Anna brought Kuryakin a bowl of warm and nourishing soup. She was a good cook who made hearty, simple meals. She kept her THRUSH connection hidden, telling the agent only that he had been found half-frozen and nearly dead in the mountains and brought to her for safe-keeping.
    "People are after you," she told him. She never said who and he had no idea how long he'd been under her care. Time had no boundaries. Days, weeks or months�they were all the same.
    Eventually the trained professional in Kuryakin began to take over. As his body repaired itself so did his mind. Inconsistencies fueled his instincts, telling him there were too many things that just couldn't be explained. Still, he couldn't put his finger on the source of the problem. He just knew there was something wrong with the equation.
    When he finished his meal, Anna would bring a bowl of hot water, a towel and some soap so he could bathe. Then she would clear the items away, leaving him to sleep again. And that bothered him. Each time she shut the door her exit was punctuated by the hiss of air filtering into the room from the vent. And each time, Kuryakin would have that same horrid dream, only it would grow in detail. Finally, Kuryakin took the sheet Anna'd given him to shield his skin from the harsh wool blanket and tore a small piece from it. When she left the room, he quickly climbed up to the vent and stuffed the sheet inside. The hiss was still there, but the air flow seemed to have stopped. Satisfied, he crawled back into his bed and fell asleep.

Solo and Adel were both tired from lack of sleep. Solo's stemmed mostly from jet lag combined with the nightmare he'd just undergone. Adel confided he hadn't slept well in nights.
    "Adel, tell me about not being able to sleep. Don't leave anything out."  Looking quizzically at Solo Adel shrugged. "I can't imagine you'll find it interesting, but... Well... I've been having nightmares, terrible ones, Napoleon. And they're so real I find myself waking up in a panic. If Uncle finds out, they'll probably order me to undergo a mental evaluation," he said with a half-hearted laugh.
    Solo looked thoughtful for a minute then asked, "Your nightmares. What are they?"
    "You'll think I'm nuts, but, well, I dream about getting my partner killed. Sometimes he drowns, sometimes he's shot, once he was hit by a car. But he's always dead and it's always my fault. I've gotten so nervous about it, I made a point of being assigned to this detail�while he was sent on another mission out of the country. I don't trust myself. I don't know if my dream's a prediction of things to come or if I'm programming his death. But I'm frightened, it's so real. That's my worst nightmare, you know�to be the reason for another agent's death, particularly my partner. I've been afraid it might be like a self-fulfilling prophecy, or a warning. I don't know. I'm not even sure I'm sane any more." Adel stopped and looked down at his empty coffee cup.
    "When did this start?"
    "About two weeks ago. But it happens every night, every single night, just like clockwork."
    Smiling, Solo reached over and put his hand on Adel's shoulder. "Tell me, Adel, have you ever been afraid your dreams might just come true?"
    Adel looked at Solo for a moment, startled by his choice of words, then a smile began to spread across his face and he laughed.
    "By Jove, Napoleon, I do believe you might be on to something."

There were no dreams, no mountains, no frozen deaths, no fingers to point at Alexander Waverly. More important, Kuryakin was beginning to remember. He knew Solo hadn't fallen off a mountain. He didn't know where his partner was, but he was much cheered at the idea he was most likely still alive.
    When his stomach rumbled and he knew it was time for Anna's visit, Kuryakin removed the piece of cloth and concealed it carefully in the bed. Anna let herself in, brought the Russian a nice big bowl of stew, although Kuryakin didn't ask what the meat was, afraid of the answer. She cleared the empty dishes, examined his wounds and offered him some clothes, which he eagerly accepted.
    "As soon as you are well enough, you'll be leaving here. We'll make sure you're taken some place safe. Some place where they can't get you," Anna said.
    "Who are they?" Kuryakin asked, buttoning up the warm shirt she'd brought him. It was good to have clothes again. He began to feel more human.
    "You'll find that out when the time comes." Anna left, locking the door behind her. The hissing began almost immediately. Quickly, Kuryakin stuffed the cloth back into the vent and sat down on the bed.
    The gas that comes out of the vent is causing me to have bad dreams in which Napoleon always dies and Waverly betrays us. Only Thrush would have such interests. Another thought struck him. Pinnacle! He'd almost forgotten. Could this be Pinnacle? Kuryakin thought furiously�it had to be! The Pinnacle project is a gas that causes whoever inhales it to realize his worst fear�in his dreams. Or at least that's what happened to me. My worst fear would be causing Napoleon to die. The part about Waverly�they must want me to be so angry I'd rectify the situation by killing him or somehow destroying Uncle. If I'm ever going to get out of here, then perhaps I'd better give them what they want: an Uncle agent bent on revenge.

After meeting with other U.N.C.L.E. agents and lab personnel, it soon became clear each and every one of them had been having similar dreams. Nothing unusual was found in the air vents of their homes and apartments. U.N.C.L.E. scientists concluded the gas was being introduced via an air exchange that brought in outside air. But, curiously enough, no one in the buildings surrounding the agent's homes were having the same dreams. Quick, low-key conversations led to a startling confirmation: important people, those in key government posts, business leaders, diplomats, were all reporting being tired from lack of sleep and constant nightmares.
    "And all of them are dreaming of their worst fears. For some it's losing their money, for others it was the death of someone close, but for all of them, their dreams were about their most deep-seated and horrible fear," Adel said. "You know, Napoleon, it certainly helps to know I wasn't the only one having this problem."
    "No, you weren't alone. As a matter of fact, I had these same dreams in New York, in my own apartment. I wonder..." Solo drifted off in thought for a moment. "I need to contact Mr. Waverly. My apartment needs to be checked out and other Uncle operatives should be questioned�this may be a much larger operation than we suspect, possibly involving other Uncle personnel."
    "And we still don't know how they're getting the stuff into the air," said Adel.

As it turned out, there were several dozen U.N.C.L.E. agents, all senior personnel, and a large number of the technical staff having problems with nightmares. A check of the living quarters of all the ones affected, including Solo, revealed nothing. But once the intake systems were shut down, all those afflicted reported their sleeping habits reverted back to normal.
    In Cairo, U.N.C.L.E. personnel moved into temporary quarters at headquarters, which received no air from the outside.
    The bad dreams stopped immediately.

"You are to be moved."
    "Where?" asked Kuryakin.
    "Somewhere else, somewhere safe, where they can't find you."
    "They?"
    "Your enemies."
    "Thrush is my enemy."
    "Thrush didn't try to kill you, someone else ordered it, you know. If you think hard enough, you'll remember. You'll remember many things�many unpleasant things...."
    Kuryakin had decided THRUSH was programming him not only with the gas, but also with some type of subliminal suggestion. They were preparing him to strike at Waverly�that much he was sure of�but were they finished? Did they believe he would do it? He didn't know. After all, he'd stopped breathing in the gas several days before. His clear head had returned. No longer did he feel tired and drugged. All he wanted was to escape. And it would help, he thought, if I knew where I was.
    "Anna," Kuryakin said softly. "Tell me, where are we? Please, I just want to get my bearings. It's disorienting not to know and besides," he smiled as beguilingly as possible, "If I'm to take care of loose ends, I need to know where to start."
    Anna didn't answer at first. She had let Kuryakin out of his room and into the small kitchen, sitting him at a table to eat his soup. He was grateful for the chance to move around again. How many hours had he spent in that tiny room? It felt like weeks.
    "I don't suppose it would hurt to tell you, since you'll be leaving soon anyway," Anna said. She wiped her hands on her apron and walked over to the table.
    "You're high in the Alps, miles from the nearest village�in that direction," she said, pointing down.
    "Then how am I to leave?"
    "There will be a helicopter to come for you this afternoon, if the weather permits. It will help you to escape from those who want to kill you, the men who killed your friend, Mr. Solo."
    Kuryakin's head jerked sharply at the mention of his partner's name.
    "How did you know about that?"
    "You mean about them killing Mr. Solo, your friend? You told me yourself, when you were delirious, Kuryakin, you told me how he slid off the mountain and how you tried to save him, but it was too late. You told me how you were betrayed and that the one who betrayed you was named Waverly, yes, that was the name, a Mr. Waverly. Don't you remember?"
    "Yes, I remember. And I have a job to do. If I can ever get out of this place, that is."
    Anna smiled at Kuryakin. "You will be able to avenge your friend very shortly, that I promise, very shortly indeed...."

So sure were they of him that they didn't even use shackles, so Kuryakin boarded the chopper with only the pilot and another passenger who introduced himself as Mr. Vineyer. Vineyer, who appeared to be European, spoke to Kuryakin of the terrible treachery of U.N.C.L.E. and Alexander Waverly in particular.
    "He betrayed you and Napoleon Solo, you know? You, of course, were also supposed to die. Won't he be surprised to find you're still alive?"
    "I will make sure of that. Where are you taking me?"
    "Have patience my friend. You are going to Zurich, then we have arranged for you to fly to New York in a private plane with all the comforts of home, so you can waste no time finishing the business Waverly started on that mountain."

In Cairo, U.N.C.L.E. agents no longer suffered from nightmares, but the rest of those afflicted weren't so fortunate. Men who held high posts were tired and acting odd, and many in the government were showing the strain of the past few days. And it was starting to spread to the general populace.
    Shopkeepers and taxi drivers, mothers and school children were all reporting difficulty in sleeping and frequent bad dreams. Small arguments began breaking out. They escalated into fist fights, while minor traffic jams became free-for-alls and bad tempers put most commerce in the teeming city of millions at a halt. Still the U.N.C.L.E. agents couldn't pinpoint the source of the gas.
    Solo and Adel had reviewed flight plans over the city and kept a constant watch on U.N.C.L.E. and government radar screens with no success. Night after night the city of Cairo would fall asleep and dream their worst nightmares. In the day time, suicide rates began mounting, accidents were multiplying and tempers were resting on hair triggers.
    "I'm afraid we don't have a clue, my friend," Adel said glumly over a cup of Turkish coffee after three days of examining the fingerprints of everyone who flew over the city.
    "I'm not willing to concede that yet. There's something we're missing, something, somewhere..."
    "Our little birdies are getting a bit too crafty for us, Napoleon, I'm..."
    "Wait, wait, Adel. Back up. What did you just say?"
    "I said, I'm afraid we don't have a clue..."
    "Not that part. You said something else..."
    "Just that Thrush is getting a bit too smart for us. Is that what you meant?"
    Solo smiled. "Yes, my friend, that's exactly what I meant."

At Zurich, Kuryakin was transferred to a small jet. Vineyer tagged along with Kuryakin and the two-man crew. The plane lost no time taking off, after which Vineyer began to reinforce Kuryakin's supposed hatred for his target: Alexander Waverly.  Kuryakin, no longer under the delusions brought on by the sleeping gas, nodded and pretended to agree with Vineyer, but his thoughts were occupied with other considerations. Was this gas being used against U.N.C.L.E. on other levels? Were other agents under the influence? And, if so, what were their targets. He had to find out.
    Vineyer proved eager to talk about THRUSH's plan. "There are others, you know, just like you, who have discovered the treachery of Section One and are preparing to take revenge. U.N.C.L.E. isn't what it pretends."
    "Others? You mean Waverly isn't the only one?"
    Vineyer laughed. "Of course not, my Russian friend. Section One is a lie, a huge lie. They are removing all the good and loyal agents and replacing them with people loyal only to them and their ultimate goal."
    "Which is?"
    "To rule the world, of course. That is what Waverly and his counterparts have always wanted. But loyal men such as yourself stand between them and their goals. You will win. Within forty-eight hours Section One will no longer exist. The threat will be neutralized."
    Two days? Kuryakin knew he had to move quickly if he was going to stop the other four assassins from striking. Waverly, at least, was safe, unless THRUSH had a back-up. He wondered if he could gain the identities of the other agents being used to destroy Section One.
    "The others�are they all from Section Two?"
    "You don't need to know that. You will meet with the others after it is over." Vineyer apparently decided he had talked too much. Instead, the THRUSH agent began speaking once again of Waverly's imagined role in the death of Napoleon Solo. Kuryakin only half-listened. Instead, his trained eyes found the bulge in Vineyer's coat�a gun holstered neatly under his left arm in a cross-draw holster. That would be easy enough, he decided. What the U.N.C.L.E. agent needed, however, was the opportunity to take Vineyer out without the flight crew's knowledge. He doubted he would be much of a match against the three of them. Kuryakin watched the other man carefully, looking for an opening.
    Vineyer apparently believed Kuryakin presented no danger. The THRUSH agent was sloppy, leaning back against the bench-type seat that lined the opposite walls of the small jet's cabin, his coat flapping open to display his gun. Meanwhile, Vineyer droned on and on about the terrible grievances Kuryakin had against U.N.C.L.E..
    "You are a bright man. You have surely realized Gabriel Allen's death was also ordered by Waverly. Of course, he wasn't trying to kill Allen. No, poor Mr. Allen just happened to be unfortunate enough to draw you for a partner. You, Mr. Kuryakin, you were the target, you know?"
    "Why does he want me dead?" Kuryakin asked, to keep Vineyer talking and off-guard. The story he told was ridiculous. Yet, Kuryakin remembered with a jolt, he had believed it. Kuryakin shook his head and kept his eye on Vineyer's gun. When the THRUSH agent paused and turned his head slightly to gaze out the window behind him, Kuryakin knew his moment had come. He launched himself across the aisle, throwing a hard right to Vineyer's chin, reaching with his left hand for the man's gun.
    The punch caught Vineyer by surprise, but didn't take him out. The THRUSHman quickly regained his balance and grabbed Kuryakin by the throat with both hands. Kuryakin, still weak and  unable to loosen Vineyer's grasp, fell to the floor on his knees. But Vineyer hadn't realized Kuryakin still had his hands on the gun. The U.N.C.L.E. agent could feel himself starting to black out. In final desperation, he twisted the gun under Vineyer's arm and pulled the trigger. The loud pop of a bullet firing echoed in the plane's cabin and Vineyer screamed in pain, letting go and falling back onto the seat.  Kuryakin took a quick breath and pressed his advantage, jumping on the fallen man and once again grabbing for the gun. This time, however, he managed to liberate it from Vineyer's holster. Screaming, Vineyer twisted away from Kuryakin, his left side bleeding profusely where the bullet had struck him. Vineyer smiled at Kuryakin: in his uninjured right hand he held a gleaming knife.
    Kuryakin leveled the gun at the other man. "Don't make me kill you."
    Vineyer laughed. He pulled back to throw the knife and Kuryakin fired. The bullet made a messy hole in what had been Vineyer's forehead. The knife, thrown hard, but off course, hit Kuryakin in the upper left chest, burying itself almost to the hilt. Kuryakin fell back from the force of the throw but pulled himself up on his hands and knees. Casting a quick glance to the plane's front, the agent grabbed the knife and, in one hard pull, removed it from his chest. The pain almost caused him to pass out, but knew he couldn't let that happen. Blood gushed from his wound. Kuryakin felt slightly sick but managed to ignore it, instead taking the gun and working his way to the cockpit where he tried the door. It was locked.  He rapped but there was no answer. The pilots must have heard the gunshot. They were probably heading to a THRUSH landing strip. On shaky legs, Kuryakin moved back into the cabin and began to search. Eventually he pulled one of the upholstered seats loose from the wall and found a storage area packaged with parachutes. He pulled one out. It looked usable. Taking the gun in his hand, Kuryakin dropped the magazine and ejected the bullet still in chamber, putting both in his pocket, then stuck the gun into his waistband. He might need them later, but he didn't want to parachute from an airplane with a loaded gun in his pants.
    Kuryakin put on the chute and made his way to the emergency door. Looking out, he couldn't tell where they were�over land or water. All he could see were clouds. If it was water then Kuryakin knew he would probably die. He was bleeding heavily and couldn't stay conscious much longer. His decision made, he wrestled the door open. He fought the sudden intake of cold air and stepped out into the sky. A moment later, his parachute blossomed, but the U.N.C.L.E. agent never saw it. As soon as he pulled the ripcord, he lost consciousness.

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