Kuryakin didn't know how long he'd been unconscious. It could have been an hour or a week, as far as he knew. He started to sit up but was stopped by a searing pain in his head, one so sharp he fell back to the pillow with a groan.
  "So, we're awake are we?" A voice inquired, not unsympathetically. Soon a shadow loomed over the agent. Slowly opening one eye, Kuryakin looked up at the largest woman he had ever seen.
  English-born Anna Kirk was a mountain of a woman, over six feet six inches tall and weighing well in excess of 300 pounds. She was a formidable display of womanhood, but Anna's poundage did not represent fat, not at all. She was solid muscle, so strong she could lift a car or bend a metal pole with her bare hands and had, in fact, done both when traveling with the circus.
    A former freak show "strong woman" Anna had eventually tired of being gaped at by hordes of ill-mannered American children and one evening, after taking offense when a young fellow called her a rude name, Anna sent him and half the town to the hospital. That was when THRUSH had stepped in. Impressed with her physical prowess, the organization had offered her a sanctuary: taking care of select THRUSH "guests" in a remote corner of the globe cut off from all forms of civilization. Oh, there was electricity�powered by in-house generators and plenty of food and medicine, but no telephone, radio, or outside communications except for the THRUSH radio Anna had carefully concealed in a locked room. The radio was used rarely: only when THRUSH was planning a visit would they contact Anna. And Anna was to use the radio in case of emergency, such as when a prisoner escaped. She had, of course, never had occasion to use it.
    So Anna, her massive breasts jiggling under the huge dress, set about making her guest, this rather frail-looking young man, as comfortable as possible. First she re-examined his wounds, some cuts and bruises but nothing serious�the blow to his head from some falling debris and his chemical exposure was the most worrisome. But, despite his being too skinny for Anna's tastes, the man appeared to be in fair condition.
    "Will I live?" Kuryakin asked, a note of sarcasm in his voice.
    "That depends on whether you're a good boy or not."
    "Can you tell me where I am?"
    "I can, but that's not allowed. You don't need to know these things."
    "Can you at least tell me who has me?"
    "Who? Why, my dear, I have you. That should be apparent." Anna paused and filled a bedside glass with water. "Here. Take these pills... No don't make a face. They're merely for pain and an antibiotic to make sure those cuts don't get infected and leave you a one-legged beggar. Go on, take them." She handed the hand full of pills to Kuryakin who, after briefly examining them dutifully put them in his mouth and took a sip of the water.
    "Good boy. Now you get some sleep so you'll feel better." She shut off the light and left, locking the heavy metal door by key from the outside. Kuryakin quickly spit out the handful of pills he'd been secreting in his mouth and, taking a sip of the water, swirled it around to cleanse the pill residue, spitting it in the commode, which was located in a corner of the windowless room. Adding the pills, he flushed, wiped his hands on a small towel hanging on a hook above the commode, and took a look around.
    A night light illuminated the tiny cell. It was decorated to look like a bedroom, a very sparse bedroom, with a single bed, a wooden bench, a table and chair with a water pitcher and a glass and nothing else. Kuryakin looked down at himself and blushed to discover he was totally naked and rather cold at that moment. The sudden whoosh of air coming into the room from a vent near the ceiling caught his attention. Kuryakin moved the bench to a position underneath the vent and stood on it, sniffing suspiciously. It appeared uncontaminated. Satisfied, he stepped down from the bench and, finding himself very weak and tired, crawled into the bed and fell fast asleep.

The two men stood on the precipice and looked out over the snowy-topped mountain range spread before them. One gestured, pointing up, and they resumed their icy climb. The trail was well-marked but treacherous and the men were tired and cold. When the first man lost his footing and began to slide, he instinctively reached for something to keep himself from tumbling into the frozen abyss. But there was nothing to grab and his momentum caused him to slide into the second man who, unable to react in time with fingers frozen and reflexes dulled, did what the first could not do: he stopped his friend from sliding. But at a price.
    While the first man smacked against the side of the mountain, the second spun off the precipice like a wingless bird, falling deep into the crevice, a spot of color against an all-white backdrop. The first one grabbed frantically for his friend's hand, but the gesture was too late.
    Both men clutched only empty air.

Illya Kuryakin sat bolt upright in the bed and winced. The sudden movement made his head hurt, but a much worse pain had overtaken him. Napoleon. Napoleon was dead. He remembered now. It had been so cold up there on that mountain, so damnably cold, and he had slipped. Yes, he could remember some of it quite clearly. They had been looking for something�he wasn't sure exactly what�and they were climbing a mountain. He had gone first, with Solo behind him, bringing up the rear, and he had slipped, sliding into his partner and knocking him over the edge, into the white death below.
    Kuryakin felt his stomach constrict. So that was it. He had killed his partner. Odd, he thought, he hadn't remembered anything when he first regained consciousness. Kuryakin decided he must have blocked it out. But now, for some reason, he remembered it so clearly. Still he couldn't remember why they were on the mountain or what happened after Solo died. And he didn't know where he was or why.  Rolling over on his side, Kuryakin curled into a tight ball and allowed himself to grieve for the man who had become his best friend. As stoic as the young Russian could be at times, his attachment to his U.N.C.L.E. partner was the most important relationship in his life and to lose him, no�to be responsible for Solo's death, was almost more than he could bear.

Solo leaned back and smiled at the pretty stewardess. It signified a happiness he didn�t feel, but the agent knew he had to shake the black mood the news of Kuryakin�s probable death had put him in or he wouldn�t be able to do his job. It was a job he relished: to finish what Illya had started.
    Well-rested from his enforced vacation, he was taut and ready to get back into the field. His contact in Cairo, an old friend named Adel Muhammadi, would meet him at the airport. They had planned a meeting with city officials to discuss the likely induction of a gas-like poison into the city�s air. Both men, familiar with the Egyptian way, doubted their success. And, Napoleon knew, even if they doubled or tripled security at government sites, a little well-distributed �baksheesh� could convince poorly paid guards to look the other way. No, Napoleon mused, the best defense would be a quick and decisive offense. The only problem with that was they were groping in the dark, with no idea where to look. His sharp mind went back over all the information U.N.C.L.E. had gathered about Pinnacle. Eventually, the quiet hum of the plane as it winged its way to Paris, then on to Cairo, coupled with the drinks Solo had downed with dinner, caught up to him and he slept.

He awoke with a start. The plane was landing, the lights in the cabin were on and people were starting to stir. He rubbed his eyes and stretched his legs as best he could while still seated. His mouth felt gritty and he longed for a hot shower. At least I'm sleeping again, he thought. Just be grateful for that.
    Solo saw his contact as soon as he hit the airport. Cairo International was a foaming hubbub of activity, almost like an outdoor market without the goats. Adel was waiting for him, having smoothed his way through customs and other forms of Egyptian red tape.
    "Napoleon, my friend, how are you?" the tall Egyptian-born, Oxford-educated Adel said in his clipped Queen's English.
    "Good, Adel, and it's also very good to see you. Customs?"
    "Took care of it, Napoleon. A little baksheesh goes a long way here." Adel wound his way through the crowd at the airport terminal until they surfaced outside in the blazing hot sun. Solo blinked at the brightness.
    "By the way, I was sorry to hear about Illya and Gabe. Two of our best. I worked with both of them. Men like that are not easy to come by."
    Solo nodded tersely. Kuryakin's death was still too fresh, too new for him to discuss, even with an old friend like Adel. Kuryakin had been such an integral part of his life he didn't want to admit the relationship was over, even subconsciously. Several times since his partner's demise, he'd thought of things he wanted to run by Kuryakin, then realized there no longer was an Kuryakin to turn to. It was going to be a hard habit to break. Solo shifted quickly to safer ground.
    "I'd forgotten how hot it gets here in July. Next time I'm going to have Waverly send me..." Solo began, his words cut short by the sound of an automatic weapon. Both men dove behind the cover of  a car parked at the curb. Bullets pinged on the car and the sidewalk, dislodging chunks of metal and concrete. Solo dragged his U.N.C.L.E. special from under his sportcoat, but had difficulty finding the source of the shots. To his left, Adel was doing the same thing.
    "Welcoming committee?" Solo asked. Adel grinned and started to answer when another volley of shots caught his attention. A bullet struck the pavement and bounced off, spraying chips of asphalt at the two men.
    "I think he's behind that truck up there," Solo said, gesturing with his gun.
    "Cover me and I'll work my way up to him."
    Adel nodded and opened fire while Solo, hunched over into a smaller target, ran a quick zigzag toward the truck, taking cover every few second behind whatever he could find. The assailant's weapon continued to spit out what seemed like an unending supply of bullets. Good, thought Solo as he prepared to outflank the truck and come in from behind, he'll be too busy to pay attention to me.
    Solo took a deep breath and waited for a fresh burst of gunfire, then took off in a run toward the truck, skirting it and circling in from the rear. The gunman, intent on Adel, never saw him.
    "Drop the weapon!" Solo commanded, his gun barrel pointed levelly at the shooter. The man spun around and bringing his weapon to his mid-section to fire blindly at this new threat, but Solo was quicker. He squeezed off a quick pair of shots and the man crumpled to the pavement, his gun with him. Solo stood up, gun still trained on the man, and flipped him. The man was bleeding heavily from belly wounds. Despite this, he gazed up at Solo, eyes mirroring the bright hot light of fanaticism. He muttered something in Arabic and then laughed, the laughter quickly dissolving into a cough that led to a quick, startled intake of breath, his final voluntary action. The fanatical light was replaced with a blank stare as the man went limp and died.
    "May all your dreams come true," Adel said thoughtfully from behind Solo. Solo turned and looked at the Egyptian agent.
    "That's what he said, Napoleon. 'May all your dreams come true.' What a strange thing to tell the man responsible for your death!"

The memories returned when Kuryakin slept. First the mountain, icy and cold. The two of them climbing. Then the misstep, the one that changed his life, the one that haunted him each time he closed his eyes. And there was another face in there somewhere, one he couldn't quite see, even when he shut his eyes. Someone else was involved somehow and Kuryakin could sense the unseen presence was important. But try as he might, he just couldn't bring that face into focus.
    Desperate to know, Kuryakin curled up and slept, no longer bothered by the cool hissing sound of the air vent above him.

Solo had briefed the rest of  U.N.C.L.E.'s Cairo office, filling  them in on the few facts gathered about Pinnacle. Then he and Adel met with government officials to prepare them for the THRUSH offensive. It didn't help they had no idea of the gas's effects.
    "Can you tell me just what we're supposed to be looking for, Mr. Solo?" one official had asked. Solo was forced to admit U.N.C.L.E. knew much of what THRUSH hoped to accomplish, but not "how" and at that moment, the "how" was the primary concern.
    He and Adel had a late, working dinner, analyzing all the data gathered to date about Pinnacle and other, possibly-related, THRUSH projects. Then they checked in with Waverly, who advised no new intelligence had come to his attention.
    "But I'm confident you'll find a way to obtain the information we need, Mr. Solo," Waverly said before signing off.
    Solo sighed as he replaced his communicator in his pocket. "Do you see any point in going over this stuff again?" Solo asked, sweeping his hand at the pile of documents and maps on the table in front of them.
    Adel shook his head. "No, But I'm not quite ready for bed yet, my friend. Sleep hasn't come easily for me lately."
    "Try drinking some warm milk before you go to bed. That's supposed to put you to sleep."
    Adel made a face at the suggestion. "No, thank you. My nights have been bad enough without adding warmed milk to the mix." The two men parted with plans made to meet for breakfast first thing in the morning.
    Solo retired to his room, took a hot shower and crawled in bed, exhausted and relaxed. Perhaps a good night's sleep would put things in order, he thought.

That face, he knew the face now! It made no sense, no sense at all, but Kuryakin understood why he'd been blocking it out. It was painful to know he and Solo had been betrayed from within. And, somehow, some way, he had managed to live through it, to escape, while Solo paid the ultimate price. Kuryakin was sleeping fitfully now, tossing and turning as the details grew clearer.
    He was on the mountain again. It was cold, so very cold and suddenly he was slipping, but it was Solo who fell, locking eyes with his partner for one brief second, before spinning over the edge of eternity. And, when Kuryakin reached the summit and found the THRUSH stronghold, it had been destroyed, emptied, warned they were coming. And only one person could have done it. Only one person knew where the two agents were going. And it was the one person no one would ever have suspected of betrayal.
Alexander Waverly.

Kuryakin was trapped in the THRUSH laboratory. The explosives were set to go off any moment and he and Gabe Allen were frantically climbing the steep and ancient stairs. The pair, with Dr. Rosetti in tow, reached ground level and spilled out onto the landing, only to find the guards were on to them. Gabe took refuge in a corner and began transmitting to U.N.C.L.E.'s  Rome office, while Kuryakin held off the encroaching THRUSH army. Then the explosions started, shaking the villa down to its marble foundation, one after another, opening deep fissures in the floor beneath them. Tongues of fire licked at the two U.N.C.L.E. agents and Kuryakin called to Gabe to run for it. There was no answer. Gabe Allen was already dead.
    Kuryakin started to make a run for the door, but a THRUSH bullet caught him square in the back, sending him spinning to the floor. His gun flew from his hand only to be swallowed up in a deepening hole. Kuryakin tried to raise himself up, but couldn't move more than a few inches.
    Overhead, beams began to crack and buckle under the strain. Blood poured from Kuryakin's back and trickled from the corner of his mouth. He looked at the beams, now groaning their intent, and whispered something just before the ceiling crashed in, burying the small Russian under tons of marble and cement.

Solo sat up in bed, sweat pouring. Shakily he got up and went into the bathroom where he splashed water on his face. Illya's dead, he thought. He concentrated on his dream and what Kuryakin'd said before he died. It was my name, Solo realized with a start. He was calling me.
    Solo sat down heavily on the bed, his stomach in knots, his guilt as palpable as the warm, humid air. He tried to divert his thoughts. This can't be good, it can't help to keep going over and over this, he thought. But something was nagging at him. Solo filled a glass with water and took a sip.

 Fact: Kuryakin's dead. That much is true. Fact: He died in the explosion outside Naples. Fact: I had nothing to do with his death. Nothing at all. Then how can I see it happen? How do I know he was shot in the back? We haven't even found his body yet. How do I know what happened�that he ever reached the ground floor, that he wasn't trapped in the lab, underground, when the explosions started? How do I know he called for me before he died? How can I know these things?
    Something had been nagging at Solo. Nibbling away at him, begging him to notice, to pay attention, to see. For a brief second he focused and small things, like parts of a puzzle, began to fall into place. He grabbed his communicator from the night stand.

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