* * *

Napoleon sat up, clear-headed, and looked around. The cold gray light of dawn revealed a sylvan scene of grass, trees, a small lake, and a bulky gentleman in a black uniform with a badge and a night-stick.

"Ah, good morning, officer. I know this looks strange but..."

".. . but you can explain everything." He sighed. "Okay. Go ahead. Tell me one I've never heard before."

"I don't think I can do that, sergeant. But I can show you something you might have seen before." His fingers slipped gently around his wallet, and noticed his pistol was missing from its spring-loaded holster. The officer had moved back a step, and Napoleon noticed also a second patrolman some twenty feet away with his hand resting casually on his holstered revolver. Without a pause, Napoleon slid the wallet out and slipped it open to his gold U.N.C.L.E. identification. The sergeant leaned cautiously forward to examine it, then looked carefully at Napoleon.

Illya stirred on the grass, and the policeman moved back quickly. "U.N.C.L.E.?" he said. "Easy enough to check, and you won't mind waiting while we do." He turned his head slightly, and raised his voice. "Ben, call those characters in Culver City and see if they have two birds of these descriptions missing." He moved back a few paces, and waited.

Illya got slowly to his feet. "Good morning, Napoleon. I tend to agree with you — the gas is more efficient than the drug."

The policeman did not seem inclined to idle chatter, and they waited in silence until Ben trotted over from the car. "Yeah, Joe, they're okay," he said. "Sorry for the inconvenience," he said to Napoleon and Illya, "but we don't often find a pair dressed like you two, carrying concealed weapons, sleeping on the grass in MacArthur Park. Can we give you a lift anywhere?"

"We'll see," said Napoleon. "My car may have been dropped nearby too. If not, we'll need a ride back to U.N.C.L.E. headquarters. In the meantime, you can give us back our guns, if you don't mind."

The patrolman grinned, and dug the two sleek automatics out of their jacket pockets.

* * *

"Well, if she wasn't connected with Thrush, how do you explain her giving the address of a whole nest here in Los Angeles?"

"No, Napoleon, I don't believe it was coincidence. But I think I would tend to believe our master of ceremonies of last night. He would have no reason to lie about the operative in my apartment."

"What if the girl was from DAGGER, whatever that is? Obviously Thrush knows more about DAGGER than we do — they knew its name. Maybe the girl knows more about Thrush than about us."

"Reasonable. But we know her name, at least, and I will wager Thrush does not."

Napoleon shrugged. "For all the good that'll do us. How do you go about finding one girl in a city the size of Los Angeles?"

"Well," said Illya, "have you tried the telephone book?"

Napoleon looked thoughtful for a while, then without speaking he got up and wandered into the next room.

A few minutes later he came back with a slip of paper and a scowl. He folded the former and threw the latter at Illya. "Smart Russian...."

Illya rose to his feet. "It could be a coincidence, even if she was the only Garnet Keldur listed. Shall we drop out to the address you have written there and see?"

Chapter 3: "Today Just Isn't Our Day."

The unobtrusive blue sedan had been parked on a shady side street for over three hours. During that time no one had come out of or gone into the small white house on the next corner. Napoleon and Illya were side by side in the front seat, with the car radio playing softly. Napoleon was leaning back with his hat down over his eyes, since he'd won the last game. Illya was watching the house, and thinking hard. "Did you compose The Firefly?"

Without lifting his hat Napoleon pursed his lips for a few seconds, then said, "No, I am not Rudolf Friml."

"Were you a poor king and a worse flutist?"

"No, I am not Frederick the Great."

Three hours pass slowly when someone must be watching something constantly, and the two U.N.C.L.E. agents had been playing Botticelli for all three of those hours. Illya had won the first game, Napoleon the second.

Then Illya spoke again. "Did you collaborate with your brother on a translation from Horace called Echoes of a Sabine Farm?"

Silence descended again. After a while Napoleon lifted his hat and stared at Illya. "I'll pass."

"Eugene Field. You owe me a free question. Are you an American?"

Napoleon tilted his hat and leaned back again. "Yes."

"Are you interested in a trim brunette who just walked out of that house?"

Napoleon sat upright and grabbed the binoculars lying on the seat beside him. He focused on the face of the girl hurrying down the walk some seventy-five feet away and braced his elbows on the dashboard. "Looks like her. Remember, I only got a glimpse from a speeding car. But that's the same general outline."

Illya turned the key in the ignition and the motor caught quietly as the brunette slid into a car parked at her curb and took off as if something were after her. Five seconds later, something was.

She drove fast, but not recklessly. As he watched the car ahead of them maneuvering through the heavy afternoon traffic, Napoleon was sure this must be the same girl.

They followed her north, then onto the Hollywood freeway. She sped through the Hollywood hills, and turned off toward Van Nuys. The traffic thinned, and the neighborhood deteriorated. Illya stayed about a block behind her, fading farther back as there were fewer cars on the streets. Then she turned into an alley.

When they reached the spot they slowed, and Napoleon looked quickly down the narrow space between the brick buildings. The car was not in sight. Illya cramped the wheel hard right, and they swung into the alley. The noise of the street faded behind them as they bounced over the rutted pavement. A few moments later their motor coughed.

Illya pumped the gas pedal, but the engine sputtered and died. The radio faded and went silent. Illya worked the ignition key, but there was no sound from the starter. Napoleon's small automatic was nestling in his hand — this could be a bad place to be caught defenseless.

"That's odd," said Illya. "The battery seems to be dead." His expression changed just slightly as a thought grew in his mind. "Napoleon," he said softly, "would you look at your watch?"

Napoleon glanced at his wrist. "It's fourteen after three. Why?"

"No — look at your watch."

He did.

"Is it running?"

He kept looking at his watch, a frown spreading across his face. "No, it isn't. I must have gotten a bad battery…" His voice trailed off.

Illya held up his wrist. "My watch is operating. Coincidence?"

Napoleon hit the door handle and started out. "Let's go out and see." Illya swung his door open and they hit the ground on opposite sides of the car. Hit the ground and stopped.

Two feet ahead of them stood the brunette, a totally unfeminine .45 automatic nestling in her dainty fist. "You two gentlemen will raise your hands and go quietly through the door. Mr. Solo, do something else with your gun."

Napoleon looked around vaguely, then slipped it into his coat pocket. She could certainly handle a car, and he didn't want to bet she couldn't handle the .45 equally well. He and Illya went through a dirty metal door at her direction and found themselves in what looked like the back room of an electronics laboratory.