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The Seventeen Days in October Affair

By Terry L Neill and J. M. D’Agostino-Toney

“I now know how Tojo felt when he was planning Pearl Harbor”—Robert Kennedy

Friday, October 12—Early morning

            Napoleon Solo wished he’d had time for more than a quick shower and shave before reporting to U.N.C.L.E. Headquarters. He paused at the door to Alexander Waverly’s office to straighten his tie, automatically winking at Waverly’s attractive receptionist. Even her smile didn’t lessen his anxiety. He smoothed back his hair and stepped through the door.

            Almost everyone else was already here. He grabbed a mug of coffee and a doughnut from the cart near the door and hurried around the large round table to the vacant chair near Bill Kulp. Kulp nodded in response to his “Good morning.”

            In the eighteen months he’d been number two under Kulp, head of Section Two, this was the first time he’d been included in a conference between the heads of all sections. Something big must be coming down.

            Something big often meant something bad. When the Old Man called a meeting at five in the morning, bad usually meant critical.

            Waverly’s grim face when he entered fed Napoleon’s anxiety.

            “Thank you for your prompt response,” he said, taking his seat at the table. “Due to the gravity of the current situation and to save the time of your briefing them later, I have requested your seconds’ attendance at this discussion.

            “We have incontrovertible evidence that the Soviet Union is placing missiles capable of nuclear armament in Cuba.”

            He paused until their shocked reactions subsided.

            When the room was silent, he continued. “Our agents in Havana have obtained photographs and other corroboration. Mr. Zavakos of Section Four brought me the data last evening and I have been in conference all night with the other U.N.C.L.E. chiefs. We all agree the evidence is irrefutable. To allow these missiles to remain in Cuba would so unbalance the current global stalemate that warfare between the United States and the Soviet Union is virtually inevitable within twelve months.”

            Napoleon scalded his mouth on a gulp of coffee.

            Kulp finally asked, “Does Washington know about these missiles?”

            Aristotle Zavakos responded. “We do not think so. There are no indications of any American military or diplomatic reaction and John McCone, the CIA director, has not interrupted his honeymoon. Tropical storms in the Caribbean have prevented their U2 flights for several weeks, so they have had no recent aerial reconnaissance.”

            Waverly continued, “To avert what would almost certainly result in global thermonuclear war, U.N.C.L.E. must intervene. We are here this morning to determine the form of that intervention.”

            “But, Mr. Waverly, CAN we intervene?” asked the head of Section Three. “I mean, these aren’t small backwater countries we’re talking about. This is the United States and Russia, for God’s sake!”

            People around the table murmured agreement.

            “A ‘backwater country’ is far less able to affect world stability or start a nuclear war. If U.N.C.L.E.’s charter is to mean anything, it must apply as equally to the large nations as the small ones.” Waverly’s voice was firm.

            “But if we start interfering, we may LOSE our bloody charter!”

            Waverly steepled his fingers. “What alternatives do you propose, Mrs. Burdon?”

            “There must be something.”

            “We could find nothing that would not lead to war.”

            “But what can we do to prevent a war between the superpowers?” asked Motilal Tagore of Section Five.

            “That is what we are here to determine.”

            Napoleon tugged at his collar. The room had become uncomfortably hot. If all section head meetings were like this, he’d rather be in the field dodging bullets!

            “Well,” said Zavakos, “can we apply pressure on General Castro directly?”

            “Cuba is not a member of U.N.C.L.E., so we do not maintain an office there or overtly send agents. For us to admit we know of the missiles would be to acknowledge that we have been conducting unauthorized operations. This could escalate tensions and discredit U.N.C.L.E.’s position in future discussions. Besides, we suspect that their installation was not entirely a voluntary act by Premier Castro.”

            Bill Kulp drummed his fingers on the table. “Can we send enough backup to our Cuban agents to destroy the missiles?”

            “With or without air support?” someone murmured.

            Kulp flushed at the reference to the United States’ bungled Bay of Pigs invasion the previous year.

            Zavakos shook his head and projected a map onto the large wall screen. “The surface-to-surface missiles, the ones capable of carrying nuclear warheads, are located in four separate bases spread across the northern coast of the island.” He pointed to details as he spoke. “Here at San Cristobal, at Guanajay, further east at Sagua La Grande, and here at Remedios. They are heavily protected by ground forces and surface-to-air missile installations. It would require an army to eliminate them all.”

            “Besides,” added Waverly, “any attack might well be misinterpreted as an aggressive act from the United States and precipitate the very war we seek to avoid.”

            “Can we negotiate with Moscow?” asked Ian Randall of Section Five.

            “U.N.C.L.E. is not authorized to independently engage in diplomatic ventures with foreign governments,” Mr. Waverly stated.

            “Why don’t we contact the United Nations, then? Diplomacy and saving the world are supposed to be their jobs.”

            “Excellent idea, Ian, but those missiles will be assembled and operational within fourteen days. There isn’t time for the Security Council to debate the issue,” Zavakos responded regretfully. “Besides, the Soviet Ambassador to the U.N., Valerian Zorin, is Security Council chairman this month. He could effectively stall discussion for weeks.”

            “Well, damn it, if we can’t talk them out and can’t blow them, what can we do?”

            Napoleon had a sudden idea. “We can’t negotiate,” he burst out, “but the U.S. government could!”

            The room seemed even hotter as everyone’s attention focused on him. He felt like an idiot. How could he have presumed to have advised these experienced experts on international diplomacy?

            “Wait a minute, you may have something there.” Bill was doodling as he spoke. “The U.S. has both the diplomatic and military resources to make and enforce a demand to remove the missiles.”

            “But does Kennedy have the nerve to use them? Remember the Bay of Pigs fiasco.” Mrs. Burdon was back in the debate.

            “And the Vienna summit,” someone else added.

            “If we present him with the alternatives the way they were presented to us, what other choice would he have?” Kulp pointed out.

            “Couldn’t that start a war also?”

            “Not necessarily,” Kulp argued. “If the Americans act decisively before the missiles are operational, the Soviets may be persuaded to back down. We know everything Khrushchev has done since he’s been in office has been to insure there won’t ever again be fighting on Soviet territory. He may have planned this as a psychological coup more than a military one.”

            Mr. Waverly puffed quietly on his pipe while many of the best minds in U.N.C.L.E. wrestled with the available options. He was proud of this group. It exemplified the ideals he had envisioned when U.N.C.L.E. had been founded. Kulp, Baker, and Solo were Americans, Burden and Randall were British, Zavakos was Greek, Tsang Nationalist Chinese, Tagore Indian, Müeller West German, and Graham Canadian. To watch them working together for the benefit of the world, ignoring national interests and prejudices, demonstrated that his dream worked.

            “How do we get the information to the Americans?” asked Müeller .

            “Mmm, we can hardly tootle up to the front gate of the White House and ask to speak to the President, can we’?” Mrs. Burdon responded.

            “CIA?”

            “We don’t have time for them to verify what we’ve already documented so they can make it look like their discovery,” commented Baker of Section Six.

            “Worse luck, we’ll have to make it look like it was their discovery,” Graham said mournfully.

            Napoleon almost smiled. The tension was easing as solutions were presented.

            Waverly’s receptionist brought a cart with sandwiches and an urn of coffee at noon. The food was mostly ignored as they worked to develop practical strategies. Napoleon refilled his coffee mug.

            They finally decided to present the evidence to U.N.C.L.E.’s official liaison to the United States, Secretary of State Dean Rusk. Tagore left the meeting to make the appointment with Rusk and arrange to have the U.N.C.L.E. jet ready. Zavakos and Graham would prepare the documents that Kulp, the highest ranking American in the New York office, and Solo as his section second, would take to Washington.

            Mr. Waverly leaned back, tired but satisfied. “I think we have devised the best plan possible. Each of you is responsible for briefing those in his section who will be involved. I will take Section Two until Mr. Kulp returns. It is imperative that no word of this leak until the United States government decides upon its course of action. That will be all.”

            “What about the Russian?” Tsang asked.

            All conversation stopped abruptly.

            Mr. Waverly chewed thoughtfully on his pipe stem. Finally he said, “He must, for his own protection as well as ours, know nothing of this situation or of U.N.C.L.E.’s involvement.”

            Napoleon frowned. “Sir, are you questioning Kuryakin’s loyalty?”

            “Not at all. I know Mr. Kuryakin’s loyalties. He is a devoted citizen of the Soviet Union, and a dedicated Communist. Were he not, his government would never have allowed him to leave Russia, and if he were not capable of such loyalty, U.N.C.L.E. would never have accepted him into this organization. We can afford no defectors or political dissidents.

            “However, withholding knowledge of this magnitude could be viewed as treason by his superiors in the GRU, a crime still punishable by death in the Soviet Union. Also, I do not believe he has yet come to truly believe that U.N.C.L E.’s goals are as altruistic as we claim. This is a realization each of you has had to make in his own way and time—as I trust Mr. Kuryakin will do in his.

            “We all have much to do this evening. I suggest we begin.”

            During the flight to Washington, Napoleon discovered he was too jittery to relax.

            Kulp’s chuckle was sympathetic. “You’ll learn. Tense people drink coffee. It makes them more tense—they drink more coffee. Stick to ginger ale at important meetings. Besides, you can’t solve this problem single-handed, so try to stop worrying about it for awhile.”

            Napoleon laughed wryly. He tried to center his attention on a problem he could handle. IIlya Kuryakin.

            Napoleon could understand the motives for keeping the Soviet agent in the dark. Waverly had spent years negotiating to obtain Soviet participation in U.N.C.L.E. The agency’s role in the current crisis, if discovered, would probably end that fledgling relationship.

            In the months Kuryakin had been in New York, Napoleon had come to like the new agent. Well, the Russian was too aloof, too private, to be liked, but Solo respected him and admired his many abilities. Hiding a project that would involve almost everyone else in the New York office was going to be impossible. How would Kuryakin react when he discovered what U.N.C.L.E. was doing? Leave the Command? Betray it? Create a scandal?

            Could he learn to trust U.N.C.L.E.’s principles? Realize that the interests of a country were not always sewed by its government? Napoleon remembered his own uncertainties the first time he’d discovered an U.N.C.L.E. project that countered ambitions of the United States government. Wavery was correct—everyone had to discover for himself that U.N.C.L.E. represented the future of the entire world and no local ideology.

            He buckled his seatbelt as the plane began to circle Washington.

︻デ ═ 一                       ︻デ ═ 一                       ︻デ ═ 一

            “It is vital, Mr. Secretary, that the United States independently verify this information. U.N.C.L.E.’s role in this affair cannot be revealed,” Bill Kulp explained to Dean Rusk.

            The Secretary of State looked as ill as Napoleon had felt when first confronted with the data provided by the Havana agents. He kept staring at the photographs and intelligence reports as if he could make them disappear by willing them away. Finally, he looked up.

            “How certain are you of this data?”

            “Positive, sir.”

            Rusk studied the photographs again as Kulp pointed out missile erectors and launch equipment. “I see, gentlemen.” He sighed. “Thank you for this information. We will be in contact with you when we have determined our course of action.”

            It was past midnight when they returned to Headquarters. Everyone not involved in the crisis was working a regular schedule, but the corridors were crowded with people setting up courier routes to Cuba, dispatching agents to Jamaica to prepare a rescue mission if the Cuban operatives had to be evacuated, testing communication nets, putting planes and pilots on standby, and the myriad of other tasks needed to put U.N.C.L.E.’s North American Region on full alert status. Kulp and Solo were swept into the frenzy.

            Finally Napoleon staggered off to spend the rest of the night on the couch in his office. He felt as if he could sleep on a torture rack. He might have actually preferred it to the current crisis.

“If I can’t trust him....”—John F. Kennedy

Monday, October 15—Afternoon

            Napoleon had difficulty concentrating on the demonstration. While the other new agents reviewed basics, Illya Kuryakin, already an experienced operative trained by Soviet Naval Intelligence, spent two afternoons a week teaching a demolitions and explosives class similar to the one he’d taught at the Survival School in 1958 when he’d been on a special loan from the GRU. All active agents were required to attend.

            Waverly had ordered routines to be kept whenever possible.

            The weekend had been hectic and Napoleon still hadn’t gotten enough sleep. Everyone was on edge.

            He knew the United States had finally gotten a U2 flight up yesterday, but there had been no word as to whether they’d obtained any corroborating photographs. Bill Kulp had gone down to McLean, Virginia this morning to help analyze the negatives. If the Air Force had again failed to get the evidence, U.N.C.L.E. would have to become openly involved as the only source of verification.

            President Kennedy still hadn’t been notified about the missiles.

            Solo let his eyes wander. Who else was absent? Michaels—he was in Port-au-Prince to oversee surveillance of sea activity around Cuba. Montgomery was in Nassau and Beuthel in Miami for the same purpose. Ohaks was in Montego Bay to supervise in case the agents in Cuba had to be rescued and Bonheim was on his way to Mexico to brief the local U.N.C.L.E. office.

            One or another agent frequently missed a class or two—that was why Kuryakin also had a morning tutorial scheduled for anyone who missed a session—but never had so many been absent at one time.

            Kuryakin flashed a series of slides onto the screen at the side of the room, comparing the power of U.N.C.L.E.’s newest synthetic explosive to other explosives.

            Napoleon’s mind strayed again. What else needed his attention? While Kulp was in Washington, Solo was acting head of Section Two. Had he forgotten anything? Had Flores called in from Havana? Was the minisub back from Europe yet? Had Laus reported from East Berlin—his routine call-in was three days late. God, he hated administrative details. He’d rather be in the field!

            Napoleon fidgeted again, earning a slight frown from Kuryakin. The Russian continued his explanation of the handling of U.N.C.L.E.’s powerful new explosive. Napoleon wondered how soon it would be before the world powers developed it.

            His eyes snapped to Kuryakin’s face. What if the Russian agent were giving U.N.C.L.E. information to the Soviets?

            Napoleon knew about the biweekly meetings Kuryakin had with someone in the Soviet Mission to the United Nations. U.N.C.L.E. had been assured these were merely routine check-ins to ease the young Russian’s transition to living amid the capitalist opulence of New York City. Napoleon suspected they also wanted to detect any lessening of the man’s Communist fervor. He also knew that in order to obtain Soviet participation in U.N.C.L.E., Waverly had had to agree that Kuryakin would remain under direct authority of his superiors while on “extended leave” from Soviet Naval Intelligence. And until he had direct authority, Wavery would never give the Russian an active assignment.

            Napoleon knew U.N.C.L.E. had evidence of Kuryakin’s espionage in England while he had been a graduate student at Cambridge—if the Soviet agent were spying on U.N.C.L.E. it would be almost impossible to keep him from reporting what was going on in the New York office.

            Kuryakin seemed to sense the other man’s stare and glanced again at the senior agent. Their eyes locked for an instant, Illya’s slightly puzzled, Napoleon’s still probing. The Soviet’s voice never missed a syllable as he casually tossed the lethal explosive he was handling to one of the other agents to demonstrate its stability without the proper detonator.

            He is a cool one, Napoleon admitted to himself.

            He was relieved when the class finally ended. He thought that Kuryakin was going to intercept him on the way to the door, but the Russian appeared to change his mind and walked on down the hall.

I am not going to push the Russians an inch beyond what is necessary.”—John F. Kennedy

Wednesday, October 17—Morning

            “The Pentagon announced today that the annual joint training exercises in the Caribbean have begun. One hundred thousand Army airborne troops and forty thousand combat-ready Marines have been re-posted to bases in Florida, Georgia, Louisiana, and Panama. Fourteen thousand Air Force reservists have been called up to move strike bombers to southern Florida, and over one hundred ships including four attack carriers plus the Enterprise are on patrols in the Caribbean.”

            Several U.N.C.L.E. employees gathered around the television receiver in the lounge exchanged worried glances. This looked like the beginning. Many senior staff present knew that yesterday President Kennedy had been notified by the CIA about the U2 pictures revealing the missile installations. Almost any activity was a relief. After five days of suspense, the tension was taking a toll.

            Illya Kuryakin walked toward the office he shared with three other junior agents. He noticed the large gathering in the lounge but made no effort to join them. He failed to comprehend the Western addiction to television.

            Then he caught the word “Soviet” and halted in midstride.

            The commentator was continuing, “...ships in the area have been notified that this is only a peaceful training exercise --”

            “Yeah, sure,” muttered someone in the room.

            “-- and that this buildup of troops in the area is in no way a hostile act.”

            Shhh!” someone else admonished.

            IIlya frowned. What was happening? He turned toward his office and discovered two Section Three employees watching him. He nodded and stepped around them.

            As he walked, he again noticed that conversations halted abruptly when he neared and that more than one person turned to stare after him as he passed. The Russian would have had to be a stone wall not to have noticed the increased activity and tension in Headquarters, but he controlled his curiosity firmly. He understood “need to know,” knew better than to ask questions if his superiors did not deign to brief him on a project.

            From the beginning working in New York had been his most difficult assignment. Americans were much more rabidly anti-Soviet than the French and British people he’d met while attending universities in those countries, but this deliberate snubbing was new.

            He wondered what had gone wrong. He knew he’d been careful to offend no one but something had happened to change the attitude of his fellow employees.

            He had avoided making personal friends, partly from an innate shyness, partly because he’d learned during the Stalin purges to be very cautious about his friends, and partly because he wasn’t sure how long Moscow would post him here. It was easier to move on to new assignments without emotional attachments but now he wished there was at least one person he could ask about the changed atmosphere at U.N.C.L.E.

            Well, wishes wouldn’t breed horses. He resolutely ignored the next group of people he approached and went on to his office.

“The great danger and risk in all this is a miscalculation—a mistake in judgement.”

—John F. Kennedy

Thursday, October 18—Afternoon

            Napoleon fiddled with his glass of ginger ale, trying to relax. He and Kulp had spent the last two days in Washington, in conference first with Dean Rusk and now with Secretary of Defense Robert McNamara. Napoleon knew there were also executive committee meetings going on elsewhere in the building as most of the top leaders in the government wrestled with the problem of the Cuban missiles.

            “And how would a naval blockade stop the construction of these missiles?” McNamara demanded.

            “Mr. Secretary,” Kulp explained, “we have to assume that the Soviet Union doesn’t want war any more than the United States does. This is a jab, a test of the President’s nerve. Kennedy’s credibility as a world leader was badly shaken by the mistakes at the Bay of Pigs and virtually destroyed at the Vienna conference. Khrushchev appears to be planning something nasty in Berlin and is testing how far the U.S. can be pushed.”

            McNamara flushed. “Is this U.N.C.LE.’s position or your personal opinion?”

            “This analysis was based on information gathered by U.N.C.L.E., sir.”

            “If U.N.C.L.E. knows something about Berlin, why haven’t you notified us?”

            “Mr. Secretary, U.N.C.L.E. is not an espionage system for the United States, and individual operatives are specifically exempt from divulging unauthorized information to their home governments. Our charter is global, for the benefit of all nations. That is why we determined that we had to get involved on these missiles. We aren’t concerned with Berlin.”

            Napoleon gulped. Actually, they had a lot of agents in Berlin. Waverly was very concerned about the situation there.

            Kulp continued. “If the United States makes a military strike at Cuba or Russia, Khrushchev may feel forced into a similar response. A blockade is the least provocative action. Besides, it’s easier to escalate a military response than to recover from a miscalculation.”

            Would McNamara agree? And could he get the other presidential advisors to go along?

            U.N.C.L.E. was treading the razor’s edge. Intelligence revealed that nuclear warheads for the medium- and intermediate-range ballistic missiles being installed in Cuba were not due to be shipped from the Soviet Union for another two weeks. If the U.S. knew that the threat was not yet real, U.N.C.L.E. had determined that Kennedy’s reaction might be far less forceful—and the U.S.S.R. really was planning something nasty for Berlin if she discovered she could intimidate the United States in Cuba. It was imperative for world peace that Kennedy be perceived as a strong leader. But if the U.S. were too desperate, too frightened, the war might start here, this week.

            Were they doing the right thing?

            I’m deceiving my own government—my own President—I even voted for the man!

            McNamara was nodding. “Yes, you do have a point there. A blockade does not preclude stronger reaction later. I think I can persuade the Attorney General to support this response. Do you play poker, Mr. Kulp?’

            “Exposure to danger strips away the protective covering with which each of us guards his inner thoughts.”

            -- Robert F. Kennedy

Monday, October 22—Evening

            Illya frequently worked late, when time in the labs and on the computers was more available. It was nearly seven when he finished his last test and regretfully closed up the lab. U.N.C.L.E. had such wonderful facilities. He almost wished the GRU had attached him to Section Three so he could work in the labs full time.

            He started toward the elevators, then realized he didn’t want to spend the rest of the evening alone in his apartment. He veered toward the commissary. Drinking a cup of coffee while listening to the conversations of other U.N.C.L.E. employees would be an enjoyable way to spend an hour. He patted his pocket to be sure he had a book to read -that usually worked to encourage people to leave him alone.

            As he passed the lounge, he noticed it was crowded with people watching the

            television monitor. Then he heard the words coming from the speaker.

            “...surveillance of the Soviet military build-up in the island of Cuba.”

            He stopped dead, wondering if this were another of the inane fictional programs of which the Americans were so fond. The voice continued.

            “...purposes of these bases can be none other than to provide a nuclear strike capability against the Western Hemisphere.”

            IIlya moved into the lounge, his eyes glued to the monitor. He recognized the face of the young American president. He listened to the rest of the speech in growing horror.

            Was the man a total lunatic? Accusing the Soviet Union of deliberate deception? The U.S. wanted only peace? This inflammatory speech didn’t sound that way. A sea quarantine of Cuba? That would be an act of war!

            Before coming to New York and U.N.C.L.E., lllya had spent six months analyzing American naval capabilities for the GRU. He knew the United States could enforce a Caribbean blockade. Then the Soviet Union would have to retaliate to losing its rights to the open sea and....

            His training clicked in as he pondered strategy and counterstrategy. Then his heart thudded and his skin flushed as he realized that this was no school exercise to play like a chess game. These players had live nuclear weapons to check and mate. The globe was on the brink of another world war.

            The American president was saying, “Our goal is not the victory of might but the vindication of right—not peace at the expense of freedom, but both peace and freedom, here in this hemisphere and, we hope, around the world. God willing, that goal will be achieved.”

            IIlya was incredulous. How could this man sit there mouthing meaningless rhetoric to soothe the masses while he maneuvered them into war? Andrei Andreyevich Gromyko, Soviet Foreign Minister, had repeated publicly only last Thursday that all weapons being supplied to Cuba were defensive only. Why were the Americans manufacturing an excuse for a confrontation? Were their missiles already on the way to Moscow?

            Someone lowered the sound and turned up the lights. A babble of reaction rose.

            “Filthy Commie bastards!”

            Mutters of agreement came from around the room.

            “Shut up! There’s one of them in here.”

            The first speaker pushed up and towered over IIlya. “You godless pinko son of a bitch. Why don’t you go back where you belong?”

            One of the other men spoke up. “Because he’s here so he can spill everything he finds out to his KGB contact over in the Soviet mission. Damned Communists. You won’t be satisfied till you rule the world—or destroy it!”

            “Oh, yeah? Well, he’ll find out what ‘Better dead than Red’ means if his ‘comrades’ keep pushing the U.S. of A.”

            IIlya backed up, trying to avoid a confrontation, but he was pinned against the wall. He tensed, waiting for them to come at him.

            The Soviet agent might have been able to handle his tormentors on his own, but he never got a chance to try. As soon as the attack had gotten personal, Napoleon Solo was off the sofa where he’d been watching the broadcast. In three strides he was between them.

            “That’s enough, Woodard.”

            “I don’t want to work with a Commie spy!”

            “That can be arranged,” the senior agent responded.

            “But” the second man argued, “San Cristobal’s medium-range missiles became operational today. Russia is able to nuke half the country now!”

            Napoleon’s quiet voice barely concealed his anger. “Kuryakin isn’t responsible for his government’s policies. Are you responsible for everything your government does? You, Woodard, are you responsible for the U.S. Army testing hallucinogens on its soldiers without their knowledge? Or you, Hackett, did you personally okay the Bay of Pigs invasion?”

            He looked around belligerently for more targets but everyone else was silent, embarrassed. He turned back to speak to the Russian but Kuryakin was no longer behind him. Solo pushed through the crowd to the door in time to see his disappearing in the direction of the elevators. He ran to catch up.

            “Kuryakin. Wait!”

            The Russian hesitated then stopped, standing with spine military-straight.

            Napoleon wished the man would turn around—it was difficult to apologize to someone’s back.

            “Kuryakin, I hope you don’t....”

            “How could they think I want war?” The anger in his voice sounded barely controlled. “How could any sane man want war? No Russian wants war, ever again. Our country was devastated by the war with Germany. My brothers never came back from the front, uncles—my grandfather....” His voice almost cracked. “The older brothers and fathers of almost everyone I knew. Twenty millions dead. Twenty millions!  Not counting millions of civilians who died of disease or starvation or the cold.”

            He paused and drew a deep breath, apparently trying to regain his composure. “There must never again be a war like that one, anywhere on Earth. That was why I requested this assignment. I had hoped the U.N.C.L.E could make a difference.”

            Napoleon made no effort to stop Kuryakin again as the Russian boarded the waiting elevator. He stared at the closed doors for several moments.

            “Well, I’ll be damned.”

            “Our young friend has had a shock.”

            Napoleon turned to see Mr. Waverly. “Several.”

            “Have him followed and place a tap on his phone. I do not think he will try anything rash but we need to know if we can trust him.”

            As Solo called up the agents to tail Kuryakin, he wondered why Waverly was testing the young agent so hard. By keeping him here in New York during this crisis, he was subjecting Kuryakin to terrible stress. Did he want the Russian to crack?

            He shrugged. He had two heads of his own to crack. He went to find Woodard and Hackett.

            “We value peace perhaps even more than other people because we went through a terrible war with Hitler.”

            -- Nikita Khrushchev

            Tuesday, October 23—Morning

            “Mr. Kulp,” Waverly’s familiar voice started without preamble, “Secretary McNamara’s office has called and requests another meeting for this afternoon.”

            Kulp sighed tiredly. I’m due to debrief Laus at fifteen hundred, sir. He’s returning from Berlin this afternoon.”

            “I know. I am thinking of sending Mr. Solo. Do you think he is ready to ‘solo’?”

            Kulp smiled. “Yes, sir, but he’s supervising the surveillance of Kuryakin....”

            “Mr. Kuryakin has made no effort to contact the Soviet mission. I believe we can spare Mr. Solo for a few hours. Brief him—and have him pack a tuxedo. There’s an invitation to a State Department dinner tonight; I’d like a clearer sense of the mood down there.”

︻デ ═ 一                       ︻デ ═ 一                       ︻デ ═ 一

            Illya double-bolted his door and leaned against it, exhausted. After the scene last night in the employees’ lounge and his outburst in front of Napoleon Solo, he’d had little sleep and much to drink. He’d gone back to work with a throbbing head. Now his shoulders ached from tension. He was amazed the earth still survived.

            Khrushchev had denounced the U.S. threat of piracy as “a step on the road of unleashing thermonuclear world war” but the Organization of American States—United States puppet states, Illya snorted contemptuously—had adopted a resolution calling for the immediate withdrawal from Cuba of all “missiles and other offensive weapons” and ratified the naval blockade.

            Maintaining a cool demeanor at Headquarters had been hell. Everyone had been scrupulously polite—when they’d had to be anything. Mostly they’d continued to ignore him. He hadn’t realized how lonely being ‘left alone’ could be.

            He was humiliated that Solo had witnessed his loss of control but he’d been spared the further mortification of facing the man again—he’d received notice that Solo was out of town ‘on assignment’ and would miss the afternoon demolitions class. Over half his class was gone. Could U.N.C.L.E. possibly think there was any truth to the American lies about the missiles? Who could he talk to? Solo? No, not after his foolish outburst to the senior agent last night....

            He pushed away from the door, then remembered to check the apartment. Working for U.N.C.L.E. could be more dangerous than GRU assignments. Distracted agents were frequently dead agents.

            He searched for signs of tampering until he was satisfied there were none, then removed his jacket, holster, and tie. He loosened the top button of his shirt, then went for a drink. He decided halfway to the cabinet he’d rather have tea and turned into the tiny kitchen and set some water to boil. The creaks in the otherwise empty apartment were growing oppressive, so he went into his bedroom to get a record.

            Someone knocked at the door. He froze. Nerves already overstressed reacted with a jolt of adrenaline. Had he locked the door? Where had he left his gun? Living room—too far. Stupid, careless. He retrieved the spare pistol he kept under his mattress.

            The tea kettle began to scream as he silently crossed the living room to stand beside the door.

            “Who is it?”

            “ ‘Men make their own history’,” a voice spoke in Russian.

            “ ‘But they do not make it just as they please,’ ” Illya responded with the other half of the quote. He sighed with relief but still did not replace the safety on his pistol until he had unlocked the door and assured himself that his contact from the mission, Valeri Chizhov, was alone. The other Russian made no comment about the gun.

“I regret having to come to your home, Comrade Kuryakin, but this could not wait until our usual visit.”

            “Please, come in. Sit. Tea?”

            “No, I have no time. This is obviously not a social call.”

            IIlya nodded. His mind whirled. Was he being recalled? Was the government pulling citizens out of the United States before war started? Did he really want to leave? He was emotionally exhausted from walking the tightrope of being U.N.C.L.E.’s “token Russian” and this might be an opportunity to quit without disgracing himself and his family. But he’d had such high expectations of what an organization like U.N.C.L.E. could accomplish.

            Did he really want to leave? Would he be offered the choice?

            All these thoughts tumbled through his mind as he left his guest to turn off the tea kettle and returned to sit opposite Chizhov.

            “What has been the reaction of the U.N.C.L.E. to this American farce?”

            IIlya considered carefully, trying to sort out the impressions he’d been getting the past week and what he’d managed to surreptitiously discover today. What could he say that would not reveal any of U.N.C.L.E.’s confidences? “I believe they’ve suspected something for several days before the U.S. president’s broadcast,” he finally ventured.

            “You must convince your associates that we want no confrontation with the United States. There are no Soviet nuclear weapons in Cuba!”

            “What is occurring in San Cristobel?”

            “What do you know of San Cristobel?”

            “That the Americans claim there are missile installations there.”

            “That is a lie! You must trust me. The support of the U.N.C.L.E. in this crisis is vital—it will help sway world opinion away from the Americans. Do you see this?”

            IIlya nodded.

            “Then you must go to Alexander Waverly and speak to him. Our national security depends upon persuading the American president that world opinion is against him.”

            “I see, Comrade Chizhov. Of course I will speak to Mr. Waverly.”

            “Good. I will see you again on our usual date unless you have news to report.”

            Illya nodded. “Yes. Good night, Comrade.”

            Outside on the street, unnoticed by the two Russians, a man reached into an inner pocket and pulled out a communicator.

            “Open Channel D. Byron Robers here. Valeri Chizhov from the Soviet mission just left Kuryakin’s.”

            “Was Mr. Kuryakin with him?”

            “No, sir.”

            “Good. Stay at your post and notify me if Mr. Kuryakin makes any effort to leave.”

“We looked into the mouth of the cannon....”—Dean Rusk

Wednesday, October 24—Morning

            Waverly absently reached for his humidor and packed his pipe as he gazed thoughtfully at the earnest young agent before him.

            Despite the basic fallacies in Kuryakin’s message, the man raised a valid point. U.N.C.L.E. had been so focused on the Superpower confrontation that they had lost sight of the individual peoples involved in this crisis

            He should have realized that all but a handful of Soviets and the majority of citizens of every other country in the world overwhelmingly believed that Kennedy was blatantly lying. He must not lose sight of this fact.

            “What you have told me is not unexpected, Mr. Kuryakin. Your government has also contacted me directly on this matter. Never think that U.N.C.L.E. does not have the best interests of the Soviet people in mind in this crisis.”

            “Thank you, sir.” Illya stood as Waverly nodded a dismissal.

            Waverly puffed at his pipe for several moments, then reached for the microphone. “Get me Bill Kulp, please. Mr. Kulp? The Soviet Union has decided to play the ravaged virgin in this affair. If they shift world opinion to their defense, it may require military action to force them to back down. Do you believe the Americans can be persuaded to publicize their photographs?

            “No, I need you here. Set up the appointment and inform Mr. Solo he is returning to Washington this evening. He is demonstrating admirable talents in these meetings.”

︻デ ═ 一                       ︻デ ═ 一                       ︻デ ═ 一

            Napoleon Solo rubbed his eyes. How long had it been since he’d been to bed? The State Department reception had lasted until almost 3:00 a.m. Even the thrill of meeting John Kennedy had failed to erase the aches of exhaustion. The U.N.C.L.E. jet had gotten him back to New York at 5:00 and he’d barely had time to go home for a shower and change of clothes before arriving at his desk at 7. Then he’d tackled the mound of problems that had piled up on his desk since yesterday.

            First, disciplining the two agents who had harangued Kuryakin in the lounge two nights ago. A three-month refresher in Survival School ought to cool Woodard’s temper. Hackett’s slip was much more serious—he’d revealed classified information. A bust back to junior agent and a few months spent retraining in Kansas City might make him more cautious in the future. He made a note to get Kulp’s okay.

            The Russian. Hmmm. So there was a human under that cold exterior, after all. The stress was definitely showing, though he was handling it well. Napoleon realized he’d like to get to know the man better. He shoved the idea to the back of his mind. There’d be time later to do something about that. If Kuryakin stood the strain. And the Superpowers didn’t blow up the world first.

            Napoleon discovered he was so tired even that grim prospect didn’t horrify him anymore. He eyed the rest of the memos on his desk.

            Laus was back—Kulp was dealing with that debriefing. How did the Section Two head juggle so many details? He’d hate to have his job!

            He had just begun sifting through the rest of the memos when his intercom buzzed. “Mr. Solo. We need you back in Washington this afternoon. You have an appointment with the Attorney General at 2:00. Please come up to my office for a briefing.”

            “Yes, Mr. Waverly.” He stared at the intercom in dismay, then sighed tiredly.

︻デ ═ 一                       ︻デ ═ 一                       ︻デ ═ 一

            The building seemed especially empty this morning as everyone suspended routines to follow the unfolding crisis on U.N.C.L.E.’s radio network. The U.S. naval blockade of Cuba would begin at 10:00.

            Illya tried to ignore the broadcasts. He went to his demolitions tutorial but no one else showed up, so he wandered down to the gym. He usually spent several mornings a week practicing Judo holds but the past few days he had been unable to find anyone who would work out with him. He eyed the pool sourly. Getting wet and cold on purpose was not appealing. He prowled restlessly and finally went to his office.

            One of the agents who shared the office nodded a greeting, then returned his attention to the military band he was monitoring on the radio.

            Shortly after 10:00, the Soviet freighters Gagarin and Komoles approached the quarantine line.

            Illya abandoned his attempts to not listen.

            He held his breath as the American ships radioed back and forth to each other and to the freighters. He heard the captain of one ship, the aircraft carrier Essex receive orders to stop and board the freighters and to fire across their bows if they did not heave to. Illya wished he had access to a Soviet-band military radio and wondered fleetingly if someone, somewhere in the building, was monitoring one. Who else spoke Russian? He bitterly regretted isolating himself here in New York.

            Then a Soviet submarine appeared between the freighters. Tension intensified another magnitude.

            The Americans were unable to identify him—Illya wondered if he was the Krazny Oktyabr, his former boat. He’d been on a mid-Atlantic patrol the last Illya had heard of him.... The captain of the Essex was being ordered to put aloft helicopters carrying antisubmarine charges. The carrier was to signal the submarine to surface and identify himself. If he refused, depth charges were to be exploded until he surfaced.

            The pulse of the whole world seemed to cease as if waiting for the holocaust.

            Illya hardly dared breathe as he waited for the shots that might start World War III.

            All three Soviet ships stopped dead in the water.

            Illya glanced at his watch. It was 10:35.

            There was much discussion back and forth on the radio as the American ships reported what was happening, and asked for and received instructions. They were not to fire unless one of the Soviet ships tried to run the blockade or they were fired upon themselves. Another American fighter ship and planes were on the way to provide support.

            Then the radioman on the Essex excitedly broadcasted that the Soviet ships were turning around. Radio reports started flooding in from other ships and from reconnaissance planes that over twenty ships bound for Cuba had either halted or were turning back.

            Illya slumped into his chair. He received a weak grin from the other agent and returned it.

            “I think we need a drink,” Hauck proclaimed.

            “But it’s only 10:30 in the morning,” IIlya protested.

            “No, it’s the first day of the rest of our lives and I think that calls for a drink.°

            “Yes, I guess it does.”

            Both men’s smiles broadened.

“It had all been lies, one gigantic fabric of lies,”—Robert F. Kennedy

Thursday, October 25—Early morning

            Illya was in the lounge getting coffee when the Today Show host announced that the United Nations Security Council would debate the naval blockade this morning. He hurriedly left the building and half-ran the few blocks to the U.N. Building.

            “Galina Avilova, please,” he asked at the information desk. “She works in translation.” In a few minutes, Avilova came through the employee’s entrance.

            “Galina! Comrade. I must get in to hear the Security Council meeting!”

            “That is impossible. All the spectator tickets are already gone. It is to be broadcast on the television.”

            He shook his head impatiently. “They always block out the sound and give only English translations.”

            She considered for a moment, then said, “I will try to get you a pass to the translators’ booths. Wait here.”

            She was back in a few minutes with a visitors’ badge for him. She settled him in the back of the booth where she would be working that morning.

            The Soviet Ambassador to the United Nations, Valerian Zorin, was Security Council chairman this month. Illya sat through his interminable opening speech, then came to attention as Zorin stated the United States had been making false accusations. He challenged the United States to produce evidence that there actually were nuclear missiles in Cuba. Adlai Stevenson, the U.S. Ambassador, called for the right to reply.

            “Well, let me say something to you, Mr. Ambassador—we do have the evidence. We have it, and it is clear and incontrovertible. Mr. Zorin, I remind you that the other day you did not deny the existence of these weapons. But today, if I heard you correctly, you now say that they do not exist, or that we simply haven’t proved they exist.

            “All right, sir, let me ask you one simple question. Do you, Ambassador Zorin, deny that the U.S.S.R. has placed and is placing medium- and intermediate-range missiles and sites in Cuba? Yes, or no? Don’t wait for the translation, yes or no?”

            Illya was appalled at the American’s rudeness. Zorin chose to ignore the insult.

            “I am not in an American courtroom, sir, and therefore I do not wish to answer a question that is put to me in the fashion in which a prosecutor puts questions. In due course, sir, you will have your answer.”

            “You are in the courtroom of world opinion right now, and you can answer yes or no. You have denied that they exist, and I want to know whether I have understood you correctly.”

            “Continue with your statement. You will have your answer in due course.”

            Illya wondered why the man was temporizing. Why didn’t he deny the existence of the missiles?

            Stevenson continued. “I am prepared to wait until Hell freezes over, if that’s your decision. And I am also prepared to present the evidence in this room.”

            At this moment, aides uncovered the draped easels they had placed behind the American ambassador’s chair. As the enlarged photographs were revealed, Stevenson stood to explain details, pointing to what he claimed were missile trailers, launch pads, erectors, and bunkers for nuclear warheads.

            Illya gasped. Surely they must be fabrications! He expected Zorin to denounce the photographs for the hoaxes they were.

            But Zorin was sitting, stunned, his knowledge and guilt plain on his face.

            Illya felt as if the foundations of his world had been kicked out from under him.

            “They LIED! They lied to ME!!!”

            Galina stared in surprise at his anguished cry and frantically motioned him to be quiet. Her microphone was broadcasting his words to every Russian-language headset in the building.

            Delegates were pushing forward to get a closer look, reporters in the gallery were rushing toward telephones, and everyone seemed to be talking at once. In moments Illya was out of the translators’ booth and muscling his way through the crowd. He had spotted Valeri Chizhov, his contact in the embassy.

            “Chizhov, how dare you lie to me?!?” He demanded, in Russian.

            “Lower your voice!” the diplomat whispered in the same language, frantically attempting to quiet the younger man.  “Do you want to cause us both to be removed? They are forgeries! There is no truth in the American’s allegations. You heard him. He is a man of no honor,”

            “Honor?” Illya whispered back. “Honor? Who needs honor when he has proofs? You lied. You’ve all lied. You’ve made me a fool and you’ve made our country a fool. You’ve endangered the motherland!”

            “Comrade Kuryakin, it is not your place, you the son of a third-rate provincial bureaucrat, to question the actions of your government.”

            “It is when it is behaving like an idiot!” Fury flushed Illya’s face. He felt betrayed by everything he’d ever believed.

            Chizhov was gesturing for an aide. Illya turned away and wove through the milling crowd to a side exit. It led to a short hall and that to an outside doorway. He walked away from the building as fast as possible.

            Another man pushed through the crowd, trying to keep a blond head in sight. When he got close enough to identify it, he realized the head was attached to a female body. He looked wildly around for Kuryakin but was unable to spot him.

            He motioned frantically to his partner in the visitors’ gallery but received a negative shrug.

            “Damn! Kulp will have my head.” He found a secluded corner and opened his communicator.

            “Open Channel R. Bill, we’ve lost him. No, no. He was here at the Security Council meeting and then Stevenson showed those photographs and everybody went bananas. I saw Kuryakin talking to Chizhov and then he was just gone! No, Chizhov is still here.

            “Did he see me? I don’t know. But if he was trying to shake a tail, he did a good job of it.

            “Okay, we’ll keep looking here.”

︻デ ═ 一                       ︻デ ═ 一                       ︻デ ═ 一

            Napoleon answered the priority alert to Bill Kulp’s office at a run. Other Section Two agents in the building were already gathering there.

            Kulp was angry. “Gomez lost Kuryakin at the U.N. Harold, I want you to take a group to the Soviet mission as fast as you can get over there. If he shows there, don’t try to intercept him—just call in. Ann, you and your partner get over to his apartment. If he goes home, make sure he doesn’t go anywhere else but back here. Allen, take a team over to the U.N. and spread out from there. The rest of you check the airports, the Russian consulate, wherever else you think he might have gone. If you find him, call in your location and follow him. Do not contact him unless it is to prevent his leaving the city.

            “Locate him—if he’s going to bolt, this may be it. God, a defection right now is all we need!”

            Napoleon hesitated, then turned back to Kulp. “Bill, I don’t think Kuryakin is the sort to run without thinking it through. But if we go after him like the KGB, we may stampede him into it. I’d like to try to find him myself, first.”

            Kulp thought over this request, then nodded. “Allen, come back here.” He turned to Napoleon. “You have twenty minutes, then I’ll send Allen’s team out. And whether you find him or not, you have an hour. After that, I need you here. You and I are due in McNamara’s office at seventeen hundred hours.”

            As Allen left Kulp’s office, one of his team asked, “What’s Kuryakin done?”

            “Ours is not to reason why; ours is but to do or die.”

            “You mean he might shoot?”

            “It’s just an expression.”

            “Oh.”

︻デ ═ 一                       ︻デ ═ 一                       ︻デ ═ 一

            Illya stalked blindly down the sidewalk, oblivious to other pedestrians as he sought to put as much distance as possible between himself and what he had just learned. His mad rush was finally halted by the East River. He looked around and found himself relatively alone in a small park. No one from the Soviet delegation seemed to have followed him.

            Now that the initial shock and fury had faded, IIlya found that he was shaking. He sat abruptly on a bench, staring blindly at the water.

            “They lied,” he kept repeating. “They lied to me! They provoked the United States and they lied! They’ve brought the world to the brink of war. Fools!”

            He stared at the sky. He realized he was searching for incoming missiles. He shuddered. A vivid memory, of returning to Kyiv after the War, flashed into his head, the beautiful buildings and parks of his childhood charred rubble.  Millions of her citizens dead or dispersed. He remembered his vows as a Young Pioneer to devote his life to protecting his country from another such war. Had the Presidium totally lost its mind?

            “They are crazy!” he shouted, savagely throwing a stone into the river. Had all he believed and worked for all his life been an illusion? “How could I have been so stupid?” He threw another rock. “So naive?

            “What am I going to do?”

            Defect?

            He discarded that thought immediately. He was not the type to defect. Besides, despite his disillusionment he could not imagine never seeing his homeland again.

            A wave of homesickness washed over him.

            Go home? But failure would result in family disgrace, might jeopardize his father or his young nephews. Besides, what good would going home do?

            “I don’t want another war!!” he cried, heaving a chunk of glass into the water.

            Stay with U.N.C.L.E.? He remembered the first time he’d read U.N.C.L.E.’s charter. It was to be an organization supported by all nations to help insure peace and law throughout the world, with no considerations of national boundaries or the petty politics that afflicted all countries, even his own. Joy had filled him as he read the words.

            But did they really mean anything? Did anybody really believe them?

            “Do I believe them?”

            What if U.N.C.LE. was lying? “The government lied to me. Who can I trust?

            “No one!” He threw another rock.

︻デ ═ 一                       ︻デ ═ 一                       ︻デ ═ 一

            Napoleon paused as he finally caught sight of his quarry shouting at the East River in Russian. As he watched a rock savagely hurled into the water he hoped the gulls had sense enough to duck. Then he saw in the defeated posture an echo of the glimpse of the sensitive, perhaps vulnerable, man he had seen three nights ago. He paused, considering what to do.

            He opened his communicator. Then, despite his orders, he replaced it in his pocket. He might be making a serious mistake if he revealed to the Soviet agent that he’d been followed but something deeper, something more human than his training, refused to allow him to leave another man alone in such obvious torment.

            He walked up beside the bench where the younger agent sat and casually tossed a piece of broken glass into the river. Kuryakin didn’t react, but threw another stone, less savagely than before. Both men silently threw stones into the river and watched the resulting wavelets bumping into the sea wall.

            “Do you believe in all this?” Kuryakin demanded abruptly.

            Huh? “Believe in what?”

            “This. U.N.C.L.E. The stability of the world. Global co-operation and a lasting peace.” The voice was bitter.

            Napoleon took time to collect his thoughts by throwing another rock. “Well, yes.”

“Why?!?”

            Why was Kuryakin so angry? Napoleon discarded several flip answers as they popped into his head. That was not the way to respond to this man.

            He turned away, hands in pockets, gazing back in the direction of the U.N.C.L.E. building. “I never really thought about it... I guess because...boundaries are so—artificial, so unnecessary. Look at NASA’s satellite pictures. Show me a national boundary on one of those. All those wars in history that were fought over tiny patches of land. Boundaries divide people.” He gestured at the river. “Take those sea gulls out there—they don’t care if this is the United States or the Soviet Union. It’s all one planet to them.”

            “Sea gulls,” Kuryakin repeated incredulously.

            “Yeah, sea gulls. And,” he looked around for more examples, “those migrating ducks up there, and the weather, and...and the air we breathe. National boundaries don’t divide them.”

            He had Kuryakin’s complete attention.

            “How do you say ‘quack’ in Russian?’

            Kuryakin looked at him blankly, then his mouth quirked as he understood the joke. “Quack,” he answered solemnly.

︻デ ═ 一                       ︻デ ═ 一                       ︻デ ═ 一

            “So, you didn’t think you needed to report finding him, eh?” Kulp raged. “Didn’t think we needed those fifteen agents back here working on real problems instead of traipsing all over New York, eh? You realize we’re late for our appointment with the Secretary of Defense of the United States?! But I suppose that isn’t as important as your own schedule!”

            Napoleon risked a glance at his watch. They weren’t late for their appointment—only late getting to La Guardia. “I’m sorry, Bill,” he said placatingly. “I apologize for finding him and bringing him back. If we leave right now, we won’t be late.”

            Kulp stared sourly at his partner. Solo had hit on the precisely right strategy to stem the reprimand. And he was sure the young agent knew it. “The Old Man wants to see you before he talks to Kuryakin. I’ll get the car.”

            He got the satisfaction of Napoleon’s apprehensive stare before he started for the garage.

            Disobeying Bill Kulp was one thing; disobeying Mr. Waverly was quite another. Napoleon dreaded this interview.

            But Waverly was more interested in where and how Napoleon had discovered Illya and the conversation they had had on the walk back to U.N.C.L.E. Finally, he rocked back in his chair.

            “Then you think he made no effort to desert or defect?”

            “No, sir! He was shaken, but only because he felt individuals in his own government had betrayed his country.”

            “Ah, yes. When reality confronts ideology, the result is frequently painful.”

            “But, sir, he’s still maintained his idealism—I mean, he wants an organization like U.N.C.L.E. to work. He understands what it is we try to do. I think he wants desperately to stay no matter how this missile thing turns out, even if he’s too stiff-necked to ever admit it.”

            “Yes, I believe we have found ourselves a fine young agent. I wouldn’t be at all surprised to see him holding your job in a couple of years.” A smile flickered in his eyes at Napoleon’s startled expression.

︻デ ═ 一                       ︻デ ═ 一                       ︻デ ═ 一

            Illya stood at attention before Mr. Waverly. Even with Captain Polokov at his worst he had never felt so apprehensive. He knew he had been wrong to leave the building without notifying anyone and then creating a scene at the United Nations.

            Waverly glanced up at him irritably. “Oh, sit down, Mr. Kuryakin. I’m not going to have you keelhauled.”

            Illya sat. He started to apologize.

            Waverly cut him off. “Mr. Kuryakin, I realize this posting has not been easy for you, and I am aware of the difficult position in which you have been placed these last several days. Your fortitude during this crisis is appreciated.”

            Waverly paused, waiting for a response. None was forthcoming for several seconds. “Thank you, sir,” Illya finally answered. What else could he say?

            Waverly chewed on his pipestem to hide a smile. Clemency was obviously the last thing Kuryakin had expected. “I believe you are late for your class.”

            “Yes, sir.” Illya prepared to leave.

            “Mr. Kuryakin.” The agent turned back. “In the future, we would appreciate it if you would inform someone of your destination when you leave the building.”

            Illya nodded sheepishly.

            Dazedly, he walked back to his office. He was so confused. He didn’t understand these people. Every time he did something really stupid, they didn’t arrest him.

We are facing great trouble.”—John F. Kennedy

Friday, October 26—Early morning

            Illya spent the night at headquarters. He had been assigned to assist in copying essential computer files and packing them for transport to U.N.C.L.E.’s Australian offices. He’d worked through the night and stopped only for a shower and breakfast.

            Getting back into yesterday’s clothes offended his fastidious nature. He’d have to emulate some of the other agents and keep a change of clothes at headquarters—if the government let him stay after his scene in the U.N. yesterday.

            He tuned his radio to an all-news station. He had been skeptical of public news broadcasts but had discovered that many of them were remarkably accurate—once one sifted through all the pro-American propaganda—and he wanted to keep up with the latest news from Cuba.

            He listened to the radio while he shaved and almost slit his throat when the announcer stated, “At 7:24 this morning, the Lebanese ship the Marucla, en route to Cuba from the Baltic port of Riga, was stopped by the American destroyers John Pierce and Joseph P. Kennedy, Jr. The U.S. destroyers have announced their intentions to board and search the Marucla for weapons.

            “The Soviet Union is adamantly refusing to recognize the quarantine and has declared that any attempt to seize or board a ship bound for Cuba will be considered an act of war. The United States maintains that the recent Organization of American States vote supporting the U.S. position provides legal justification for the blockade.”

            Illya listened dry-mouthed to the remainder of the commentary. The menace of war swirled ever closer.

            He realized he was going to be late getting back to work—and he wanted no repeat of yesterday’s reprimand.

            Illya was still helping U.N.C.L.E.’s chief computer systems analyst copy tapes when Napoleon Solo came to check their progress.

            “The jet leaves at 4:00. Will they be ready by then?”

            “Illya’s going to need help with the minimum security stuff he’s doing. Is it really so close?”

            Napoleon grimly shook his head. “I doubt even Krushchev and Kennedy know for sure.”

            “Well, we’ve been meaning to decentralize for years—just never found the time. Only wish we didn’t have such grim motivation now.”

            “I’ll help Kuryakin.”

            Illya set Napoleon to packing and sealing crates until the American’s stomach began to complain. “Well, the world may end tomorrow, but I’m starved. How about you? Let’s get out of here. I’ve eaten all the commissary food I can choke down.”

            “A commissar in the Soviet Union is an official responsible for insuring that citizens’ Communistic fervor does not waver. Perhaps U.N.C.L.E. needs to utilize one to persuade us the food is more palatable.”

            Napoleon did a double-take. He had never heard Illya make a statement even mildly critical of his country’s policies or systems. He stared at the other agent until the hint of a smile revealed to him that he was being gently teased. He laughed aloud.

            “I know this little Indian restaurant....”

            When they returned, Napoleon had a message to report to Kulp.

            “What’s up, Bill?” he asked when he found Kulp in his office.

            “Close the door.”

            Napoleon shut the door and sat down.

            “The blockade didn’t work. The Soviets are working around the clock to get the Cuban missiles assembled and today Kennedy gave the go-ahead to a military invasion of Cuba.

            “Somebody leaked it and the Soviets just ordered their military to worldwide full nuclear alert, and they’re readying troops for a full-scale assault against Berlin.”

            He continued before Napoleon could react. “You and I have got to compile evacuation lists. All non-essential U.N.C.L.E. personnel will be given indefinite leaves of absence and advised to leave metropolitan areas.”

            It took the rest of the afternoon. They kept a radio turned on at all times

            “World tensions,” the news commentator was saying, “continue to mount as the confrontation between the United States and the Soviet Union escalates. Public schools in San Francisco and other cities around the country conducted air raid drills today, and supermarkets are reporting heavy runs on canned goods and other essentials.”

            “Air raid drills? Bill, did we do the right thing, tipping off the government about the missiles?”

            Kulp shrugged. “I guess I’d rather get into a war nobody was quite ready for than one they’d had time to plan...but who’ll ever know? Did they get all the computer files packed?”

“Kuryakin is working on them now.”

            “He’s almost wasted as a field agent, especially since the Old Man won’t let him do any field work as long as the GRU holds his leash. Glad there’s finally something we can let him do. What did you two talk about yesterday, anyway, that caused Waverly to take the tail off him?”

            “Nothing much. Ducks and stuff....”

            “Ducks.”

            “Mmm. What’s this note to order a helicopter for the roof?”

            Kulp sighed as he realized he wasn’t going to get any more of the story. “If it begins to look like the U.S. or the Soviets will actually launch missiles, we’ll have to get the Old Man out of here. There’s a jet ready at the airport in Newark.”

            Napoleon raised his eyebrows. Nothing had made the reality of the danger so real as the thought of Mr. Waverly actually leaving New York headquarters.

︻デ ═ 一                       ︻デ ═ 一                       ︻デ ═ 一

            Illya packed the last of the computer tapes into boxes, sealed and labeled them, and set them aside to be taken to the van for the trip to the airport. He’d enjoyed the challenge of booby-trapping the packing cases and devising codes for each tape that would cause it to self-erase if unauthorized access was attempted. It had been a satisfying day.

            He looked up as a young man skidded into the room. “Quick! Help me get these boxes downstairs!!!”

            “What’s happened?”

            “The President just authorized an assault on Cuba....” He froze as he recognized the Russian. “Oh, shit. Look, I didn’t say that, okay?”

            “An assault on Cuba?”

            “What assault? Grab the other end of that crate, will you?”

            “What is happening?”

            “Look, I can’t tell you. Please. Help me get these downstairs.”

            IIlya stared at the man for another moment, then reached for the end of the crate. The next ten minutes were spent in silence as the two men carried the remaining boxes down to the garage and loaded them into the van. It was only then that IIlya realized they were being loaded into a ground vehicle.

            “Why aren’t these going by helicopter?”

            “Huh?”

            “Wouldn’t that be faster?”

            “Well, yeah, but this batch doesn’t need to be in Newark till midnight.”

            The man’s badge indicated he was with Section Four, but surely that didn’t mean he couldn’t figure out the ramifications of an American assault on Cuba.

            “If the United States attacks Cuba tonight, the Soviet Union is going to retaliate. It takes only fifteen minutes for an ICBM to reach New York. Two minutes if it is launched from Cuba.”

            “Why would the United States attack Cuba tonight?”

            Illya turned to see Napoleon Solo, clipboard in hand, walking toward them.

            “Isn’t that what President Kennedy has authorized?” Illya asked.

            Solo frowned at the man from Section Four.

            “Mr. Solo, I....”

            “Mr. Michaels, I think you should report to your section chief. Illya, come help me with this.”

            Michaels turned unhappily toward the elevators. Kuryakin didn’t budge.

            “I am not going to go running to the Mission the moment your back is turned. What is going on?”

            “You should probably report to your section chief, too, but Bill is swamped. President Kennedy authorized a mobilization of forces for a possible Cuban assault. It’s just a mobilization. Nothing is going to happen tonight.

“And I never thought you were the running type. Are you done with the tapes?”

            “I...yes. They are all here in the van.”

            “Good. Would you help me with some files over there? You got here at a good time; I just lost half my moving crew to driver duty.”

︻デ ═ 一                       ︻デ ═ 一                       ︻デ ═ 一

            Illya again pushed aside a nagging dread of going home tonight. Would Chizhov be waiting for him? He knew his scene at the U.N. yesterday was grounds to have him recalled. What arguments could he use in his own defense? The future looked bleak.

            He didn’t want to leave New York, leave U.N.C.L.E. He realized that despite the ugly scene in the lounge the other night, there were a lot of people here who had tried to make him feel welcome. If he had been lonely, it was because of his own prickly personality. There were several people that he’d like to get to know better—Ted Hauck, Byron Roberts, Napoleon Solo....

            Solo? He couldn’t figure out the senior agent. Napoleon was vain, arrogant, unprincipled with women, a typical Capitalist playboy—the antithesis of everything Illya sought in a friend. Then why did he like the man? Partly because he was very, very good at what he did. The sort of man one could trust at one’s back...if not with one’s sister.

            Well, there didn’t seem to be much point in brooding about it now. Might as well go home and wait for Chizhov.

︻デ ═ 一                       ︻デ ═ 一                       ︻デ ═ 一

            Napoleon snapped awake as his head nodded. He wondered what it would be like to sleep in a bed for a change. He sighed and tried again to concentrate on the file on his desk.

            Just as he was about to nod off again, there was a tap at his door. Bill Kulp entered and sat in the other chair. Solo glanced at his watch: it was twenty minutes past four.

            Bill smiled. “The log jam may be breaking up. We just got a copy of a letter Khrushchev sent Kennedy. He’s offered to remove or destroy all the missiles in return for a U.S. promise to withdraw the blockade and an agreement to not invade Cuba.” He handed a computer printout to Solo.

            “‘We ought not,” Solo read, “‘to pull on the ends of the rope in which you have tied the knot of war...the moment may come when the knot is tied so tightly that even we may not have the strength to untie it and will have to cut it and thereby doom the world to the catastrophe of nuclear war...let us take measures to untie the knot.”

            He glanced up at Kulp. “Is this legitimate?”

            Kulp nodded. “All the analysts agree that Khrushchev wrote it himself. It’s his style, his phrasing. Now if Kennedy will just keep his head and can control the war hawks in our government, we may come out of this with just a bad scare. Just in time, too. Cuba’s ICBMs became operational today.”

“Now it can go either way”—John F Kennedy

Saturday, October 27—Early morning

            Illya rubbed at his gritty eyes. He’d slept poorly. Every creak of the old building, every car door slamming down on the street, every screech of brakes had sent a flood of adrenaline into his bloodstream but Chizhov had never arrived. He’d finally decided to come back to work—there might be more packing to do.

            He detoured to the commissary for coffee before going to his office. Silent, fearful knots of people were gathered around the morning papers. He picked one up and stared with mounting horror at the headline.

            Cuba had shot down an American U2 spy plane and the pilot was dead.

            Illya could see no way out of this dilemma other than war. Nuclear war. The Americans would surely react to this. Kennedy couldn’t let any nation get away with shooting down an American plane.

            Then his own government would retaliate to the American attack....

            I will die in a foreign country—killed by my own country’s missiles!

            “Mind if I join you?”

            Illya looked up to see Napoleon Solo. He shook his head.

            The senior agent pulled out a chair and set down a coffee cup. He pointed to the newspaper. “Pretty grim, isn’t it? But maybe not as bad as it seems. They’re negotiating—Khrushchev and Kennedy. Maybe they can still talk their way out of it before they start throwing rocks at each other.”

            “That’s the next war after this one.”

            “Mmm?”

            “World War IV. ‘If we fight World War III with nuclear weapons, the next one will be fought with sticks and stones’.”

            “Oh. You’re full of cheerful observations. What’re you doing this morning?”

            Illya shrugged.

            “Want to try a few falls with me?”

            “Pardon?”

            “I usually work out with Ohakes or Tajama but they’re both out of the country, and no one else will take me on. I hear you’re good—want to try a few holds?”

            Illya suspected a faint challenge in the man’s words. A physical challenge, an opportunity to erase the superior attitude he always suspected in the other man, would be welcome. And if the senior agent was a better fighter? He shrugged. It wouldn’t be the first time he’d been on the floor.

            Forty minutes later both men were sweaty and a little bruised. Illya looked into Napoleon’s eyes and realized the American was having fun.

            So am I, he realized, startled. They were evenly matched; what one lacked in strength and reach, the other made up for in quickness and agility.

            “Time,” Napoleon finally panted. “You are as good as they say. I’d like to do this again if it’s okay with you.”

            Illya nodded, smiling.

︻デ ═ 一                       ︻デ ═ 一                       ︻デ ═ 一

            Illya decided he wasn’t going to evade the problem by hiding from it. He sighed and closed the file he’d been working on. No one interrupted him as he left the building, telling the receptionist he would return in an hour.

            It was only a few blocks to the Soviet Mission.

            The guard at the gate nodded a greeting as he entered. Inside was controlled frenzy. People were rushing around with boxes of papers and files.

            Chizhov’s secretary was sorting papers. He glanced up when Illya came into the office.

            “Ah, Comrade Kuryakin. Comrade Chizhov is not here today. Is there a problem you need to discuss with someone?”

            “No, no problem.” No problem but imminent war. It was obvious what was going on here. They were destroying secret documents in preparation for an evacuation. “I...I have been staying late at U.N.C.LE. and just...wanted to check in...in case he had attempted to contact me.”

            “Ah, yes, the U.N.C.L.E. has been packing, also, have they not?”

            IIlya nodded noncommittally. “I must be getting back. Good luck,” he added as an afterthought.

            He left the Mission and wandered. Down First Avenue. Past the United Nations Building. West through the neighborhoods. Little Italy. Chinatown. Greenwich Village. The Bowery. He crisscrossed the city until he could go south no further. He’d like to hate these people but looking into the faces of the passersby, he found it impossible. People. People not too different from those in Moscow or Paris or London. People who might be dead tomorrow.

“We have won a great victory…we are still alive.”—Dean Rusk

Sunday, October 28—Afternoon

            “Sir, you must leave. The American assault is set for tomorrow. There’s no more time. If you wait too long, you might not be able to get out!”

            Napoleon had never seen Zavakos so vehement about anything, but then he was feeling rather vehement himself. The Soviet Presidium had repudiated Khrushchev’s peace offer and had sent another letter demanding that the U.S. dismantle its missile bases in Turkey before they would even discuss the Cuban missiles. Publicly, Kennedy was pretending that he had never received the second letter and had released the text of Khrushchev’s first letter to the press.

            “Sir, if you wait until they actually begin fighting, you won’t be in place to co-ordinate our recovery efforts,” Burdon argued. “You’d spend the first ten hours of the crisis on the plane.”

            “I have no intention of waiting until the fighting starts, Mrs. Burdon. But I do intend to wait until President Kennedy has decided on an actual hour for their assault.

            “For what purpose have you assembled all these people, Mr. Kulp? I’m sure they have other, more pressing duties.”

            Bill glanced around the room. Everyone was here. Every Section Chief and every Second.

            “We decided a few hours ago that you needed to be airborne well before the American assault begins and all our intelligence has that set for dawn tomorrow. Since I’m head of enforcement, they asked me to enforce our decision. You can fire me when this crisis is over, if I’m still here to be fired.”

            Napoleon drew a deep breath. Bill had said aloud what most of them had been convinced of since the news had reached them last night that the peace negotiations had broken down. The chances of anyone in New York surviving the crisis were small. Even if the missiles in Cuba hadn’t yet been fitted with their nuclear warheads, the Soviets had plenty in Russia that were.

            “If I do not decide to go, what do you intend’?

            “We’ll sedate you and strap you into the plane. If you stay here too long, we could lose you, and U.N.C.LE. can’t afford that.”

            “I should like to think that no one is indispensable, Mr. Kulp, especially me. However....”

            He was interrupted when a young woman from Communications rushed into the room. “Mr. Waverly! Sir, the Soviets have capitulated. They’ve agreed to withdraw the missiles!” Someone gasped.

            “Miss Shaw,” Waverly spoke calmly, “do you have a complete transcript of the offer?”

            “No, sir. Not yet. We’ve requested a copy from the White House. They’re sending it through now. I do have some of the more salient points.” She was slightly bewildered by all the people in the office but, looking down at a paper in her hand, she began reading.

            “They say that they will dismantle and withdraw all missiles and missile sites in Cuba, immediately. They will return them to the Soviet Union. They want an assurance from the United States that it will not now or ever invade Cuba. They want the U.N. to oversee verification of the dismantling. They want the U2 flights over Cuba to stop. They will send First Deputy Foreign Minister Kuznetsov to New York to help the U.N. and the U.S. verify the withdrawal.

            “We’ll have the complete transcript of the letter and translation on your desk in the next hour,” she finished somewhat breathlessly.

            “Thank you, Miss Shaw.”

            The woman left. There was a babble of reaction. Napoleon felt weak with relief. Banting was thumping him on the back in congratulation. Waverly held up a hand to forestall chaos. “We will need to verify this information. I will contact Ambassador Zorin immediately. I trust you will not be requiring my presence on the roof, Mr. Kulp?”

            “No, sir.”

            “Please do not inform your personnel until we have verified this offer. I will contact each of you when we have.” He turned to his communications console, dismissing everyone.

            “How did he know?” Napoleon asked as he and Bill walked back to their office.

            “That Khrushchev would back down?”

            “No, about the helicopter on the roof. I know you didn’t tell him.”

            “I’ve never figured that out. He always knows. I’d guess from the cameras on the roof, if I didn’t know they’ve all been re-routed to feed exclusively to Section Three. I’ve decided he reads minds, and I leave it at that.”

            Within an hour, Khrushchev’s letter had been verified. People started gathering in the lounge. The celebration was interrupted by a page from Mr. Waverly’s office for Illya Kuryakin.

            Waverly was watching television as a news commentator jubilantly recounted the Soviet capitulation. Illya fleetingly wondered if the man ever went home—if he even had a home or if he perpetually sat at that briefing table. A half-smile quirked his mouth at the absurd notion. The hysterical relief permeating the building must be affecting his judgment.

            Illya could discern no clue to the meaning of this summons. Perhaps an assignment at last?

            Mr. Waverly switched off the television receiver and paused to fumble with his pipe before he turned to the agent standing before him. “Ah, Mr. Kuryakin. Thank you for your prompt response.

            “A few minutes ago, I was contacted by your superior here in New York. You are requested to report to him immediately. Mr. Solo will meet you in the garage with a car in ten minutes and drive you over to the Soviet Mission.”

            The bottom fell out of lllya’s stomach. He carefully concealed any facial reaction but he had to clear his throat twice before he could get his voice to say, “Yes, sir. I’ll...be ready.”

            He walked slowly back to his office and sat at his desk, staring blankly at the wall. A summons home was the last thing he had expected now.

            Was he to be reprimanded for his outburst at the United Nations? Or, worse, had the government finally discovered that U.N.C.L.E. seemed to have had some role in the recent crisis? To have suspected and not reported it was treason.

            He swallowed the flutters in his stomach. The Stalin era was over. People didn’t just disappear to Siberia, dragging their families to ruin with them. Not in 1962. Actually, his father was relatively safe from this disgrace—being a war hero still meant something in Ukraine and his association with Khrushchev after the war might help shield him from reprisals caused by the stupidity of his son.

            But would Mr. Waverly be allowing him to leave with suspicions incriminating U.N.C.L.E.? By placing him in custody of Mr. Solo, one of their most thorough agents, U.N.C.L.E. was insuring that he did report as ordered.

            Why did this have to happen now? At first this assignment had only been another challenge, another duty to perform for his country, but now he wanted to stay, wanted to work with this agency, believed in its goals. He didn’t know how U.N.C.L.E. had engineered the recent agreements between the United States and Khrushchev, but he was certain they had played some role.

            He sighed. Wanting wasn’t going to change reality. He removed his jacket and the shoulder holster. He found his communicator and laid it on his desk next to the gun. He searched his pockets for any other U.N.C.L.E. property, then remembered his gold identification card. He slipped it out of his wallet and added it to the other things. There was no personal property in his desk for him to pack.

            He suddenly remembered the things in his apartment. He scribbled on a piece of paper, folded his house key into the paper, and sealed both into an envelope.

            He glanced at his watch. It was past time for him to have met Solo. He took a last glance around the room then hurried out, pulling on his jacket as he went.

︻デ ═ 一          ︻ デ═一          ︻ デ═一

            Solo checked his watch again. His fare was late. He was miffed at being drafted into taxi service. After all, just days ago he’d been attending State Department dinners and conferring with the likes of Dean Rusk and Robert Kennedy, and now Waverly had demoted him to chauffeur. So much for ego.

            He started the car engine as he spotted Kuryakin. The Soviet agent nodded brusquely and climbed in without speaking.

            Solo was nonplussed at the cold shoulder treatment. “Where to, sir?” he queried in his best British-butler’s accent.

            “What if I said ‘The airport?’” growled the other agent.

            Solo put the car in gear and drove out into the street. Heavy traffic occupied all his attention for the next few minutes. The young Russian made no attempt to break the uncomfortable silence. Finally they pulled up in front of the Soviet Mission.

            “‘Curb-to-curb service’ is our motto.” He tried again to lighten the mood.

            Kuryakin looked up at the doorway that awaited him then reached into an inner pocket and handed Solo a sealed envelope.

            “That is my father’s name and address, and the key to my apartment. If I am unable to go back for them, I would appreciate it if you would please pack up my record collection and send them to him. They are in boxes under my bed.”

            “Wait a minute; don’t you think this is a bit melodramatic?”

            “Isn’t it also a CIA motto to always be prepared?”

            “No. That’s Boy Scouts.”

            Illya shrugged, not really understanding the difference and caring less. He reached out to shake the hand of this could-have-been friend.

            Napoleon was unaccountably flustered. “Hey, I’ll wait for you...and I’m not CIA!”

            Illya shrugged again and climbed out of the car.

            He was obviously expected. The guard at the door spoke to him for a moment, then guided him into the building. Napoleon felt a flicker of concern but settled stubbornly into the seat. He’d wait.

            Illya automatically turned to the left as they passed the guards at the appointment desk but his escort stopped him, pointing up the stairs. Illya was confused. This was no meeting with his usual contact. Things were worse than he’d anticipated.

            He was led to a doorway and the guard stepped aside to wait.

            Illya opened the door. “Commodore!” The man sitting behind the desk was not only an old acquaintance but also Illya’s former mentor—and the head of the GRU.

            “Have a seat, Comrade. Cigarrette? But of course, you never smoke. Mr. Waverly speaks very highly of you.”

            “You have spoken with him?”

            “Yes, at some length. What have been your impressions of his organization?”

            “Well, sir...they...they....” What did he have to lose—he’d already wrecked his career. “They are one of the few multinational organizations I’ve ever known with both the idealism and the muscle to enforce their dedication to ensuring that terrorism, imperialism, and militarism are not tolerated. They truly don’t favor Capitalism or Communism, the East or the West....” He finally ran down.

            “Then you would be willing to continue this association with the U-N-C-L-E?”

            “Why, yes, sir!”

            Commodore Zimyatov nodded with satisfaction. “We, too, are pleased with this affiliation. We have some idea of that agency’s role in the recent debacle....” He held up a hand as Illya started to speak. “There may be times when we will want to know things you may have learned which the U-N-C-L-E may not wish shared, and you will be in the position of sailing the shoals of conflicting loyalties. But I am convinced of the U-N-C-L-E’s neutrality and dedication to world peace. These are also our goals. I see no conflict.

            “I am especially impressed with the brilliant way they managed to derail that stupid KGB plan which would have inevitably resulted in the United States having to retaliate, and very likely requiring much more force if there had been time to get the damned things armed. We could not have managed the situation better ourselves. Imagine the very idea of our giving a foreign power nuclear weapons! Absurd! Yes, we are quite satisfied with your association with this agency.”

            “Then it was not a general Party agreement about putting the missiles in Cuba?” Illya asked, relieved.

            “Hrumph! But we are here to discuss your future. No man can serve two masters well. I never mistrusted you, but I wanted to ensure you knew you could trust yourself. This will always be a difficult assignment, one requiring a special personality.

            “I feel it is time that you devote your energies entirely to the U-N-C-L-E. You need no longer report to anyone here at the Mission—or at home. We are officially releasing you from active duty. Good luck, Comrade Captain First Rank Kuryakin.”

            Illya blinked in surprise at the promotion.

            He managed to stammer his thanks and goodbyes. He was still dazed as he was escorted back to the front gate. It was really over and it had turned out better than he’d ever dared hope.

            Napoleon was still sitting in the car, waiting for him. He walked over and climbed into the passenger seat.

            “May I have my key back, please?”

THE END