Chapter 1

It frightened the hell out of Napoleon Solo that Illya Kuryakin had almost been successful in slitting his own throat. What new heinous potion had this latest cabal of lunatic THRUSH scientists cooked up?

Earlier that day...

Solo piloted—his partner in the co-pilot seat—the small UNCLE jet to the capital city of Louisiana. The hair on the back of his neck prickled, a sure sign this was likely to be a hazardous mission. He trusted that sign, as it had served him well so far in his career. He entered a contemplative mood as he went over again what their chief had said.

The briefing started with Alexander Waverly telling them that Jules "Julie" Bussiere, a Section II agent based out of his hometown of New Orleans had died of a self-inflicted gunshot wound. The coroner had yet to deliver his ruling of accidental versus intentional death at Waverly's request for a delay, having shared his strong suspicion with the coroner that the death was not suicide.

Waverly had explained that Bussiere, who had worked with both Solo and Kuryakin on separate affairs, was monitoring unusual activity on the property of an antebellum mansion. He'd had virtually no back-up when he'd gone in for a closer look; almost every other agent in Louisiana and east Texas was part of a large, medium-risk operation in Shreveport that had taken weeks to plan.

"Find the reason for Mr. Bussiere's untimely and most unfortunate demise," Waverly had said. "No question THRUSH has its diabolical 'beak' in this. Undoubtedly someone developed a new serum or brainwashing technique. Once you discover the reason, destroy it and bring those accountable to justice. And without delay, gentlemen. If my suspicions are correct, all of our agents are at higher risk than usual, not to mention the innocent public. One of our jets awaits you at Kennedy Airport. Mr. Solo, I believe you need some flight time to maintain your pilot's license."

As they stood to leave, Waverly had warned, "Please remember, gentlemen, that you, like Mr. Bussiere, will have little support. Keep that in mind."

"A ruble for your thoughts, Napoleon," stirred Solo from his reverie.

Napoleon smiled with closed, thinned lips. "Just thinking about this assignment. I'm concerned that we'll probably have no back-up."

"We rarely do, my friend."

"True, but this one is giving me a sense of impending doom."

Illya exhaled heavily through his nose. "There is no scientific evidence for such a thing. However, I do trust your intuition, which I think is actually your ability to analyze a situation and think of possible contingencies and outcomes."

"Spoken like a true boffin."

"Because I value our friendship, I shall believe your use of that term is in its positive connotation."

"You would be correct. After all, your scientific knowledge has kept me—and the world—chugging along like the little engine that could."

"Sometimes, Napoleon, your attempts to confound me with obscure references are irritating."

Solo, suddenly not feeling up to his usual rejoinder, checked the instrument panel and found everything as it should be.

They lapsed into a brooding silence, with Illya turning away from Napoleon to look out his side window.

A few minutes later, Illya said, "When Julie and I worked on a long-term assignment in Paris and Berlin, we became friends. I learned he was a devout Roman Catholic. We must succeed in proving that he did not voluntarily kill himself so he may have a proper burial."

Napoleon placed a reassuring hand on Illya's shoulder. "We will, partner mine."

MFU

The Baton Rouge office was almost empty of humanity, except for a secretary doing double-duty as receptionist and the Shreveport strike force's off-site coordinator.

The secretary, a petite but shapely brunette, escorted the visiting agents to the staging room where all of Bussiere's intel was laid out along with area maps and a detailed map of the property in question on a large table. Both standing and hand-held lights with magnification were available. There was a large chalkboard on one wall, equipped with several colors of chalk and an eraser. In one corner were coffee and water dispensers. Illya immediately set about studying the materials.

"I think you'll find everything you need, gentleman," said the woman in a Creole accent. "Call me if you need anything at all."

Napoleon gave her a gracious smile and said in a mildly seductive tone, "I most certainly will, uh …?"

"Evangeline Cheval, Mr. Solo. You may call me Mrs. Cheval." She flashed him with her diamond-bedecked left hand.

Napoleon, recovering quickly from that surprise, didn't miss Illya's wry smile and soft snicker.

"Of course, Mrs. Cheval."

"I'll bring you lunch around noon. Will shrimp po'boys and sweet tea be acceptable?"

"Two sandwiches for me, please," piped up Illya immediately. "No ketchup or mustard." He gave Napoleon a teasing glance. Napoleon tossed him a stink eye.

Evangeline turned up her nose. "How disgusting. Those condiments would be sacrilege." She left in a huff.

"You didn't notice her rings," said Illya matter-of-factly as he studied an area map. "You're slipping, my friend. But I understand. You just can't help yourself." He snickered again.

"One of these days, Illya," his partner mock-threatened. He removed his suit coat and hung it on the back of a chair. "So, come up with a plan yet?"

Illya rolled his eyes.