Illya swung to Adams. "There is more to this room than the obvious knives and abuse?"

"Of course, you fools. I'm an expert on psychology. I pulled the teeth of your lion, Waverly. With three hours of my plotted treatment under his skull, you'll have to send him home to Mama for comfort." Adams laughed his short sneeze of a laugh.

Illya wanted to cross the few feet and slam into the old man with both fists, but Waverly ordered Adams away with disdain. "Take that man out to a car and secure him," he said. "See that he stays quiet."

Illya walked back to Solo, Waverly dogging his heels. The blond agent decided to play an old game. He would force Solo to look at the room that had done this to him, to face it once and for all. It would be a grim sort of shock, but he was sure of Solo's resiliency. He was equally sure that Solo must not be allowed to with draw any further into depression.

He put his hand on Solo's shoulder again, ignoring the wince it evoked, and exhaled an astonished whistle. "You're in pitiful shape, Napoleon, granted - but this is no time to feel sorry for yourself. I'd say you're lucky to be alive." When he got no response, he tried again, more bluntly, "Do you want me to pick up the knives and barbecue forks that have your blood on them? For your collection?"

Solo edged away, but Illya held him fast. "You're not going to retreat any further, my friend, unless you knock me down first. And I wouldn't say you're in condition for that."

Waverly whispered, "Easy, Mr. Kuryakin." But he understood Illya's maneuvering and was himself waiting for some starch to come back into Solo.

Solo stopped trying to pull away, his expression verging on anger. "Having a good time, Illya?" he asked.

"Not really," Illya admitted. "But now that you've found your voice, tell me, what kind of place is this?"

Solo stared about the room dully and shivered, his eyes livening. "A do-it-yourself murder scene," he muttered. "Don't ever try it." He pulled out of Illya's grasp and steadied himself against a chair, well away from the knives. There was more life in him. "I have a report to make, Mr. Waverly. Bits of information."

Waverly was scowling less as the words came from his agent. "I expect you do - but later." He took command. "Let's get out now and have our wounds licked. Two of you men stay behind and remove these knives, please. I wouldn't like any stray children wandering here in the dark."

The room came to life. Men escorted Mada out, and Illya and Waverly flanked a limping Solo. They walked slowly, giving the man time. But Solo didn't make it to the door. He lurched forward, unconscious on his feet, and Illya and Waverly caught him barely in time to save him from impaling his throat on a knife that jutted from the piano.

---

The sky outside Waverly's office was bright with sunshine when they met around the table. Solo had eased himself into his chair, dictated his report on Adams and Dundee, and now was simply waiting for the chance to take his aching body home.

It was amazing to him how the process of reentering U.N.C.L.E., having his wounds dressed, swallowing an anti-depressant the staff psychiatrist gave him, and being clucked over by the nurses had driven away the lethargy. He was himself again, and for a while he had wondered if he ever would be.

For the moment, he understood he had a thank you to offer to Lainy Michaels, who sat beside him at the table, her face bright and her entire soul caught up in playing nursemaid.

Mr. Waverly was finishing up the short briefing. "So Miss Michaels was the turning point for you, Mr. Solo. Mr. Kuryakin's alertness provided the key, but she turned it."

"With melodrama and infuriation," Illya said. His arm was again in the sling where it belonged, and from his slightly glazed eyes, Solo guessed the anesthetic was wearing off. But Solo had no words of thanks for the Russian. That was all understood.

Instead, he looked gently at Lainy. "You actually attacked Mada? For me?"

"I was boiling mad." Lainy flushed a pleasing pink. "I - well, you were always perfectly decent to me, and –"

Solo concluded for her, "And I have plans for being more decent. Now that the bleeding has stopped, I think I could use a steak, to rebuild the blood."

"For breakfast?"

"Let's call it dinner. How about it? Will you come and eat with me?"

Illya shook his head in serious-faced amazement. "Napoleon's safe, anyway, Lainy. If he gets fresh, just squeeze any of his arms or legs and he'll back off."

She melted into a blue-eyed pool of sympathy, reaching over to pat Solo's hand. "I'll come with you gladly, but on one condition. That the steak is cooked and eaten at my apartment and that we share it with my cat. She must feel deserted."

"Call her and tell her we'll be there in a half hour." Solo put his arm around Lainy and pulled her up. He shot one last look at Mr. Waverly. "It is all right if I leave now?"

"By all means. And" - Waverly cleared his throat – "all the alarm systems in your apartment have been reactivated. I think you understand my point."

Solo grinned. "Yes, sir."

"Report back the day after tomorrow, please. We'll have finished with Adams' interrogation by then and there may be something doing. Also - I have you scheduled to undergo a few tests."

Solo walked out with Lainy. Not even Waverly's mention of tests, which he knew would be psychiatric, could keep him from being warmed by the fact that U.N.C.L.E.'s list of agents was still a secret because of him. Lainy fell into step with his limping gait and he let her keep the illusion that she was supporting him. It seemed to mean so much to her.

Chapter 8

"Shotguns, You Know"

FIVE DAYS LATER, Solo and Illya sat side by side in a rented car, Illya driving, doing seventy miles an hour down a modern expressway in Michigan. Chicago and the jet flight were only hours behind.

It had broken quickly. Adams' interrogation had unearthed very little. Adams had merely been a research lackey working for Thrush now and then. He knew Dundee and that something big was up with Thrush - something to do with vegetation - but beyond that the drugs had proved he knew nothing more. His assassination scheme had been born out of Dundee's derisive joke that if he really wanted to help Thrush he should find a way to keep Solo and Kuryakin in New York for a few weeks. Adams had found the way, going Dundee one better with his idea to destroy U.N.C.L.E. single-handed.

As the days had passed and Solo's and Illya's wounds healed, Mr. Waverly kept digging - for Dundee, for anything. It broke in one meager roll of film containing two pictures of a farm in Michigan that had been taken by an agent named Taylor. Taylor sent the film to Chicago headquarters and had then been murdered. Two bullets through the head. That made two agents down in this Dundee case already.

Solo recalled the sober-faced Mr. Waverly as he had shown the pictures Taylor had taken. The first one was of a cornfield at the end of July, the corn hip high and green, waving in military rows. The second, taken only three days later, was of the same corn field. But the military rows were gone. The cornstalks were brown and wrinkled and lying on the ground as though dehydrated and stamped upon.

Along with the film, Taylor had sent a brief message:

"First indications of Dundee Project shown in film. Tests of topsoil show total destruction of life-giving elements. No more crops for minimum of ten years. Brief investigation indicates possibility of chemical to restore earth. Will contact when more information is available."