Dawn and Florence surprised him still in bed, the former by a ray of light through the window, the latter by knocking at the door and calling. "Hullo, Napoleon, what are you doing wallowing under your blankets in this stuffy little room at nine in the morning?"

Napoleon cast a reluctant glance at the bedside clock and groaned: "Damn you, Flo! Have you lost all notion of time? It's hardly more than ten past eight!"

"Well, it got you out of bed, didn't it? The world belongs to the early riser," asserted the young redhead with her usual cheek, when he opened the door to a pink-nosed Flo and a cheerful Jack.

"Spare me the awful clichés; it doesn't suit you."

"Spare me the profanities, Napoleon; how dare you say "damn you" to a lady?"

"And since when were you a lady, my dear cousin?"

"Since I became a mother," retorted Flo with a quick nod at Jack.

"Hardly," grumbled Napoleon indistinctly.

But Flo's ears were as sharp as her mind. "More than you a father, my dear cousin!"

There was nothing to reply to this and Napoleon gave up. "What are you here for?"

" Money, love; I need money to buy all the stuff for the party: fancy food, decorations, costumes..."

"Gifts!" cut in Jack; "I want the gifts from my wishlist! All we got at Christmas was a lot of useless stuff, thanks to the Morrisons' moral principles."

"I told you they will be at Grandma's place," scolded his mother, "next week."

"That's not the same! I want to find something under the Christmas tree like the other children," protested Jack; "I ordered a record-player from Grandma; now I want records. And Lyn wants a watch and a fountain pen. And Paul wants a guitar. I don't know about the others."

Napoleon smirked. "What a spoiled brat!" He turned to Florence. "And I thought your mother was such a professional!" He whistled softly. "Well, the result is not a success, my poor Florence." Then he bit his lower lip; education was not a safe topic to raise in the present context.

Flo looked absolutely unfazed. "Your poor Florence is trying to help set up the party for you, and Jack is your manager; everything has its price and you've already accepted the deal, I was told: we do the job and you pay. Don't worry; "I'll make sure it's not too costly."

Napoleon was somehow relieved the discussion had come back to solid ground. "Did I complain about money? I think my monthly budget can stand the expense."

Jack brightened, "Thanks, Uncle Napoleon!"

Things turned out all right eventually; Florence and Jack had willingly taken all the preparations for the stupid party into their hands (Napoleon was still wondering how he could have let himself be coaxed into this nonsense but so what? There was nothing he could do at this point) and thus, he had no explanation to give about Kuryakin's and the damned Hartmann's impending arrival; he would wait for them a couple of hours, deliver the vampire his pint of fresh blood and see them away even before Florence had come back with her purchases; there was just enough time for him to have a luxurious bath and a copious breakfast to make up for the meager snack of the previous night (he intended to skip the lunch in anticipation of the dinner feast).

Two hours later he was still waiting in the hotel lounge, impatiently flipping through the latest magazines with hardly a glance at even the most alluring inner page pin-ups, when he heard the fateful bleeping.

"Napoleon? We are late."

"I noticed!"

Illya sighed heavily and replied with an exasperating tone of affected tolerance: "I mean we'll come later in the afternoon; we have been delayed by the belated arrival of the Uruguayan delegation and Hartmann is bound to attend the meeting."

Napoleon frowned deeply, "You mean you've no idea when you'll arrive?"

"I'm afraid not."

"But that won't do! I'm not free in the afternoon; I've been invited by my cousin's friends to a, hum, family celebration; I told you so last night..."

"I am very sorry, Napoleon, but we can't do it any other way and you should be the first to understand that; duty calls and Waverly commands. Where has your professional conscience gone?"

"On vacation!" grumbled Napoleon. Of course, he could only agree with Illya but the many frustrations of the past two weeks had taken their toll upon him and he was feeling the need to let out a little temper."

"Childish!" cut his partner severely. He waited for a reply that didn't come. "Really, Napoleon, this is much ado about nothing, you're not obliged to stay at the hotel; go to your friends' place as planned and have fun since it's all that you are interested in at the moment, apparently. We'll be there sometime in the late afternoon for a brief "in-and-out", and we'll try not to disturb your family celebration too much."

"Great! And what explanation am I going to give for your little "in-and-out?"

"I've never known you short of explanations before, Napoleon. Suppose you tried the truth, for a change?"

Solo wasn't ready to tell his partner the whole story about his lost and retrieved son and their troubled relationship, so he said nothing and gave the Morrisons' address, not without some feeling of apprehension.

Flo was back for lunchtime; she had been fast and efficient, as always. She was one of these annoying people who manage to get 48 hours work done within a 24 hour day when others can hardly use 8 out of 12 profitably. Not for the first time, Napoleon rejoiced that he hadn't married her. She had found a caterer able to supply a buffet for a dozen at the last moment and bought the right gifts for everybody, no thanks to Jack's interferences.

They didn't linger at the table despite a tempting choice of dishes. The weather was fast worsening; it was snowing again, hard and thick, and a storm was forecast in the next few hours. It hit earlier than expected. On the way back to the Morrisons' place, the light van fought bravely against hostile whirlwinds and icy spots along the winding road. Eventually, they were safe and warm inside the hospitable old mansion, greeted by joyful yaps and yelps, of which Dandy was mostly innocent.

The rest of the afternoon was spent laying out the buffet and decorating the large hall and the reception rooms. To Napoleon's relief, the idea of a masquerade had been abandoned for lack of time and convenient outfits. The adults contented themselves with good fare and eclectic conversation while the children romped about. Jack had teasingly suggested they'd replay their own version of Charlie Brown's Christmas, to the great displeasure of a very much "not amused" Charlie Morrison. Discord was raising her ugly head. Lyn and Lucy had a fight over their gifts "why do you want a fountain pen?" asked Lyn to a fuming Lucy, "You cannot even write your name!". Mrs Morrison's proposal of a treasure hunt restored peace and amity among the little folk. It was quickly and cleverly arranged by Flo and the old lady. As a whole, the party went smoothly and pleasantly, except for the two persons primarily concerned. Paul looked somehow distracted and took little part in the preparations or the hunt. His gift, a walkie-talkie instead of a guitar, seemed to please him though, and he went so far as asking his father for advice. Then he sneaked away with Jack to try the new device.

Napoleon had to summon up all his professional cool to fight the growing impatience and exasperation which crept over him while hours passed and Kuryakin didn't show. He hadn't warned his hosts of their possible arrival; the snowstorm outside was decidedly turning to tempest and he fervently hoped that the intruders' flight had been postponed.

Wrong guess! Just as he was starting to enjoy the Morrisons' humorous tale of their - long past - expeditions as young students in ethnology throughout the wilderness in Patagonia (one of the rare spots of the globe he had never set foot on), the bell rang.

Lyn and Lucy, who were again brawling on the couch stopped suddenly and rushed to the corridor, one chasing the other with strident Indian war-cries. Flo ran after them and Napoleon followed, heart clutched by a somber foreboding.

Lyn was the first to the door. She opened it and jumped aside, stunned. Lucy screamed. Florence and Napoleon froze. In the doorway stood, dark and glowing, a very real red-skinned Indian boy.

Just behind, in the shadow, loomed the tall figure of Hartmann, pale and sinister.

"Where is Kuryakin?" Solo asked brusquely, not attempting an explanation.

"Who is Kuryakin?" Florence echoed after a short while. Napoleon ignored her.

"Stuck in the car, down the hill," said the boy, placidly. "we skidded off in a loop and ditched the old buggy in the ravine."

"What! You mean he's trapped? Wounded?" Napoleon was trying to gather his Spanish that had never been really fluent.

"Nobody was wounded," declared Hartmann, "we were driving slowly and the slope was gentle; the car ran into some bushes, not overturned".

"So, why is he stuck in the car?"

Miguel laughed lightly, to Napoleon's sheer annoyance. "He was the first to get out after the crash, too fast; there was ice under the snow: he sprained his ankle."

"Are you going to let us in, at last?" Hartmann cut in, irritably, "or do you intend to leave us on the doorstep? We are tired and frozen to the bone. I thought you were expecting us."

Not the boy, in any case, thought Napoleon, but it was not the point and he swiveled round to let them in. Flo stared at them, speechless for once.

"Who are these people?" asked Lucy in her highest pitched tone. Miss "Two-pig-tails" sounded indignant, "We weren't expecting them, that's for sure; I'm going to warn Granny." She dashed off. Lyn stayed by her mother, looking amused and interested.

Flo had recovered her voice, eventually. "Napoleon, you have a lot of explaining to do." She turned towards the newcomers: "Please, come through to the hall and make yourselves comfortable; I'm just a guest here but I'm quite certain my friends wouldn't leave anybody outside in a snowstorm."

"Very kind of you," said the old gentleman with a stiff bow, German style, "truly sorry to disturb you amid a friends' reunion. We won't stay more than strictly necessary for what we have to do, as long as the weather allows it."

Florence smiled graciously and waved them to the hatstands. "I assume you must have very serious things to discuss with Mr Solo for braving a snowstorm to drive to this remote place, out in the countryside, to meet him in person."

"Yes, important business deals to arrange, changes made at the last moment, with papers that have to be signed before I leave the country tomorrow," explained Hartman, reverting to his usual, soft-spoken, cultured British language. "There are affairs which can only be dealt with face to face, you know..."

"I see, I see." agreed Florence who, assuredly, didn't see a fig in this pot of tar.

"Seems my boss disavowed a deal I'd made," added Napoleon, grumpily.

"And your signature is needed?" asked the young woman with evident disbelief.

"I have, uh, big personal investments in this affair," Napoleon gestured impatiently, "but it's going to have to wait. My partner, uh, colleague, is waiting for rescue in a wrecked car miles away from here. You wouldn't let him freeze to death during the night, would you?"

Miguel looked offended. "Why do you think we are here?"

I certainly wonder why you are here, thought Napoleon, who couldn't figure any plausible reason for the boy's taking part in the trip.

"I want to go back and help Illya as soon as possible," the young man said, firmly.

"Not before we have a rest and something hot to drink," objected the old man; "I am exhausted, frozen and thirsty."

"We don't need you," retorted Miguel belligerently, "I'm ready to go immediately with anybody with a car and a map."

"The van I've rented is equipped for the weather," indicated Flo, "but we owe at least a few words of explanation to the Morrisons. I fear your story is long and complicated. If only you hadn't said you were expected...Lucy heard it, unfortunately."

"Me too!" Carolyn didn't want to be ignored, "but I'm good at keeping secrets."

"No way to keep anything secret with Lucy in the know, just try to be reasonably credible...and don't forget you owe an explanation to me too."

So they had to follow the line of Hartmann's first improvisation: an important amendment to a big contract of import-export had to be signed by one of the main investors (Napoleon) before the exporter (Hartmann) left the US for another capital appointment in Brazil.

Fortunately, this story, for the most part, agreed with Napoleon's previous introduction as a traveling businessman working for a world-wide company. Yet Florence frowned at the tale. Without being given precise information, she had some knowledge of her cousin's real occupation. But Napoleon didn't doubt her cooperation: in spite of all her shortcomings, the young woman still had the same loyalty towards him that he had towards her; such was the strength of childhood friendships, even when they had later wandered into wayward paths. She would play by the rules. And so would Lyn.

As for the Morrisons, they couldn't care less. The only thing they had in mind was the comfort of their unexpected guests, just escaped from the storm. They were dismayed to hear that another castaway had been left in a wrecked car, poor lamb lost in the wilderness of the New Jersey coast! Of course, a rescue expedition had to be launched as quickly as possible. Just the time to fill a bag with a change of clothes, cold food and hot drinks in thermos bottles. Luckily, the snow had receded somewhat when they moved off and the wind, although still strong, had abated a little. The layer of white powder on the ground was not thick enough to forbid a properly equipped vehicle to run.

This is how, within barely more than half an hour, an impatient Napoleon and a grim Hartmann (who had hardly been awarded the time to swallow a cup of tepid lemon tea instead of the nice mug of hot brandy grog he was longing for) were speeding dangerously on a narrow, slippery, and wind-beaten country road at dusk. The drive was short, fortunately, while the walk to the house from the same point had taken two hours of strenuous plodding in the soft sticky snow. The Morrisons' house (Charlie would have said mansion and actually it was the last remains of a much larger and richer estate) stood, solemn and isolated at the top of a round, cow dung-shaped hill surrounded by woods and fields. For a place relatively close to the seashore, it was still a quiet and empty spot in an otherwise busy and touristic area. There was little chance that, with such weather, the damaged car and its temporarily disabled driver would have been rescued by wandering good Samaritans.

The really worrying thing, however, was the fact that Illya hadn't used his communicator. Probably it had been lost in the young man's fall…though, not being able to retrieve a metallic pen sunk in a shallow layer of soft virgin snow was not Illya-like at all. Napoleon wondered if the nifty device was as waterproof as it was supposed to be.

Until this moment the silence in the car had been ponderous. As unpleasant as it felt, it was about time to talk with Hartmann. Napoleon engaged the conversation most innocuously.

"How did you manage to get a plane? I thought all the flights had been canceled early in the afternoon."

"We didn't get a plane," replied Hartmann; "we went by train."

"Ah! Good idea."

"No; there were several unexplained technical incidents. That's why we were so late," Hartmann went on pitilessly; "your trains are very slow at the best of times anyway."

Napoleon was piqued. "Are trains faster in Uruguay?"

"In Uruguay no, but in Germany yes." The bastard was unyielding. "Your industrial infrastructure is prehistoric."

"Sure," retorted the American, infuriated; "we aren't accustomed to modernizing our industry through wars and destruction!" He forced himself to breathe deeply. "Let's drop this. I don't care to argue about trifles. I want more useful information. First: what is Miguel doing here with you? He ought to be at school."

"Schools aren't open yet, the Christmas vacations will last two more days, I was told. You should know that better than I do." The old man hesitated. "And there was a curious incident yesterday…The boy had been allowed to go out on his own in the vicinity of U.N.C.L.E. HQ and he came back breathless and very upset, saying he had just escaped being abducted by unknown people in a big black car."

"Uh?"

"So your colleague decided to take Miguel with him for the boy's safety."

"U.N.C.L.E. 's rooms are not safe enough?"

Hartmann shrugged. "You should ask your friend. I guess there was a shortage of U.N.C.L.E secured apartments with the Uruguayan delegation and others coming to New York at the same time for the medical symposium."

"I see."

"Moreover, I think the school chosen for Miguel by the U.N.C.L.E welfare bureau is situated in Cape May, not far from here, so we could drop the kid there on our trip back."

Everything sounded perfectly logical and justified. But Napoleon didn't know what to think about the kidnap attempt alleged by Miguel. How could he trust the words of a boy who claimed to have mystic conversations with heavenly beings? And who had so clearly showed his, hmm… interest in a certain blond Russian's company? There was a glitch somewhere and Napoleon didn't like that at all. He went on:

"Why didn't my partner use his communicator to alert me after his accident?"

Hartmann looked baffled. "What is a communicator?".

"Never mind." Napoleon pricked up his ears suddenly and made a forbidding gesture with his free hand. "Shut up!"

"Eh, wait...Be polite, young man! I was not the one speaking, you were. What's the matter?"

"Just keep quiet." Frowning, he listened intently, trying to distinguish the sound that had caught his attention from the many noises of the car. It had been a feeble, muffled sound, followed by a rattling noise. But there was nothing else to hear now other than the roaring of the motor, the seats' suspensions squeaking (it was an old van) and the constant rolling to and fro of various loose items, in the rear behind the tarpaulin partition (mainly a toolbox and cardboard containers, the leftover party's supplies) Could it be that some sort of large rodent had sneaked into the vehicle through the back door, while it was left ajar? Napoleon made a mental note to check it as soon as they'd reached the wrecked car's location.

Then the front wheels slid on an icy spot and he barely managed to straighten the steering, which brought his attention back to driving.

A few minutes later, he caught sight of the car, rather far away at the bottom of a long slope, partly hidden by a group of thick bushes that had stopped its course. Obviously, the driver had tried to keep control and almost succeeded. It was a miracle that he had avoided rolling over all the way down. Nothing to be seen around. There was something unnatural in the silence and peace of the surroundings. All tracks, of footprints as of wheels, had already been erased by fresh layers of snow. He couldn't see anything else than the car's roof and a bit of the hood, and not distinctly because of the fast-approaching dusk, that had turned the surrounding empty whiteness to blue. Napoleon slowed down to a minimum and put on the powerful fog lamps, but the range was too short, then tried the high-intensity headlamps with no better results. And no answer from the car. Illya should have heard the arrival of the van from afar, seen the lights and hailed them, or used a flashlight to signal his presence. Napoleon's stomach lurched.

Hartmann himself looked worried.

"Something's wrong," he grumbled. "pull over."

"Can't stop here, the road's not wide enough," Napoleon cut shortly.

He had to drive a little more, until he found a space to park in a dirt lane leading to an old barn. Then, grasping the backpack full of provisions, he rushed out, quickly followed by Hartmann carrying his medical bag, neither of them bothering to lock the door or remove the ignition key in their hurry.

The way back to the spot from which they had had the car in view took a few minutes of clumsy jogging along in the snow and felt like hours to Napoleon. In spite of his hurry, he had to be more cautious while getting down the slope.

He had guessed right: the car was empty, and there were evident signs of a struggle; not much in the car or on the snowy ground, but amid the bushes: many small branches were twisted and torn and he picked up a broken flashlight with blood stains on it. No communicator though.

So Kuryakin had been caught by surprise and abducted. But by whom and why? They were not on assignment (at least not their usual, dangerous kind of assignments); things had been rather quiet at U.N.C.L.E since their return from Uruguay, except...Napoleon almost started; the attempted kidnapping of young Miguel! The boy had been in the car, with Illya and Hartmann. If they had been followed...If their pursuers, whoever they were, had arrived too late on the scene of the accident and had found only Illya, unsuspecting and incapacitated...

Napoleon turned briskly to face Hartmann and stared at him. The old man was thoughtful and, it seemed, slightly embarrassed.

"Yes," he said simply, "I may be concerned, though I am not totally sure about what...I don't lack enemies, you know..." He smirked; "and they don't all date from twenty years ago."

Before Napoleon could utter the biting retort he had on the tip of his tongue (something along the line of how unfortunate it was they didn't reach their goal twenty years ago) the most unexpected sounds, in this silent and solitary night, could be heard in the distance: shrill barks and shrieks of terror, far away but very distinct; then two, three gunshots, followed by a short silence and renewed barks.

Without a word, the two men turned round and started to climb up the slope to the road above, but wading uphill through a soft powder snow is not the easiest of exercises, especially when loaded with a big medical bag and a heavy backpack, full of comfort food, changes of clothes and waterproof shoes.

Halfway Hartmann fell; gritting his teeth, Napoleon helped him up.

"Don't tell me you've sprained your ankle!"

"Don't think so," mumbled the old man, "must be just twisted."

He grimaced and strangled a cry of pain; for the first time since they had met, he looked what he was: a bitter, lonely old man, worn out and tired. Napoleon hardened himself against his first move of pity; he didn't want to feel compassion towards Hartmann, of all people; he was a war criminal, wasn't he?

"So, stay here and switch off your flashlight; don't know what's going on up there but it's better not to be spotted."

"I'm armed," said Hartmann, and, from an outer pocket of his medical bag, he pulled what looked like a woman's purse pistol. Napoleon raised an eyebrow.

"Try not to shoot a bullet in your foot, old man." And he seized his U.N.C.L.E. handgun.

The whole time he had been hearing the same shrill barks; there was something familiar in this bark and it made him queasy. Just as he was reaching the top of the slope and stepping on the road, a fluffy little thing zoomed out of the dark and crashed onto his legs. Even before he had picked it up and lifted it at eyes height, he knew what it was: Dandy!

"What are you doing here? What are you goddamned doing here?" He couldn't help asking, as if the pet had had the capacity to answer. Though in his own way he did just that: exhaling a woof of relief, the little dog nudged him, nestled his head in the hollow of Napoleon's neck and stayed put there, shaking in all his limbs.

Napoleon was beginning to guess and he was scared of the answer. After a while Hartmann joined him, heavily limping but able to walk. He was breathless and nervous.

"What's this animal? It seems to know you. Were the gunshots aimed at it? And whose were all the shrieks? His master's?"

With an impatient gesture, Napoleon stopped his ramblings. "Shut up for God's sake, somebody's coming."

The boy was running faster in the snow than the men could have. All of a sudden he was caught in the light of the flashlight that Hartmann had put on again in spite of Solo's orders. With a wrenching heart, Napoleon recognized Jack's face, haggard; the boy's usually playful features were torn with sheer panic.

"Help! The men over there, they fired at us, they tried to kill us!" He was shaking as much as the dog. Napoleon steadied him by gripping his shoulder with his free hand. Only then did the kid seem to recognize him and calmed down a little.

"Oh, please, we didn't do anything wrong; we were just running after Dandy: he had run away from the van when you stopped, and those men came out from the barn, and they wanted to force us to go inside with them…"

"What the hell were you doing with the dog in the van?" growled Hartmann.

"Just playing hide and seek with the walkie-talkie, it was just for fun; we didn't mean anything wrong…"

"Where is Paul?" cut in Napoleon, shortly.

Jack started to cry. "With them! They caught him; I ran away and they fired at me!"

"Did they fire at Paul?" insisted Napoleon, dropping the little dog and retrieving the gun he had put back in its holster a while before.

"No." Jack hesitated, "I don't think so; I heard one of them telling the others not to shoot. But I was running, I didn't look backward…"

"Of course," commented Hartmann, who had recovered his composure completely; He didn't want to alert us."

"Us? What the hell?"

"I'd bet anything they want me, not your friend or the boy; they came back for me, because they were sure I would always come to the rescue of a wounded man."

Napoleon was too worried to laugh at this display of self-pride. "It's no time for an explanation; I'm going to the barn. You both stay here."

"No. I'll come with you." Hartmann's tone was definitive.

"Don't be silly, you'd only hinder me. And somebody has to take care of the kid."

He's no longer at risk," Hartmann snorted, "they've enough hostages for what they want. A third one would only be a burden for them."

Napoleon didn't want to waste more time discussing. He let the stubborn old fool follow him, far behind, still limping and holding his ridiculous girlish pistol.

"Put that gun away. If you drop it, you'll never find it in this snow."

"I don't need it anyway, they are far away now."

This assertion was proven right when they reached the area of the barn, approaching with the utmost caution. The building was dark and silent; there were visible wheel tracks going from the yard to the main road and even Dandy, who had chosen to stick close to Napoleon, didn't show any fear while sniffing the surroundings.

Jack too had followed from afar eventually, though with more apprehension. After a while, he felt reassured somehow and came closer. All three went to the van, still in the same place. They stood there, staring at the vehicle: the four tires had been gashed flat.

"I should have foreseen that," said Hartmann thoughtfully. He didn't seem to be speaking only of the sabotage.

"Why?" replied Napoleon irritably, are they after you or aren't they? If they were waiting for you and they had observed our arrival, why would they clear off without even trying to take hold of you?"

"I can't answer with certainty," Hartmann spoke slowly. "They were expecting me alone, or maybe with Dos Santos, or some good-will helper from the neighborhood, not two kids, a dog and a U.N.C.L.E. agent."

"They don't know who or what I am."

"Don't presume. You don't know what they know."

That was only too true. Napoleon decided to postpone the explanations for later. The only thing he knew for certain was that Paul and Illya were currently prisoners and probably hostages, but given the circumstances, not too far… not yet.

He pulled his communicator from the inner pocket of his jacket. "Open Channel D. Napoleon Solo here."