He scrambled away from the tree and sprinted for the house. It was old and tall, three stories high. Only the bottom floor was alight with lamps, and those were dim. Illya scuttled through the tall grass, then fell to his stomach to make the final approach. There didn't seem to be any guards outside. This Adams operation was certainly makeshift. Yet even with the amateurism, they had taken Napoleon. And killed him?

Illya crawled faster, angling for a side window. It promised the best light and he wouldn't need to g over the porch floorboards which were bound to creak. His breath came short and fast in the excitement and his hand clenched on the gun. He tried not to think ahead to what he might see when he peered through the window.

He stopped below it and inched upward until his eyes were above the sill and he could see inside. His throat tightened in astonishment. The room he saw was a shambles of furniture, and prickling from that shambles were icepicks, knives, hatchets - some of them stained a crimson color that made him shiver. There were no men visible.

He slipped to the other side of the window to get a longer view of the room. He saw them. The giant, Louie and Robard, and even Adams, crouching behind various pieces of furniture. Standing alone in the center of the floor, his arms tied in a strange pattern, was Napoleon. Blindfolded.

Illya's eyes took in the many rips and tears in Napoleon s gray suit, and the terrible stains of blood all over him. He was a pincushion!

Napoleon moved, and it was an unsteady, wobbly step he took. He was headed straight for an old piano that crouched at the side of the room, blades protruding from it at chest level. Illya envisioned him coming up against one of those blades, puncturing a lung, or his heart.

Dragging himself from the scene, Illya checked to the left and right for his men. He could see four of them in position. He raised his gun in signal, poising them for the first jump of attack.

"Now!" Illya screamed it loud enough to be heard at the back of the house, too, and brought down his gun in the signal to move in, smashing the window glass with the barrel in the same motion.

Glass jangled around him, most of it falling inside, and Illya opened fire, giving no warning. Julius was his first target. The giant was too dangerous to be left on his feet.

The men inside jumped up at the crashing glass, and Julius added to their confusion as he fell amid the furniture, dead.

Guns were raised inside the room but Illya struggled through the window. He was inside, and other men were coming through other windows.

Illya shouted, "Stand still, Napoleon! Just stand still!"

He watched Solo freeze, and turned, himself, to Adams. The room was alive with gunfire and whining bullets.

The other men could take Louie and Robard. Illya wanted Adams for his own. The old man faced him, deathly white, his hands empty. Illya started for him and Adams' hands dropped to a little end table in front of him. It came zooming forward on its castors, the knives speeding at Illya to impale him.

Illya propelled himself out of its way and bore down on the old man. But Adams wasn't giving up. He crouched behind a chair, liberally laced with icepicks, and shoved it ahead of him as he came to meet Illya.

Illya stood his ground, judging his moment. As the chair rushed at him, he tensed his thighs. As it came within inches, he leaped into the cushioned seat and over the back, coming down hard on the old man.

Adams sprawled and struggled, but one swift, slightly-pulled Karate chop to his carotid artery stopped the flailing and he settled down, groggy.

Illya scrambled up and whirled to help finish the room. Flashes of orange still came from the guns. Louie was bleeding on the floor. Robard fell. All down.

The violent noise halted as suddenly as it had begun. The U.N.C.L.E. team looked about for other targets. There were none. The only person in the room who was perfectly still was Napoleon Solo, slightly hunched, standing by the piano, not daring to move for fear of the knives and the bullets he couldn't dodge.

A great crash of glass cascaded from the wide front window and Mr. Waverly hopped over the sill, Mada in his wake. "Nobody opened the front door!" Waverly growled, hurrying straight for Solo.

Illya and Waverly reached Solo at the same time, and Waverly tore off the blindfold. Solo stood dazzled by the light, his forehead drenched with sweat, his body ready to collapse. He didn't say a word as Illya untied the rope and freed his arms.

Solo, his head released to movement, stared down at himself, taking in the rents in his suit and the blood. He glanced briefly about the room, noting the full horror of what he had been walking in for three hours, and still silent, held up his handcuffed hands to Illya questioningly.

Illya's blood was hot as he advanced to the place where Adams wavered between the guns of two U.N. C.L.E. agents. "If you have the key, Adams, don't hedge about it. Hand it over. Now!"

Adams smiled at him and dug out the key. "A pity," he said. "Ah, well, it's one for you, but I'll win the next one." His gaze lanced at Mada, angry and accusing. "But to be betrayed -!"

Mada cried, "Oh, Uncle Abel!" She stood in the center of the terrible room, unsure which way to go as she saw for herself what Adams had done.

Illya said for her, "She didn't betray you. You just presented her with one charm too many." He unlocked Solo's handcuffs.

His hands free for the first time in hours, Solo rubbed his wrists, but his movements were painful. The cuts and stab wounds were still bleeding and they had stiffened into fiery jabs.

Then Mada was upon him, her hands hard on his shoulders, her dress soaking up some of his blood. She peered into his eyes, her own red and wet. "I'm so sorry, Napoleon. You know I didn't mean to have anything like this happen. You know that."

Barely controlling himself, Solo stumbled back from her.

Illya pulled her off him and thrust her aside. "Napoleon has had enough Adams' hands on him for one night."

Waverly came closer, surveying the damage to his top agent. "All in one piece, Mr. Solo?"

Solo stared at Waverly, but said nothing, his jaw slack, his expression bewildered. Illya stayed close to him, watching, gauging, and as he did, the cold of ice seeped through Illya's stomach. Napoleon was too silent.

The blond agent laid a reassuring hand on Solo's good shoulder; pressing carefully. Solo tensed under his hand and shied from the contact. Illya didn't like any of it. Napoleon's eyes were dark and haunted. Illya had seen the look before – somewhere - and the recognition of it in his friend chilled him. He glanced over to Waverly.

The astute old man had caught the byplay and his scowl said he didn't like it, either.

Waverly stepped away, motioning Illya to follow. He stopped a few feet from where the captured Adams stood, and his voice was concerned when he spoke. "Mr. Kuryakin, you've been with Mr. Solo many times after an action. After an interrogation, even. Is he usually this quiet?"

Illya hesitated, peering back at the bloody, slightly huddled figure of Solo. He had to give Waverly the truth as much as he hated to. "No, sir. I've never seen him like this. He comes up cursing or making bad jokes, as a rule. Still" - he searched for an excuse - "the circumstances are most unusual. Almost... fiendish."

"Is that your Slavic, gypsy blood talking?" Waverly asked with no smile.

Adams cut in, "Why don't you ask me, Waverly? I set it up. I didn't manage to kill Solo, but I can tell you this - I ruined him! You'll never be able to use him again!"