"I'll bet you did," Illya said, noticing and liking the use of the past tense. Obviously Napoleon hadn't been taken, and where there was a loose Solo there was always hope.

"Now, what is it you remind me of?" Saturn thought aloud, taking his time, pacing. He scanned the landscape. "We have here the elements of a climatic scene, if we can only piece them together. The backdrop - farmland. The leading character - a smallish man with a straw-colored mop of hair. Yes!" He stopped pacing and pointed a narrow finger at Illya. "You turned out to be a strawman despite your high-sounding U.N.C.L.E. position, didn't you? We'll let you play your role right out to the end."

"What's that supposed to mean?" Barber asked.

Saturn strode for his station wagon. "Bring him along. I want more seclusion than we have here. The back pasture, I think. It's sheltered by woods on three sides and - yes, bring him along."

Saturn was already in the station wagon when Illya reached it, surrounded by the ugly Thrush guns. He was pushed into the back and crowded by two burly men whose deodorant protection had already run out on them in the heat. The wagon bounced forward, took to a lane, and sped to the rear of the estate.

Illya spied the selected site before they entered it. It was a broad field, full in the sun, with forest rising on three sides and big rocks scattered in its dried grass. It had never been cultivated. He wondered what this frustrated Macbeth could have in mind?

The station wagon braked abruptly and Saturn had center stage again. "Bring him out into the field, right to the middle. Someone fetch two of those old fence posts" - he pointed to the place where the fence had fallen – "some strong wire, and some straw out of the truck."

Illya stumbled between the gorillas who poked at him with their guns. He saw a man coming with straw filling his arms. Three guards stood by him while the others gathered the posts and the wire. Illya had a queasy feeling that he could see into the future and knew what was coming.

"Okay," Barber said to Saturn. "You've got everything you ordered. Now what? And you don't have much time."

"Just a bit of work, Barber. Set the largest post up here - in the ground - and make a crosspiece of the other one. Wire it so it will support weight. Move this big rock and you'll have the posthole already started. It will save time."

"What the -?" Barber demanded.

"Use your mind, Barber! I said this U.N.C.L.E. agent was a straw man. Now we're going to let him become one - literally. A scarecrow!"

Barber's big face was smothered in confusion, then it split into a grin. "Scarecrow! Beautiful! I hand it to you, Saturn. It's beautiful. He can't scare Thrush, but maybe crows, huh? Get busy, boys. Make the rig for him."

"Yes, the rig." Saturn smiled, eating up the praise. "And the goodly hot sun will do the rest."

Illya moaned to himself. He had thought of dying many times, and of many ways of dying, but this - as a scarecrow in a dead field under the blaze of July sun? It wasn't worthy.

He had no time to pursue the pessimism because Saturn pulled his jacket off him, ordering the sleeves stuffed with straw. It was done, they dressed him again, and Saturn walked around pulling at bits of straw to make them stick out of his sleeves authentically. He bent and stuffed some into the legs of Illya's trousers.

"Perfect. Even Dundee will have to admire me for this," Saturn said. "You play your part wonderfully, Mr. - what was your name?"

"U.N.C.L.E. man," Illya said. "Remember?"

"If you really want to die anonymously, so be it. Every man has that right."

"The posts are ready," Charles called. "But I say he needs a little extra send-off. You can't just capture an U.N.C.L.E. agent and let him die in peace. You have to leave some evidence to scare the rest of them."

"Right," Barber echoed. "Let's make some physical contact. Give him some lumps to think about while he dies."

Saturn nodded. "Good thought. Without it, U.N.C.L.E. might think this elaborate death was just the aberration of an actor. Well, I'm no actor and they may as well know it now."

Illya stood between the two Thrush gorillas, felt their hands grab his arms, and prepared his body to take the pummeling it was going to get. He relaxed into the strong grip of his captors, leaning on them, so that when the blows came and his body recoiled, they would absorb some of the impact as they held him up. He consciously set his stomach muscles, positive that after a few smashes to his face the men would concentrate on his midsection. He adjusted his mind to think of the coming fists as no more than the hard throw of a medicine ball. But all the time he knew it wouldn't feel like a medicine ball at all.

The first fist darted for him, catching him on the cheek, and he rolled with it, but the second caught him full force. His mouth was hit and his teeth cut his lip, bringing salt and blood. He let his cries fall where they might. This was a good old-fashioned beating that didn't call for heroics, and he didn't care if they knew they were hurting him. Open hands and closed hands smashed into his face, and then, as he had guessed, they moved down to his stomach. The sun was unrelenting, his own sweat blinded his groggy vision, and he swayed.

Pound, pound, pound. And some vicious kicks. He couldn't accept it anymore and got off a kick of his own, well placed, that sent a gorilla rolling on the brown grass. For his effort, the kick was returned two-fold. His head wobbled on his neck and all that was holding him up were the strong hands of his restrainers.

"Enough," came the voice of Saturn. "I want a live scarecrow and you're killing him."

The beating halted, but Illya hung limply. Let them do the work, he thought. Let them lift him about. He wasn't using another ounce of his sparse energy.

Lift him they did. The cross bar wired to the fence post was run through the sleeves of his jacket and his jacket was buttoned across his chest so that he was hanging by his arms, limp, ragged, as a scarecrow should hang. His feet were tied to the main post and then Saturn was busy replacing the fallen straw. Saturn stepped back to survey his work, judging it perfect. Illya's arms dangled from the elbows at the point where the cross bar stopped supporting his jacket, his hair fell across his forehead, his neck was limp, and he spouted straw from arms and legs.

"What did I tell you?" Saturn chortled. "He's perfect." He came to Illya and said, "The forecast for today is ninety-eight degrees, and humid. How long do you really think you can last in the full sun, with no water?"

Illya stared at him but said nothing. His throat was too dry, his stomach too sore, for the effort.

Saturn continued. "I think you'll probably survive the day and the night, but tomorrow is going to be even hotter. So they say. Don't despair. We won't leave you here forever. Once you're well dead, we'll take you down and ship you back to U.N.C.L.E. Fair enough?'

Illya did find his voice this time. "Such consideration is heartwarming."

"Good." Saturn patted his knee. "Now play your part well." He admired his coup once more and strode for the station wagon. "Come along, boys. The vulgar Mr. Dundee will arrive soon, and that other U.N.C.L.E. agent may pop up again. If you'd been at the barn when I needed you, we might have had both of them at once."

The six men trooped off after Saturn. Illya watched them go, then closed his eyes against the glare that beat on them from the sun. He tested his bonds and it was clear that he bad no chance of getting free. Saturn might be playing this like a stage performance, but he was certainly good at it. One thing was certain. He was going to be a strangely tanned corpse.