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section7mfuLisa Rogers buzzed in to her chief. After a few seconds’ delay, she received Waverly’s distracted response. “Yes.”
“Sir, Director MacDonald of Intelligence and Counter Espionage is on a secure line. He says it’s urgent.”
Papers shuffled. “Oh, all right. Put him through.”
Minutes passed. The buzzer on Lisa’s desk activated. “Coffee, Miss Rogers,” Waverly said gruffly.
She could read his tone. Weary. Unsettled. This was not the time for a cup of commissary joe.
Waverly’s eyebrows lifted when she entered with the laden tray, but he did not object. He watched the ritual of the syphon coffee maker in silence, puffing meditatively on his pipe. As she started to pour a shot of brandy into his cup, he opened his mouth to object, then closed it again at her pointed look. “Thank you,” he said when she passed him the coffee, his eyes twinkling.
He sipped his fortified brew and nodded in satisfaction. “For several days, MacDonald lost contact with one of his top agents,” he said, gesturing to a chair. “When Helm returned, he claimed he’d been headlining in Las Vegas. He threatened to quit. Declared he’d found his true purpose.”
Lisa sat down. “Why call us? What do we have to do with one of their agents going on a bender?”
As he drank, Waverly raised a finger, indicating the answer was forthcoming. “It was all a fantasy, of course, as you say. I.C.E. psychiatrists have been attempting to recover his true memories. They’re fragmented at best, but they contain an encounter with a woman matching Miss Dancer’s description.”
“April’s just returned from Greece.”
“Precisely. A ridiculous suggestion. However, it took all my charm to persuade MacDonald that our agency was not involved.”
Lisa’s brow wrinkled in thought. “Do you think it’s related to Napoleon and Illya’s disappearance?”
“No reason why it should be. And yet…”
“Sir, I’m acquainted with Mat—Agent Helm.”
“Are you? In what way?”
“He wanted me to be one of his calendar girls.”
“Indeed.”
“If he went missing, I guarantee there was a woman involved,” she said scornfully, “just not April Dancer. As for the rest of his wild story, the man is practically pickled in alcohol.”
Waverly grunted and returned to his coffee. Sensing her dismissal, Lisa began to clean up the table. “Should I leave the pot?”
“Seeds of dissension,” Waverly replied.
“Pardon?”
“Who benefits from sowing seeds of dissension between our organizations?”
“Who else?” Lisa picked up the tray, leaving the pot behind on its stand. “If you authorize me to use Code Orange, I can have the heads of our counterpart agencies on a conference call within the hour.”
Waverly looked at his watch. “Yes, do that. And in the meantime, have Miss Dancer and Mr. Slate update me on their progress with that desk clerk.”
The jumpsuited technician straightened in his chair as his superior entered the control room.
“How is sleeping beauty,” she purred, “and the beast?”
The technician looked through the thick glass panel at the two men strapped to the beds, then down at his instrument panel. “Vital signs are good. Neural activity stable.”
“Really?” She leaned over him, her fur stole brushing his cheek, and tapped a crimson nail against an oscilloscope.
He swallowed. “It’s within prescribed tolerances.”
“Not within mine.” She turned a dial a single click to the left. The erratic line assumed a more regular frequency.
“We’re doing something in hours that usually takes days,” he said defensively. “They’ve gotta be on one hell of a trip.”
Perching on the edge of his station, she took a thin stack of punch cards from her handbag. “A change of stimuli.”
“Again?”
“An unfortunate necessity. It was as I thought. UNCLE agents have already taken that stupid desk clerk. They are combing the motel as we speak. Solo and Kuryakin must be released tonight.”
He reached for the intercom. “Maybe I should check with Dr. Debree first.”
Her long eyes narrowed. He had seen that same look when she had discovered that Solo’s ring was missing.
He quickly held out his hand, but she whipped the cards out of his reach. “No. I will do it.”
“But my orders are to—”
“Your orders are to get out.” She shrugged the fur stole from her shoulders. A mink’s lifeless head dropped onto his console. “You saw what became of that incompetent fool this morning. Do you wish to join him?”
The technician recalled how Solo’s hapless captor had been marched away, a rifle at his back. “Yes, Miss La Chien. I mean, no, Miss La Chien.” He sprang from his chair and quickly exited the control room.
Angelique set the cards in the aperture and turned on the reader. As it noisily consumed the data, she pressed another button. The glass door between the control room and the prisoners disappeared into the wall.
Kuryakin was dressed in only his underwear, as he had been when Dr. Dabree’s gas had put him in this catatonic state. She ran her fingers lightly up his bruised torso. “A pity you’re so grim.”
She adjusted the small machine connected to their IVs. It whirred and hissed as more of Dabree’s psychotropic drugs were released.
Napoleon wore striped pajamas. A mass of sensors marred his handsome visage. His eyelids fluttered rapidly as the drugs entered his bloodstream and new stimuli flooded his brain.
She leaned down and kissed him. His cool lips puckered slightly under hers but did not work their usual magic. She lifted her head with a sigh. “See you in your dreams, darling.”
Napoleon opened his eyes. He lay on a soft bed, enveloped in cool, silky sheets. City lights winked from beyond the terrace. Moonlight slanted in through the French doors. The rest of the bedroom was cloaked in shadows.
He was not alone. A hand touched his chest. “Sweetheart, you’re awake.” The dulcet tones came from the pillow beside him. “How do you feel?”
“Rough. How did I get here? The last thing I remember…”
“Yes?”
What was the last thing he remembered? Like the room, his mind was also cloaked in shadows. “I don’t know. Everything is fuzzy.”
“The doctor said it would be that way. It was those terrible drugs they gave you.”
A memory stirred. “Yes, the gas. It made me sick.”
“Poor darling. But still you fought like a tiger and got away.” Her fingers worked the buttons on his pajama top, unfastening them one by one.
“What about”—he searched his murky thoughts—“Thomas and Robinson?”
“Mark and April were sent after them. Mr. Waverly wanted you to stay in Medical, but I convinced him your wife would be a much better cure.” She tugged at the strings of his pajama bottoms.
A vague sense of unease nagged at him. Pursuing it made his head ache. He abandoned his concerns and gave in to the anticipation stirred by her busy hand.
She leaned over him, her hair shining like platinum in the moonlight. “You’re right, love,” he said, as her lips moved toward his. “All I need is right here.”
“Well, well,” the doctor said cheerfully, rubbing his hands together, “and how’s our patient today?”
Illya glared at him. “Ready to get out of this bed,” he mumbled around the thermometer in his mouth.
The doctor chuckled. “Yes, you’ve been saying that since the moment we put you in it. And as I’ve said, chemical burns are nothing to sneeze at.” He wagged his finger. “Your skin is a vital organ too, you know, and it needs time to heal properly.”
“Can I have my CEA back now, Doctor?” Waverly asked impatiently.
“I don’t think you ever lost him. The man’s been running his whole section from this bed. Agents and secretaries parading in and out all day.” He chuckled again. “I should have installed a revolving door.”
“Yes, and he’s twice as effective when on his feet. I’ve never had a better CEA. Why, we’re on the verge of dismantling Thrush once and for all. I need my top agent back in the field.”
The doctor removed the thermometer from Illya’s mouth and nodded in approval at the reading. “A few days of restricted duty until the last bandages come off, and then he’s free to topple world crime syndicates once more.” With another chuckle, the doctor left.
Waverly stared at his agent from beneath bushy brows.
“Yes, sir?” Illya asked.
“I’ve been thinking about that whole emperor business.”
Illya sighed. “Please, sir. That was a delusion brought on by the drugs I had been administered.”
“Of course, of course,” Waverly replied with a restless wave of his hand. “But it made me wonder if we should revisit the idea of your having a partner.”
Blond hair danced across his brow as he shook his head vehemently. “No, we should not. A partner is a liability I categorically refuse to take on.”
“You still prefer to fly solo, eh?”
Illya frowned in annoyance at the phrase. “Yes, sir. I work better alone.”
“Sir, Director MacDonald of Intelligence and Counter Espionage is on a secure line. He says it’s urgent.”
Papers shuffled. “Oh, all right. Put him through.”
Minutes passed. The buzzer on Lisa’s desk activated. “Coffee, Miss Rogers,” Waverly said gruffly.
She could read his tone. Weary. Unsettled. This was not the time for a cup of commissary joe.
Waverly’s eyebrows lifted when she entered with the laden tray, but he did not object. He watched the ritual of the syphon coffee maker in silence, puffing meditatively on his pipe. As she started to pour a shot of brandy into his cup, he opened his mouth to object, then closed it again at her pointed look. “Thank you,” he said when she passed him the coffee, his eyes twinkling.
He sipped his fortified brew and nodded in satisfaction. “For several days, MacDonald lost contact with one of his top agents,” he said, gesturing to a chair. “When Helm returned, he claimed he’d been headlining in Las Vegas. He threatened to quit. Declared he’d found his true purpose.”
Lisa sat down. “Why call us? What do we have to do with one of their agents going on a bender?”
As he drank, Waverly raised a finger, indicating the answer was forthcoming. “It was all a fantasy, of course, as you say. I.C.E. psychiatrists have been attempting to recover his true memories. They’re fragmented at best, but they contain an encounter with a woman matching Miss Dancer’s description.”
“April’s just returned from Greece.”
“Precisely. A ridiculous suggestion. However, it took all my charm to persuade MacDonald that our agency was not involved.”
Lisa’s brow wrinkled in thought. “Do you think it’s related to Napoleon and Illya’s disappearance?”
“No reason why it should be. And yet…”
“Sir, I’m acquainted with Mat—Agent Helm.”
“Are you? In what way?”
“He wanted me to be one of his calendar girls.”
“Indeed.”
“If he went missing, I guarantee there was a woman involved,” she said scornfully, “just not April Dancer. As for the rest of his wild story, the man is practically pickled in alcohol.”
Waverly grunted and returned to his coffee. Sensing her dismissal, Lisa began to clean up the table. “Should I leave the pot?”
“Seeds of dissension,” Waverly replied.
“Pardon?”
“Who benefits from sowing seeds of dissension between our organizations?”
“Who else?” Lisa picked up the tray, leaving the pot behind on its stand. “If you authorize me to use Code Orange, I can have the heads of our counterpart agencies on a conference call within the hour.”
Waverly looked at his watch. “Yes, do that. And in the meantime, have Miss Dancer and Mr. Slate update me on their progress with that desk clerk.”
The jumpsuited technician straightened in his chair as his superior entered the control room.
“How is sleeping beauty,” she purred, “and the beast?”
The technician looked through the thick glass panel at the two men strapped to the beds, then down at his instrument panel. “Vital signs are good. Neural activity stable.”
“Really?” She leaned over him, her fur stole brushing his cheek, and tapped a crimson nail against an oscilloscope.
He swallowed. “It’s within prescribed tolerances.”
“Not within mine.” She turned a dial a single click to the left. The erratic line assumed a more regular frequency.
“We’re doing something in hours that usually takes days,” he said defensively. “They’ve gotta be on one hell of a trip.”
Perching on the edge of his station, she took a thin stack of punch cards from her handbag. “A change of stimuli.”
“Again?”
“An unfortunate necessity. It was as I thought. UNCLE agents have already taken that stupid desk clerk. They are combing the motel as we speak. Solo and Kuryakin must be released tonight.”
He reached for the intercom. “Maybe I should check with Dr. Debree first.”
Her long eyes narrowed. He had seen that same look when she had discovered that Solo’s ring was missing.
He quickly held out his hand, but she whipped the cards out of his reach. “No. I will do it.”
“But my orders are to—”
“Your orders are to get out.” She shrugged the fur stole from her shoulders. A mink’s lifeless head dropped onto his console. “You saw what became of that incompetent fool this morning. Do you wish to join him?”
The technician recalled how Solo’s hapless captor had been marched away, a rifle at his back. “Yes, Miss La Chien. I mean, no, Miss La Chien.” He sprang from his chair and quickly exited the control room.
Angelique set the cards in the aperture and turned on the reader. As it noisily consumed the data, she pressed another button. The glass door between the control room and the prisoners disappeared into the wall.
Kuryakin was dressed in only his underwear, as he had been when Dr. Dabree’s gas had put him in this catatonic state. She ran her fingers lightly up his bruised torso. “A pity you’re so grim.”
She adjusted the small machine connected to their IVs. It whirred and hissed as more of Dabree’s psychotropic drugs were released.
Napoleon wore striped pajamas. A mass of sensors marred his handsome visage. His eyelids fluttered rapidly as the drugs entered his bloodstream and new stimuli flooded his brain.
She leaned down and kissed him. His cool lips puckered slightly under hers but did not work their usual magic. She lifted her head with a sigh. “See you in your dreams, darling.”
Napoleon opened his eyes. He lay on a soft bed, enveloped in cool, silky sheets. City lights winked from beyond the terrace. Moonlight slanted in through the French doors. The rest of the bedroom was cloaked in shadows.
He was not alone. A hand touched his chest. “Sweetheart, you’re awake.” The dulcet tones came from the pillow beside him. “How do you feel?”
“Rough. How did I get here? The last thing I remember…”
“Yes?”
What was the last thing he remembered? Like the room, his mind was also cloaked in shadows. “I don’t know. Everything is fuzzy.”
“The doctor said it would be that way. It was those terrible drugs they gave you.”
A memory stirred. “Yes, the gas. It made me sick.”
“Poor darling. But still you fought like a tiger and got away.” Her fingers worked the buttons on his pajama top, unfastening them one by one.
“What about”—he searched his murky thoughts—“Thomas and Robinson?”
“Mark and April were sent after them. Mr. Waverly wanted you to stay in Medical, but I convinced him your wife would be a much better cure.” She tugged at the strings of his pajama bottoms.
A vague sense of unease nagged at him. Pursuing it made his head ache. He abandoned his concerns and gave in to the anticipation stirred by her busy hand.
She leaned over him, her hair shining like platinum in the moonlight. “You’re right, love,” he said, as her lips moved toward his. “All I need is right here.”
“Well, well,” the doctor said cheerfully, rubbing his hands together, “and how’s our patient today?”
Illya glared at him. “Ready to get out of this bed,” he mumbled around the thermometer in his mouth.
The doctor chuckled. “Yes, you’ve been saying that since the moment we put you in it. And as I’ve said, chemical burns are nothing to sneeze at.” He wagged his finger. “Your skin is a vital organ too, you know, and it needs time to heal properly.”
“Can I have my CEA back now, Doctor?” Waverly asked impatiently.
“I don’t think you ever lost him. The man’s been running his whole section from this bed. Agents and secretaries parading in and out all day.” He chuckled again. “I should have installed a revolving door.”
“Yes, and he’s twice as effective when on his feet. I’ve never had a better CEA. Why, we’re on the verge of dismantling Thrush once and for all. I need my top agent back in the field.”
The doctor removed the thermometer from Illya’s mouth and nodded in approval at the reading. “A few days of restricted duty until the last bandages come off, and then he’s free to topple world crime syndicates once more.” With another chuckle, the doctor left.
Waverly stared at his agent from beneath bushy brows.
“Yes, sir?” Illya asked.
“I’ve been thinking about that whole emperor business.”
Illya sighed. “Please, sir. That was a delusion brought on by the drugs I had been administered.”
“Of course, of course,” Waverly replied with a restless wave of his hand. “But it made me wonder if we should revisit the idea of your having a partner.”
Blond hair danced across his brow as he shook his head vehemently. “No, we should not. A partner is a liability I categorically refuse to take on.”
“You still prefer to fly solo, eh?”
Illya frowned in annoyance at the phrase. “Yes, sir. I work better alone.”
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