Dottie H, as Ms. Haggarty was affectionately known in the bowels of UNCLE New York, looked up from her desk and a staggering stack of report files to see an infrequent visitor. "Well, to what do we owe the honor, Mr. Solo?" She stood as he entered her crowded office, stopping just inside the door to survey the bookshelves occupying the walls and the stacks of reference works spreading out from the shelves to cover three small tables, both of the guest chairs in front of her desk and a couple of what looked like library restocking carts.

"Dorothea."

She laughed. "So formal," she purred, remaining behind her desk. "When did I drop back to Dorothea from Dottie?"

"When I missed our dinner date?"

She chuckled at that. "Napoleon, you're field. Things happen. You'll catch the rain check one of these days. Besides, the guilty pleasure of watching old movies with the real deal is worth the wait. Now, what can I do for you?"

He let his eyes slowly wander down and up over her trim figure before answering. She rolled her eyes over that, eliciting a genuine Solo smile with her reaction. Dottie was something of an enigma to him, neither forward nor coy about her interest; yet never exactly forthcoming about whether she appreciated him only as a friend. Since she was a co-worker, and he fully enjoyed their occasional old movie outings, he was loth to press the issue.

"I'm looking for any hints about biological interests by our opposition."

"OK. What sort of biological? Behemoths or amoebas?" She picked up a half filled steno book, flipped to a clean page and started making notes.

"Viral."

She looked up at him. "Viral? That sounds … hmm." She sorted through the stacks of folders on her desk. "Jorgenson, Jorgenson … Jorgenson!" she set one file aside, then pulled six more out of various stacks. "Victoria Adele Jorgenson, no relation to Christine. MS in Microbiology. Ph. D. in cellular. Epidemiologist. Specializing in tracking historical pandemics and epidemics, looking for psychological changes in survivors; both those surviving the disease and those who were resistant. Picked up by the DOD just after graduation in '66."

"And?"

"Patience is a virtue," she singsonged at him. "Ah, here it is. Confined to the T.H. Rutherford Universal State Home in Denver, Colorado after she attempted suicide late last year."

"T.H. Rutherford …" Napoleon started to repeat.

"THRUSH!" they finished together.

"Damn. Wonder if it was suicide?" Dottie voiced Napoleon's thoughts. She pulled the files together and handed them to him. "Make sure they're sent back to me," she reminded him as he turned to go. "Maybe we can catch Singin' in the Rain when it shows at the Bijou in three weeks … if you're not busy, of course."

He turned back for a moment to smile at her. Damn, that brightened her day. Then he was gone. Now all she had to do was figure out where the Bijou was and whether it actually showcased older movies.

Napoleon retreated to his office where he scrutinized the files. Jorgenson's work was inclined to put him to sleep. The picture attached to the file was surprising. Dr. Jorgenson was tall, slender, furiously red haired and frightened looking. He frowned at the picture. Yes, there was that "deer in the headlights" look of someone surprised. Yet the photo, taken in what looked like some sort of lab, showed nothing the woman could fear.

Unless it was the photographer she was worried about. He flipped through the files again. No indication of who took the photo. Most people didn't take color photos unless they were serious about the art. That could narrow down the number of people who had a camera that handled color film. He checked the back of the photo for any indication of where it was processed. Nothing. That left figuring out where the lab was.

His phone rang once before he picked up the handset. "Solo. … What? I'll be up in a minute." That was convenient. The Berlin office had located Chernin. Dead. Waverly wanted to see him now.

Napoleon joined his boss in time to see the live feed of the area where Chernin was found. It still amazed him sometimes how the organization put things like broadcast cameras to use to transmit information swiftly. Chernin lay in a dark area. The techs noted it was blood, although they were not certain it was his blood. The body was a mess and the pool was entirely too neat. A close-up of the body made his stomach churn.

"What happened?" he asked.

"If I didn't know better, I'd say he was savaged by a bear. There are parallel scores all up and down his torso, mostly on the thoracic area. He was laid open down to the bone across the rib cage, and into the viscera lower down." The medic answering poked at the almost raw hamburger consistency flesh of the abdomen, pulling pieces aside and shining a light into the ravaged cavity below. "Actually, it looks like the organs may have fallen out and been replaced."

Napoleon swallowed bile and looked away from the display. "Animal?"

"Probably. Although it would have to be a pretty big and very angry animal to have done this. There's nothing missing that we can tell here. We'll know more after an autopsy. Anything else, Mr. Waverly?"

"No. That will be all for now." The screen went blank. "Are you all right, Mr. Solo?"

"Yes. I may have a lead, sir. With Chernin gone, I'd like to follow up." He placed the file on Jorgenson on the table and gave it a push to rotate it around to Waverly.

"Hmm. Yes. This is interesting, Mr. Solo. Given the severity of the situation if THRUSH has indeed found a way to subvert our agents easily, I want you to get there immediately and see if you can pick up her trail. Very good research, Mr. Solo."

"I'll let Ms. Haggarty know, Mr. Waverly. Anything else, sir?"

"Not now. I'll have Medical keep you abreast of Mr. Kuryakin's progress."

"Thank you, sir." He turned and left. Three hours later he was on a flight to Denver to see what more he could find out about Dr. Jorgenson.