"Son of a bitch."

"What was that, Mr. Kuryakin?"

Illya looked over the top of his glasses at his Chief. "Excuse me, sir. It is here in the report."

"Ah, yes," Waverly said. "Donald Marsden's last words."

"At least according to Miss Pemberley," Illya responded quietly.

A small crease formed between Waverly's brows. He turned to reach for his humidor. "You still think a letter of reprimand is in order, I gather."

Illya took off his glasses. Despite Waverly's dispassionate tones, he chose his words carefully before he replied, "I think Beldon has a…personal interest in Miss Pemberley that has colored his judgment."

"I see." Waverly picked up the wooden jar, then rolled back to the table. "In that case, I'm surprised there hasn't been a complaint filed about your own less-than-commendable actions."

Meeting Waverly's pointed gaze, Illya wished he still had the cover of his tinted lenses. "She would not do that," he said simply.

Waverly's eyes widened. "And what reason do you have for this remarkable certainty?"

"I apologized to her."

Neither his apology nor her acceptance had been the epitome of graciousness; but the transaction had occurred, and she had said they were even. If she desired retribution, it would come in a form more cunning than bureaucratic censure. He felt a slight curiosity about what she would devise.

Waverly loaded his pipe with Isle of Dogs No. 22, compressing the layers with his thumb. "In any event, you can request the matter be reviewed by another Section I chief, if you wish." His blue eyes twinkled briefly. "Not me, of course, as I also have what you might call a personal interest. But Gabhail Samoy is a fair man, and a wise one."

Illya exhaled sharply. "I have not yet decided if I will appeal Beldon's decision."

Waverly nodded. He gave his pipe a test draw, then cleared his throat, looking at Illya over the bowl. "How did he respond to the train business?"

Waverly's question was unorthodox, but its subject was an unorthodox man. Beldon had swept onto the platform, a larger-than-life figure in his fur-trimmed coat, his sheepskin ushanka pinned with the order of some grateful potentate, and whisked Faustina away. Illya was left behind to deal with the transport police, aided by Charley and his partner, who had emerged to tell their tale of the mayhem, as well as stories of other Incidents they had known in their years underground.

"He seemed"—Illya searched for a diplomatic word—"gratified."

Waverly harrumphed and focused on charring his tobacco. As he tamped the bowl, he said, "Lead, not darts, are the standard for Northeast agents. His policy."

Illya rubbed a black acetate earpiece between his fingers. "He also wishes to promote a woman to Section II, for the honor of the Northeast sector."

"Feeling outclassed, is he? Well, well." Waverly relit his pipe, looking gratified himself. "He's a complex man, ruthless even. I sometimes wonder what would happen if he weren't on our side."

Waverly puffed his pipe thoughtfully, the toasted marshmallow aroma drifting across the table. Illya restored his glasses and returned his attention to the report.

Having emotionally disarmed DM as much as humanly (womanly?) possible, I moved closer to disarm him physically. I was within a few yards of reaching him when he stared at my neck. He must have noticed the bruises. I doubt he was an admirer of elaborate beadwork. He looked over my shoulder at IK, who, as noted earlier, was wearing one of DM's shirts. Judging by his reaction, DM jumped to a salacious and erroneous conclusion. For the record, IK has never given me a hickey, let alone a whole flock of them. Maybe we should strike that? Ah, hell, leave it in.

Illya glanced back at the cover sheet. FP/gs. The secretary's valiant efforts to impose an objective tone, evident on earlier pages, had been abandoned. Doubtless recognizing its futility, gs had ceased to struggle against the stream of Faustina's consciousness. He could hear that voice, its particular cadence and intriguing accent, as clearly as if she were reading aloud, her lips beside his ear. His hand clenched, crumpling the edge of the paper.

DM's demeanor immediately changed. A lovesick puppy no longer was would-be bigamist Donald. Like that one? Eat your heart out, Time magazine. His face turned dark. His eyes bulged. He even bared his teeth and growled. He was a rabid pug dog, ridiculous but deadly. DM yelled, "Son of a bitch" and pointed the pistol at IK. Given that DM had threatened to shoot IK at the hotel earlier and that DM had thereafter proven his willingness and ability by re-enacting the OK Corral, I had no doubt of his intentions. IK was already strung out. One more hit would send him over the edge. In light of that, I considered the sleep dart a threat of deadly force and responded accordingly.

Illya shook his head. An enthralling story. Marsden was the villain; Faustina the hero; and he the one in distress, tied to the tracks awaiting death. He perceived their roles differently. After all, he had not been the one struck by a train.

"Miss Pemberley has the unfortunate tendency to do the first thing that pops into her head," Illya said, slapping the report onto the table. "Marsden was our key to capturing the Partridges."

"They've eluded us before," Waverly said. "As I recall, you and Mr. Solo thought it a good idea to leave Emory Partridge behind when up in the Yukon. That certainly blew up in your faces."

As he removed his glasses, Illya slanted his eyes to the empty chair beside him. He hoped a cold chill had just run down Napoleon's spine. Leaving Partridge to the mercies of Thrush had been his stroke of brilliance.

Waverly flipped a page in the file before him. "Beldon has impounded the Partridge's ship. Unfortunately there was no one aboard."

"Edith Partridge probably altered her plans when Marsden did not return. What about their island?"

"That has yet to be located. Morton, our top man in London, is attempting to retrace the ship's route to England, though there's precious little to go on."

Illya frowned. With Marsden dead, Beldon had declared Illya's mission officially over. Locating the Partridges was a matter for UNCLE Northeast and its agents. Had Faustina been sent on the hunt for the island, as well? If so, Illya hoped Morton had packed for sex, drugs, and rock 'n roll.

"In the meantime," Waverly said, "Barnes & Babcock is cooperating with us. The Partridge's accounts have been frozen, and anything else Marsden handled is being thoroughly reviewed."

Illya's lips twitched. "Then at least we know the Partridges are not out there somewhere sitting on their assets." A wide, disembodied smile, like Carroll's cat, appeared in his mind's eye, and a velvety chuckle echoed in his ear.

"Indeed," Waverly said dryly. "And Dr. Latner has finally agreed to accept our protection. A prudent choice, as he's of interest to both Thrush and the Partridges."

Illya thought of the oval-framed portrait, now likely in London HQ, being catalogued and examined with the rest of Marsden's belongings. "How is Miss Latner coping?"

"As well as you might imagine a young lady would upon learning of her fiancé's death. Miss Pemberley asked that she be the one to break the news."

Faustina was in Circleville, Ohio, peddling nonsense and wine and everything nice. He preferred her an ocean away. "I assume Marsden died a hero."

"Not at all. Miss Pemberley told her the truth," Waverly said, "or at least as much as could be told without compromising security."

"Would it not have been kinder the other way?"

Waverly's shaggy brows jumped. "The girl shouldn't go through life idolizing a blackguard," he said huffily, "possibly martyring herself to his memory. She needs to get out, see new things, meet new people. Miss Pemberley is taking her to Paris. A few days there, and she'll have forgotten all about this Marsden scoundrel."

"In a whirlwind of restaurants, discotheques, and theaters."

"Precisely."

"I shudder at the thought of such a harrowing mission."

"Cease the flummery, Mr. Kuryakin. By tonight, you and Mr. Solo will be starting your own mission in California."

"Undercover in the Hollywood Hills?" Illya asked hopefully.

Waverly shook his head. "Surveiling a Cult. I'll brief you both this afternoon."

"Yes, sir. If that is all for now…" Illya gripped the table edge and pushed his chair back.

"Not quite. The Medical section has completed its report on Capsule R." Waverly took another portfolio from a small stack and opened it. "In combination with the chemicals in Edith Partridge's gas, it produced—let me read it to you—'a heightened state of anxiety, especially regarding perceived threats, and an irrational mistrust of others, which could potentially include fellow agents.'"

"Paranoia."

"In a word, yes."

"So I am delusional." Illya could sit still no longer. He sprang to his feet and crossed to the narrow windows.

"Don't plan any restorative sabbaticals just yet, Mr. Kuryakin. Marsden most certainly went under that train. And I myself recall that private entrance from the Eastern Grande to the station, though it only went as far as the lobby in my youth. An unscrupulous manager must be utilizing it for personal profit or perhaps something more nefarious. We've notified Wynten, the owner of the hotel, and he assures us he'll take care of it."

"Is he a man of his word?"

Such a question was hardly disproving Medical's verdict. An ironical glint lit Waverly's eyes.

"If you'd met him, you wouldn't ask," his Chief responded. "Nevertheless the level of drugs in your system would have muddled your thinking. Your own actions upon awakening from the gas should convince you of that. Unless you think you were in your right mind when you attempted to strangle Miss Pemberley?"

"If you'd met her, you wouldn't ask."

He was risking Waverly's ire with such a rejoinder. He was surprised when, instead of rebuking him, Waverly laughed.

"Like that, was she? Well, you must remember that Miss Pemberley had received a similar combination of drugs, albeit in lesser quantities."

"Since birth?"

He had gone too far. Waverly's friendly bloodhound demeanor froze into a mask of granite. He tapped the report with his pipe, each contact reverberating like a gunshot in the silent room. "Medical has also determined that a dose of our paralytic toxin, on top of the other drugs in your system, would have resulted in a fatal heart attack."

Illya felt his face color. "Yes, sir." Chyort. She was the last person on earth he would be beholden to. "Am I dismissed?"

"Yes, until this afternoon."

Illya nodded and headed for the door.

"Oh, Mr. Kuryakin," Waverly called as the doors whispered open. "There is one thing that needs to be changed in your report on the affair."

Illya turned back and said stiffly, "What is that?" Paranoid or not, he would stand by every letter of that report.

"You have misspelled Miss Pemberley's name. It has three Es."

There had been a degree of satisfaction in even that smallest act of retribution. Illya sighed. "Yes, sir."