you ever wanted to go back?"

"I have, but I try to keep a low profile. The KGB and I had a slight...disagreement when I left and there are a couple of officials who take a rather dim view of my loyalties." Illya was playing his famous 'tell them what they want to know but don't give them any facts' game, as Napoleon referred to it. He brought his cup to his mouth and drank, only to drop the binoculars and frown at the liquid. "This stuff sure gets cold fast."

"Didn't it get cold when you were in the Navy?" Kearta picked up what she thought was a discrepancy.

"When you bolstered with enough vodka, you usually didn't notice." Illya tugged a corner of his mouth up in a smile. "Besides, I spent most of my time in submarines."

"Oh." Kearta regarded him cryptically. "So how did you manage to get into Russia without the KGB's knowing about it?"

"Kearta, we're a spy organization; at least give us credit for that. And to answer your question, I can't answer your question; all that information is classified. Besides, if I told you, then I'd have to kill you and what would be the fun in that?" Illya returned the glasses to his weary eyes. Abruptly he straightened and leaned further over the railing.

"What's wrong, Illya Nichovich?"

"Nothing's wrong; it's finally right. Unless I miss my guess, there's a sub docking with a ship off our port bow and I'd call that pretty suspicious." He shifted for a better position, the binoculars clearly picking up the THRUSH emblem on the side of the sub. "How much speed can we get from this crate?"

"Enough for anything you'd have in mind," she snapped. "Why? Are you going to attack them?" Kearta brightened at the thought of some action.

"You're as crazy as Napoleon. I don't have his kind of luck, Kearta Mikhailovna. Tonight we survey, tomorrow we attack. Keep the glasses on them and yell if they do anything drastic." He shoved the binoculars at her and strode away.

"Where are you going?"

"Below deck to make a call to room service. I think I have a course of action. Tell me, Captain, how are you at creating havoc?"

"Havoc, I've never tried, but I'm told that I'm very good at mass confusion."

Chapter 8: "Scratch that THRUSH"

Napoleon fought against the sleep that lay heavy upon his limbs. He struggled to shake himself free, feeling someone beside him, yet unable to identify them. He felt water-logged and tired, even though he knew he'd been asleep for a long time. Finally, through a supreme effort, he managed to get one eye open. He was disoriented by unfamiliar furniture and blinking lights, then he stared over at the restive woman beside him.

Napoleon reached over and gently shook her shoulder. "Hey, Alicia... wake up."

She pulled herself up onto her elbows and lethargically looked over the room before suddenly realizing her plight and pulled the bedspread up to her chin. "I want to know what's going on! My father will kill me!"

"Shhh, you'll wake Illya up," Napoleon cautioned, having hauled himself up into a sitting position and noticing the form on the other side of him.

"Illya's already awake." The voice was sleep-slurred. "If you two must fight, please do it at a lower volume."

Alicia drew the bedspread up closer around her and looked at Napoleon for reassurance. "What's he doing in here? With us?"

"Yes, old man, what are you doing in here with us?"

"It was either here or Arsene's and I'm used to sleeping with you," Illya mumbled, pushing his face deeper into the pillow. "Now shut up."

"Ah," Napoleon said, as if that explained everything. "So you would you care to elucidate upon what happened, or should I care?"

Illya groaned and rolled over. "You should know better than to drink from open bottles, Napoleon. I'm surprised at you."

"But you left it," Napoleon heard himself argue.

"Handwriting is conveniently forgeable and personal quirks to easy to pick up on. Besides, after Napa Valley, the only thing that's touching these lips had better come from potatoes. I think that by now you've figured out that what you got was a dose of one of THRUSH's sleeping potions." Illya broke off to stretch and yawn, then resumed. "Fortunately I intercepted the guilty party and we discussed the aerodynamic impossibilities of the human body while in flight. They won't be bothering anyone else again." He scratched his chest absentmindedly. "Now may I sleep?"

"Did they find anything?" Napoleon asked, shaking off the last effects of the drug.

"Not unless they're fluent in Cyrillic. I knew that would come in handy someday." He ran a hand through his tangled blond hair, adding, "Oh, they did manage to over-expose some of your film, probably of the nautical nicety that you found yesterday. Now that I've answered all your questions, might I put forth a suggestion?"

"Hmmm?"

"Why don't you take the young lady home and explain to her very concerned, hopefully non-violent father about the submarine races the two of you were at last night. By the time you get back, I'll have gotten in a couple more hours of badly needed sleep. Oh, and you'd better get hold of Arsene, too.'

Napoleon straightened sharply, remembering the woman, who had been watching the whole exchange curiously. He turned to her. "Alicia, forgive my lack of manners; this is Illya Kuryakin. Illya, Alicia."

Illya gestured to the sheets. "Excuse me if I don't get up, but my suit's at the cleaners."

"So that's your sick friend, huh? Now I know why; he's got the same weird sense of humor that you do, Napoleon.' She crawled weakly from the bed to stand on wobbly feet.

"I do hope your father's not the violent type." Napoleon followed her example while Illya kept control of the sheets.

"Me, too." Alicia tried to bring some order to her badly wrinkled clothes.

"Illya, did you find anything out?" Napoleon asked absently while trying to work up some plausible excuse.

All that met him was a gentle snore. Napoleon picked up Illya's notes of the previous night's venture and shook his head. "It's really a shame I can't read his particular brand of shorthand either."

A bleary-eyed Kuryakin braced his head up against a palm, wearily nursing a cup of coffee, and tried to concentrate upon Arsene's report.

"From what I could gather, most of the virus has been moved to the outer storage shed near the helicopter pads. I did get verification on our hunch of this being the only manufacturing lab. THRUSH wanted to be certain that it would be worth the effort of large scale production. The only thing that the sub is transporting in is the raw materials and the base for the cultures."

"So when the Van Deutch winery goes, the virus goes," Napoleon summed up.

"Providing no one makes it out of there alive to transmit the formula," Illya interjected. "How did you find all this out Arsene?"

"I asked one of the guards. They can be very talkative amongst themselves."

"Huh, I'll have to remember that," Napoleon interrupted. "This is probably inconsequential, Illya, care to conjecture as to why two doses?"

"Couple of reasons." Illya finished his coffee and poured himself another cup. "Either it's a safety feature or an accident. If it's the first, it's probably because even little THRUSH have to nibble on something to stay alive. With the condition temporary, they can live off of stock-piled supplies, applying the second dose to any troublesome area and yet keep most of the land usable for after the siege. Also saves them the trouble of having to formulate a counteragent to the virus once they're ready to inhabit an area. Or it could have been an accident. They did pilfer the formula, don't forget, and from what I understood, it wasn't in the final stages of development. They sprayed, thinking it to be permanent, but the tests indicate the opposite, so they re-synthesized the virus and decided to pick up some pocket change along the way. They are very good at making money...better than we are."

"It's just as serious either way," Arsene concluded.

"And what now, Oh Great White Hunter?" Illya leaned back against the uncomfortable straight seat and rubbed his eyes wearily.

"Unless you two have a better idea, I'd say let's go out a few THRUSH out of business. Arsene and I will take the winery. Illya, you concentrate on the water forces. I don't want any loose ends."

"The two of you against that hunk of rock? Napoleon, you've pulled off some bravado antics before, but that place is impregnable. I've seen the plans; there's no way to get in without being noticed." Illya looked away, disgustedly shaking his head. "Even you aren't that good."

"That's why your fellow countrymen will never rule the world, Illya; you all start out pessimistic. Not to worry, Arsene and I have it all figured out."

"We do?" A kick beneath the table changed his tone to a positive, "We do."

"Sure you do, and I'm Doris Day. Napoleon, that sub won't surface until night; let me come and help."

"And if we get captured? You'll have to play back up this time, Illya."

Kuryakin affected an air of disappointment. "All right, this time, but just tell me one thing. How are you going to get in there?"

"Yes, explain that part to me also, Napoleon," Arsene added, propping his chin up on his hand. "I should very much like to hear this, caro mio."

Napoleon wandered down the same dirt road that Illya and the captain had taken the night before. Letting his mind ramble, he reviewed various courses. Unlike Illya, he disliked spontaneity, preferring to have a firm grip on the situation. He left the Russian and the Italian behind on the wharf, Illya arguing with a dock worker on the current labor movement, Arsene listening. Napoleon liked solitude when planning his strategy, with only himself to disagree with.

Idly, he kicked at a stone and glanced up at the hotel. His eyes darkened as he saw a man drop from his balcony. Napoleon sprinted up the sand path, his polished, hand-tooled shoes ineffective against the gravel. Cresting the hill, he paused, reaching for his P-38.

"Excuse me, sir, but that happens to be private property and I don't think the management would appreciate your climbing all over it."

The intruder spun, startled, his grey eyes staring first at Napoleon, then at the gun. Resignedly, he raised his hands.

"You are very smart for a THRUSH-type," Napoleon concluded as he drew near. A nerve twitched and Napoleon dropped as a 'pop' informed him of a silenced gun. He cracked off wide shot in the gunman's general direction as the first man headed for the gate leading to the hotel's courtyard. Napoleon raised his gun to fire, feeling dirt splatter his face from a too-close bullet. He glanced about for the gunman, knowing he'd have to fall him first. A glint betrayed the man's position for a second as he fired, and that was all Napoleon needed. He dodged the bullet, took his usual precise aim and snapped off a shot. The cry and crash of underbrush informed Napoleon that the THRUSH had fallen.

The remaining THRUSH gave up his attempt to open the stubborn gate, heading instead for the underside of the huge spanning web of the Noyo Bridge, and Napoleon didn't hesitate to charge after him. The steel girders were wide enough for passage and Napoleon let his opponent's head start speed him along, ignorant of the ground falling away beneath his rushing feet.

Illya Kuryakin watched Arsene throw up his hands in disgust at him and the burly dock worker as they argued, obviously concerned that Illya might not know what he was doing, but that thought didn't weigh on Illya's mind as he pushed on, tirelessly presenting his arguments.

When the dock worker broke off, Arsene stiffened, evidently ready to leap to the aid of his fellow agent, but the worker merely pointed into the distance. "There is a classic example of the insanity caused by the stress of ordinary life. Some meatballs are climbing around on the Noyo's underside."

Illya didn't spare the look that Arsene did to verify that one of the meatballs was indeed his partner. "Come on, Arsene, something's up." Illya barely felt the path beneath his feet as he ran, dodging past men, shipyard obstacles, and bushes towards the bridge.

Napoleon was not aware of his approaching reinforcements, only of the man in front of him. He drew his gun again and leveled it at the fleeing THRUSH. "All right, I suggest that you hold up for a moment, my friend. There are a few questions I want to ask you."

The THRUSH vacillated briefly in his flight and Napoleon frowned, worried about losing him to the water below, but it was a chance he'd have to take. Smoothly, he exchanged the regular bullets out for a clip of U.N.C.L.E. mercy bullets, then aimed, pulled the trigger and watched the man stagger a step before collapsing on the steel beam. His relief at successfully felling his quarry was promptly replaced by fear as Napoleon felt his foot begin to slip on the mist-damp steel. He flailed his arms for something to grab, but everything eluded his grasp. Suddenly his fingers hooked onto the edge of the beam and the weight of his body brought screaming protest from his arms, but his descent was halted. Somewhere Napoleon could hear Illya's voice, and then he spotted the Russian, closely followed by Arsene.

"Don't let go, Napoleon!" he heard Kuryakin shout. "The water's only thirty feet deep there. You'll be buried up to your neck in mud!"

"Thanks for the information," Napoleon muttered as he felt his fingers slip. "Run, Illya!" he ordered hoarsely to the sandy-haired agent and Illya mounted the beam at a dead run.

Napoleon's whole world now revolved around clutching to that beam and all of time stopped until he felt a hand on his wrist. A breathless minute later had him, shaky-kneed, standing on the same beam he had held so desperately to moments earlier.

"Are you all right, Napoleon?" Illya placed a hand on either bicep. "What are you doing up here? Are you crazy?" The Russian dropped his hands, scrutinizing the American.

"Yes, a good reason, and no." Napoleon straightened his jacket, gaining a firm footing on his self-control. "I was after an itinerant THRUSH." Napoleon pointed to the downed man, still draped over the beam.

"You sit tight and I'll go get him." Illya, sure footed in his sneakers, patted his shoulders and left.

The THRUSH twitched in his drug-induced sleep and began to slide from the security of his perch.

Illya noticed and worry clouded his eyes. He pushed on as fast as he dared and then faster. The man, completely relaxed, offered no resistance and before the U.N.C.L.E. agent could reach him, he fell, plunging down into the harbor. Illya halted, panting, and peered down through the rolling fog. He couldn't see the body land, but heard it instead. Slowly and more cautiously, he climbed back down to Napoleon.

"Scratch that THRUSH. Guess they didn't teach that one how to fly in training camp. Are you ready to go down?"

"More than," Napoleon muttered, half-heartedly. For all the deaths he'd seen or caused, a man dying still bothered him and subconsciously he envied the somber Russian, who now effortlessly slid down the slick steel support beam. Death never seemed to disturb his partner, perhaps he'd made peace with his conscience, and Napoleon vowed one day he'd get the Russian to share his secret.

Chapter 9: "A dud?"

Napoleon drove the compact U.N.C.L.E. car off the edge of the road and quickly climbed out to join Arsene, who had darted from the vehicle practically before it stopped. Both men were dressed in dark clothes, charcoal smearing their faces and they took full advantage of the heavy pine trees and undergrowth that covered the hillside. Wordlessly, the men climbed. Abruptly, Arsene halted and pointed, flattening himself against the ground. Napoleon followed the point and spotted a tiny, camouflaged platform, halfway up a pine tree. He lifted his silenced Walther and took careful aim. Both THRUSH were dead before either could react.

"According to my calculations, there are five more of these, each spaced 100 feet within one another," Arsene said, warily scanning the trees. "Do we split up, Napoleon, or hit them together?"

"Together, we can afford the added protection and still have some time to kill, pardon the poor choice of words. No use taking unnecessary chances too early. Illya won't move unless we tell him to, I hope." Napoleon gestured to the right and again they began to climb, gliding toward the next unsuspecting pair of victims.

"You know what to do?" Napoleon questioned as they approached the car from their attack on the last alert post.

"I scale up the mountain and place one of these little presents on the belly of each helicopter and wait for them to go up. After which I wait and take care of any THRUSH attracted by the smoke," Arsene responded easily.

"I'll use the explosion as a signal to start my own attack and, with any luck, I'll meet you in the courtyard."

"I understand and, Napoleon, good luck." He gravely shook the man's hand and then spun to scramble up the incline to the Van Deutch vineyard.

Arsene topped the hill, slowed from having to haul several extra pounds of equipment up with him. As he got his bearings, he studied the now familiar landing pad. In the fluorescent light, the helicopters stood, temporarily abandoned, awaiting the final preparation for tomorrow's spraying. Arsene scanned the balcony of the house that stood some thirty feet about the erstwhile garden, now landing pad. Like the copters, it stood abandoned.

Relieved, the Italian U.N.C.L.E. discarded his cover and edged out onto the field. He dashed to the farthest machine first and plastered himself against the metal body. No shots or cries sounded as he fell to his knees and deftly he fastened the explosive device to the fuel tank and set the timer. That one finished, he began to move onto the next, only to grind to a halt. A THRUSH guard moved out onto the field, his eyes searching the shadows, his gun ready for movement. Arsene pushed against the machine, listening to the faint regular ticking of the timer. At least one will go up, he thought to himself as the guard came closer. He steeled himself for the moment of detection as a voice cut through the silence.

"Hey Burt, you seen Dillon? He's supposed to pull duty tonight and he's nowhere to be found."

The guard looked up at the balcony. "I'm not his keeper. He's probably off with some chick down in Mendocino."

"No probablys. You know how Dietrich is. Come and lend a hand before that German bastard has our hides."

The first guard was so close Arsene could hear the softly muttered curse. The THRUSH threw down the cigarette he'd just lighted and stalked off the field. Arsene sighed and headed for the next copter to repeat his procedure a second, then a third time. He was mere yards from the machines when the first helicopter went up, the explosion knocking him from his feet. He crawled to the bushes and the protection they afforded to wait for the action.

Napoleon heard, felt and saw the first helicopter go up, a pillar of flame and smoke in the night sky. He gunned the motor and headed out onto the road. A sharp, tire-squealing right turn aimed him directly at an iron gate. The nose of the car split it easily apart and the air was filled with a wailing siren. Immediately the road was swarming with gunmen and Napoleon steeled himself as he brought the machine gun headlights up to eliminate the human obstructions, leaving bloodied bodies in his wake. He floored the accelerator, glimpsing the huge stone mansion, as he pulled down a concealing panel and nimbly punched in his pass code and then a firing program for the door-housed rockets.

He slid the car around in the driveway of the mansion and flipped the passenger's door up to reveal the launch tube hidden there. With grim determination, he punched the rocket release, while taking care of a few surprised guards. He watched as the rocket shot out, rocking the car with the force of ignition, and plowed its way through the oak-paneled door, sending up a shower of debris. It buried itself firmly in a staircase before its delayed detonation time bleeped off. A fireball rolled out the door as the rocket went up.

A low building caught Napoleon's attention and he swung the car in an obedient half-arc, then he yanked his own door open, sending of a second rocket. The building made a quite favorable explosion as Napoleon grabbed his P-38, now modified with a scope, barrel extender and brace, turning the snub-nosed gun into a high-powered rifle. He tried it on a THRUSH that staggered from the inferno inside the mansion. The fire leaped from one structure to another and Napoleon watched as the flames consumed all within their grasp.

He saw a familiar shape round the burning, collapsing house and wave. Running, Napoleon joined him.

"Get everything?" Arsene panted.

"Whatever we miss, the fire will get." Behind them they heard a noise and, startled, both turned, guns at ready. The ragged stumbling man held his hands up, chains dangling from them.

"You've got to help me. I've been held captive by these people and I have to get hold of my Uncle Alex. He'll be really worried."

The voice clicked in Napoleon's memory. "Zimmerman? Is that you? We thought you were dead after your last report."

"Napoleon Solo?" The relief that washed over the man's face was apparent. "Only you could cause such splendid chaos. And are you Kuryakin? I thought you were blond."

"Absolutely not!" Arsene protested immediately. "You have the wrong nationality right off. Arsene Corica, Section 2 from Sicily."

"If you gentlemen don't mind, there may be some loose feathers floating around, so I'd rather not stand on decorum. Bu the way, did either of you see Dietrich?"

"You mean the German?" Zimmerman asked, confused. "We were never formally introduced. He was with me in the cellar last I k new. The place went up and he took off, but I don't think he made it out. Was he...ah...a friend of yours?" Zimmerman faltered and Napoleon caught him.

"No, not really." Napoleon regarded the collapsing house as his communicator warbled, barely audible over the crackling of the fire. He motioned the two toward the car as he opened the channel. "Solo here."

"Didn't catch you at a bad time, did I, Napoleon?" the Russian's voice answered back, and Arsene, pointing to the pen, turned to Zimmerman.

"No, not at all. We're all finished playing Dante's Inferno up here and are on our way out before some conscientious Samaritan reports the fire. There's no way they can salvage anything; the place is practically down to the ground and there's no one left on their side to report this."

"Ah, good, excellent. We're about ready to go down here. I just finished installing a sonar assembly while you were out creating wanton destruction."

"Need a hand?" Napoleon paused before having to cram in beside his fellow agents.

"Thanks, but I've got two of my own and a couple more at ready. You might want to ring up the local water patrol and send them out. We should have a package for them shortly."

"You got it and, Illya, only kill them a little bit; we need the information they might have."

"Limited warfare, understood. Kuryakin out." Napoleon grinned at the instrument and then squirmed into the two-passenger car. "Now I know how women in girdles feel," he complained. "Pardon me if I shift your knee, Arsene. Now, there's just one more thing.

Napoleon brought the car to life and charged the machine down the driveway, stopping at the junction of the road and half-arc driveway to take aim at a water tower with the remaining rocket in his door.

The rocket burrowed its way into the steel of the tank and sat.

"A dud," Arsene commented dryly.

"A delayed timer," Napoleon corrected. "This car is many things, but water tight it is not." He pushed the car to its maximum and sped away from the scene.

Illya Kuryakin stood on the deck of the schooner, feeling the surge of the waves beneath the hull. He cracked open one of the several crates that he had had delivered from the San Francisco office and rifling through the shredded paper, he pulled out a cylindrical device, about a foot long and ten inches in diameter. He hefted it and judged the weight to be about five pounds. Smiling, he replaced it and made his way to the bridge.

"Are we ready up here?" He stuck his head into the cabin.

Kearta grinned at the man, nodding. "We should be at the exact spot in another five minutes, and then we blow the Cossacks from the sea!"

"I'm sorry to dash your hopes, but we're just going to force them to surface, not turn them into a lump of metal. But that's not to say we can't have some fun with them before letting them up. Use the sonar to keep them below us and we'll show them a little Russian muscle."

"And what if they decide to make a run for it?" Kearta pushed the sleeves of her white blouse up and shook her blonde hair from her face.

"A two-man sub that size has an optimum speed of two knots. I refuse to believe that this crate couldn't keep up with them."

The captain pursed her mouth, a fist brought up, obviously determined to make him retract his statement, but Illya calmly regarded her until she dropped her hand and, instead, growled, "I do not see what was wrong with my sonar system. It is the best on the market."

"Which is why I replaced it. Our labs are more advanced than any marketing company," Illya explained as he studied the scanner. A blip answered in the far corner and Illya pointed to it. "There's our party."

"So, why do you not go out and prepare the party favors and I'll let you know when to shout, 'surprise!'"

"Aye, aye, Captain." Illya saluted her briefly and headed back out onto the deck.

Over his shoulder, he heard Kearta mutter, "Fishing is certainly going to seem tame after this."

Illya, whistling the 1812 Overture, cracked open two more crates, and pulled a hand depth charge free of the box to examine the dial. There were days when he really enjoyed his job.

"All right, Illya Nichovich," he heard faintly over the roar of the engines. "We are just about there. I made them at a depth of 82 feet and climbing at a speed of 1.2 knots."

"Then that would make it...," Illya chewed his bottom lip in concentration as he made some quick calculations, "...three seconds. Okay, I'm set!"

"Then do it!" the woman's voice floated back, partially obliterated by the wind.

Illya clicked the dial timer to three and flung the depth charge over the side. Abruptly the sea shook and they with it. The captain let out a triumphant yell as Illya quickly ditched two more charges over the port side and then scrambled across the deck to toss an additional two off the starboard rail.

The ship rocked crazily with the waves and Illya fought desperately to remain upright long enough to arm the next charge.

Inside the bridge, Kearta swore and hung on as the ship rolled first one way, then the other.

"Illya Nichovich, you're crazy! You'll tip us over!" She wrapped a leg around a bolted chair and studied the screen, then staggered to the door. "They are on the move. Their speed is up to 1.7 knots and they're diving to 100 feet."

"What?"

"One hundred feet at 1.7 knots!" she tried again, louder.

"Keep with them!" Illya wiped the spray from his face and waved to an approaching ship. Then he recalculated and lobbed a charge off the port side.

A shower sprayed his face and belatedly he realized that the ship was other than standard Coast Guard issue. He swore at the oncoming THRUSH ship and yelled over his shoulder, "Kearta, we've got company! Hold onto something and keep with that sub!"

"What?" The woman grappled her way to the door of the bridge, shouting into the wind. Illya took refuge among coils of rope, nets and tarps as he assembled his gun into a rifle. He knelt, using the railing as a brace and turned to the bridge.

"Hold onto something!" he shouted again as he fired. A charge from the approaching ship rocked the smaller Svyetlana wildly and Illya found himself sliding across the deck to slam into a crate of depth charges. The blow knocked the wind from him and he crawled to his feet, gulping deep breaths of sea air. Determined he grabbed a charge and tossed it over the side. At least the sub would remember they still had company.

The recoil shook the ship, sending Kearta to the deck. "Proklunt, Illya Nichovich, you didn't warn me," she complained, making her way to him by means of the railing. "Why are they shooting at us?"

"We're the good guys, they're the bad guys and the bag guys always shoot at the good guys. What are you doing out here? I told you to watch that screen!" Illya swallowed all the adjectives he could think of that applied to her and emptied his rifle at the encroaching ship.

"On my ship, I'll go anywhere and do anything I want!" The water to her immediate right rose up in a column as the ship's charge exploded. "I think I'll watch the screen."

"Don't go empty-handed." Illya gestured to a crate. "Ditch those when you go. Set the dial to four and throw them as far as you can."

She, hand-over-hand, hauled her way back to the bridge, pushing the crate before her. A faint crack from the ship sent up another tower of water to wash down the deck and the schooner canted violently.

Kneeling, she pulled one of the charges out, performed the necessary requirements, and dropped it over the rail. Quickly she followed it with a second and a third until she had emptied the box.

The Svyetlana now rested hugely on its starboard side and Illya twisted himself between the ropes and nets to keep the fight going as Kearta's exploding charges sent up wave after wave of turbulence. Illya, however, was having problems of his own as the THRUSH ship grew closer and closer with its accuracy.

"Kearta Mikhailovna, get into a life jacket," he ordered. "We may have to ditch."

"What?"

"A life jacket!"

"How can you be cold at a time like this?" she bellowed back over the gunfire.

"What?" He glanced back and felt the ship buck. The Svyetlana was going to become part of the Pacific Ocean if something didn't happen soon. Another charge hit directly in front of him and he lost his hold, sliding across the deck and into the captain.

"Oof, get off!" She pushed him away. "There will be plenty of time for that later. I am going to get the pumps started. They will not sink this ship! The Svyetlana makes port under her own power or not at all!" She swore as she crawled off towards the bridge and Illya grappled his way back to the port railing. His somber Slavic face broke into a grin at the approaching Coast Guard cutter. He was cut short by a faceful of water as the THRUSH ship let loose a last charge.

He spit out a mouthful of water as the cutter brought their guns to bear on the overwhelmed THRUSH ship, ordering it to surrender, then drew up alongside the rocking Svyetlana.

Napoleon and Arsene leaned over the railing, waving down to the drenched Kuryakin, who scowled up at them and shouted, "You two sure pick a helluva time to show up. I was just getting started!"

Epilogue

"So I ditched the depth charges at them to confuse them, making them think they were up against something bigger. It was unfortunate that the captain had, unwittingly, put a hole in them." Illya brushed his blond hair back into place and peered into his beer mug.

"I'd like to meet the captain sometime. He sounds like quite a guy," Napoleon picked up his martini glass and sipped. It was surprisingly good. "Now with the lab literally gone up in smoke and the formula kaput, we can close the chapter on this little affair. I think we deserve a night out on U.N.C.L.E.'s expense account, wouldn't you agree, Mr. Kuryakin, Mr. Corica?"

"Sorry, but I'm on my way out," Arsene sighed. "If I leave now, I can make my flight to Japan with five minutes to spare."

"That's sticking to the speed limit, of course," Illya reminded him.

"Of course." He rose and put out a hand. "Gentlemen, it's been an honor to work with you again and I hope we meet again under more peaceful circumstances. Arrivederci." He shook their hands fondly and quickly glided from the 'Wharf's' bar, brushing past an entering Alicia.

"Well, Illya, old man, what about you? I'm sure that Alicia could scare up some local talent for you." He rose as Alicia laughingly joined them.

"My goodness, Mr. Solo, and your sick friend, what a surprise!" She settled into a chair, ignoring the disapproving stares of men more her age.

"I must apologize also, Napoleon." Illya rose to his feet. "I promised Captain Locovsky a night out. After what happened to the Svyetlana, I figured that I owed the captain some sort of recompense."

"At least you didn't scuttle it...entirely," Napoleon chuckled. "Try to have fun and not to be bored with all the old, salty sea stories..."

Napoleon trained off, his eyes lovingly caressing the woman who had entered. She paused, examining the contents of the room, her long slender body encased in a black, strapless, evening gown, which clung suggestively in all the right places. Napoleon whistled beneath his breath as she approached them and Alicia glared at her table partners.

Illya still standing, smiled as she drifted closer, the epitome of grace and charm.

"Are you ready, tovarish?" The dress softened her accent.

The Russian saluted smartly and pulled on his jacket. "Aye, aye, Captain."

"That's Captain Locovsky?" Napoleon whispered, his eyes making love to her.

"Da, tovarish. Later, Napoleon, Miss Addams."

Kearta locked arms with Illya, not the least bit interested in the people at the table, and together they left, Illya with the steadiness of a Russian wolf stalking its prey and Kearta inviting him to try. Illya paused halfway across the floor, speaking over his shoulder. "Don't wait up, Napoleon, I may be late."