Napoleon got the call from his sister around three.

“Illya just called and asked me to pass on a name and address to you. Michael Harrison, 64 East Eighty-third Street. He said that was the name of the woman’s father and that you would know who he was.”

“Yes, I do.”

“And his plane will land in Islip at 2:30. You still want me to pick him up?”

“Yes, and bring him to your apartment. I’ll be there when you arrive.”

Michael Harrison. Napoleon recalled him well. A madman. A cold, dispassionate madman. The worst kind. He seemed to have been born with no soul, as if he didn’t even acknowledge that there was such a thing as right and wrong. Most criminals had a sense of right and wrong; they just chose to ignore it. This bastard seemed totally devoid of any sense of morality. They had caught him in a Thrush lab in South America and he had almost gotten away. Would have if not for Illya. So this is what this whole thing is about. Revenge, pure and simple. Looks like the daughter was a chip off the old block. He wondered if the address would still be good; they couldn’t be that lucky, and a call to UNCLE headquarters told him that they weren’t. For the past two years, the apartment had been occupied by the owner of a famous design house. He was well known, and there was no chance that he was the cover for the Cwiklowskis. That would have been too easy. Well, they would have to devise another way to find them. Or draw them out.

*********************************************************************

Alex was waiting at the gate when Illya arrived, but he saw her before she saw him. He wore a disguise again, a darker wig over his blond hair, a mustache, and little round glasses, and he had the look of a timid professor of dead languages. Alex had experienced enough classes with them to recognize the look. No one would ever suspect that this milquetoast looking chap was a dangerous spy, and of course, that’s part of why Illya was so dangerous. No one suspected his capability until it was too late. And with this disguise he looked even more like the weakling.

“Professor,” she said, as she greeted him at the gate. She took his arm lightly, and they began the walk to the parking area. She looked to anyone looking like a coed with a crush on her college professor. He had a small knapsack slung over one shoulder and a battered black brief case, which now contained several pages torn from the Sikeston High School yearbook. It took a little over an hour to drive to Alex’s apartment on 111th near Broadway, and when they arrived Napoleon was already there.

“Glad to see you, tovarisch,” Napoleon said. He was sitting on the couch when they came in, a glass of amber liquid over ice in one hand. “So tell me all about your news from the boonies.”

Illya relayed the information he had learned from Angie about the Cwiklowskis. “It appears she blames me for her father’s death, which I suppose in a way I am.”

“But he was a madman,” interjected Napoleon.

“Well, I know that, and you know that, but somehow I doubt that Ola sees it that way. Probably saw him as the embodiment of a dream she had all those years growing up without parents. You start to create all kinds of scenarios in your mind. At the state school when I was a child, I used to imagine that my parents were alive and that they had just somehow lost me. I would fantasize that they would show up one day, and of course they were very important people, and they would take me home to my loving family with lots of aunts and uncles and brothers and sisters and cousins.” His voiced trailed off. “You know,” he continued with a wistful tone, “I almost feel sorry for her.”

“Don’t feel too sorry. Remember that she has killed at least two people and set you up. You grew up an orphan, and you didn’t become a psychopath.”

“But I do kill people for a living.”

“But only the bad guys.”

“I don’t know that for a fact. I mean with UNCLE I am fairly certain, but I bloodied my hands with the KGB before I came here. And I set a few people up myself.”

“On orders,” said Napoleon. “Not personal vendettas. And not innocent people like Duncan and the waitress.”

“I know, and you’re right. But I can still know what growing up without a family can do. Don’t you remember how hard it was for me to relate to anyone on a personal level when I first came to UNCLE? I didn’t trust anyone, and it took a long time to lose that wariness.”

“Well, you can counsel her after we catch her. And that is our next order of business. How do we draw her out?”

Illya turned to Alex. “Can you get me some vodka?” She went into the kitchen and took a bottle from the freezer, grabbed a glass, and brought them in to Illya.

“I’ll be in my room while you two talk business. Yell if you need anything.” She kissed Illya on the forehead and gave him a worried look.

“It will be fine. Your brother and I are good at hatching diabolical schemes. Don’t worry.” He turned to his partner. “You know orphans tend to fall into character types. There is always that sense of trying to compensate for what one has lost in childhood. Many never cope and lose themselves to alcoholism or drug addiction. Some people lose themselves to community service and devote themselves to others or to causes. Others become megalomaniacs and feel the need to always see themselves and what they want as the center of the universe. I think Miss Cwiklowski falls into the last category.”

“And how does something we already know help us?”

“Help me, Napoleon, not us. Remember I am the one being pursued by the police. And by the way, have they issued an arrest warrant?”

“Yes, the grand jury returned an indictment and an arrest warrant was issued yesterday. So I guess you better lay low till we get everything together.”

“Au contraire,” Illya said. “Laying low won’t help anything. We need to make sure I am arrested, quite publicly, so that I can be arraigned.”

“Have you lost your mind?” Solo spouted. “Walk right into the hands of the authorities?”

“Look, you said that if the evidence were presented properly, it would prove my innocence.”

“Presumably, but anything could happen at a trial.” Illya poured himself another vodka. “True, and that would be true at any time. The only sure fire way to assure my acquittal is to prove that the Cwiklowskis are the guilty parties.”

Napoleon nodded and sipped his scotch.

“That would be infinitely easier if we had them in hand. And therein lies the problem. How to get them in hand,” said Illya.

Napoleon shot him a sardonic grin. “We could issue an invitation and hope they show up.”

“Exactly. An invitation. And what would be a better invitation than my arraignment? If she wants to see me suffer, I would bet my life that she will be there.” “Bad choice of words. You will be betting your life.”

“Yes, and I am certain she will be there to see me do it.” He drained his glass. “Of course she will probably be in a disguise of some sort so we’ll need agents to check every woman who enters the courtroom.” “To grab her.”

“No, Napoleon, to plant a tracer on her. We need to follow her to where she is staying. We can’t just produce her; we also need to find evidence to tie her and her brother to the crimes.”

“It’s an awfully big risk.”

“Yeah, I know, but I think we have to take it. That or I just disappear somewhere. I know that’s a possibility. I have money and papers stashed and I could leave and become someone else. But, to be truthful, I like my life the way it is, and I want to hold on to it.”

“So you’re going to just turn yourself in?”

“No, I think I’ll do something a little more public.”

He called for Alex.

“What can I get you?”

“Nothing now, but I could use your help tomorrow. Nothing too complicated. Just breakfast.”

“Breakfast?”

“Yes, and maybe one of your waitress friends can make a phone call to the police. Sit down,” he said, motioning for her to join him on the couch, “and I’ll explain. And then I would really like to grab a few hours sleep if you don’t mind my appropriating your couch.”

*********************************************************************

Wednesday, May 14, 1969

At eight-thirty Illya and Alex sat in the restaurant, sipping on coffee and waiting for the police to arrive. To anyone witnessing the scene, they looked like a young couple, perhaps student and teacher, having a leisurely breakfast. No one suspected the drama that was about to unfold. Just thirty minutes earlier, Alex had called the restaurant from her apartment before making the four-block walk to the coffee shop.

“You want me to do what?” Thetis, a waitress from Nick’s, had asked her.

“I know it sounds strange, but after we arrive, I need you to call the police and report that a man that they have been looking for is in your restaurant.” Illya’s photo had been included the newspaper story on the senator’s son.

“Isn’t he your friend?”

“Yes, but it’s really complicated. He wants to be arrested in a public place to insure his safety. It’s really hard to explain and when this is all over, I will. Just trust me on this. He knows you are going to call; in fact, it was his idea.”

“But the police in the restaurant? Someone could get hurt.”

“Don’t worry,” said Alex. “Illya is not going to resist in any way.”

So here they were at the coffee shop with the next part of the plan in play. Although she had told her waitress friend not to be concerned, the whole thing did worry Alex. She really didn’t see how turning himself in to the authorities was in Illya’s best interests. Sure, they were going to arrest him in a public place, but that didn’t mean he was going to stay in the public view. A lot could happen in the back of the police station or in the jail. She didn’t see how he could be so calm about it.

“I’ve been beaten and tortured by experts, Alex,” he told her. “And this case is too public for them to do that much damage before the arraignment. I can handle this. I’ve been through much worse than what will happen today.” He smiled at the waitress and asked for more coffee. “You made the call?” he said in an almost whisper.

“Yes, about five minutes ago,” she tipping the coffee pot.

“Okay, then we’ll just wait.” He turned to Alex.

“Maybe this is a good time for you to use the restroom.”

“No, I want to stay here to make sure everything is all right.”

“I don’t want you dragged into this when the police arrive.” He looked around and saw an empty booth near the front of the restaurant. “Take your coffee and sit over there then,” he said, motioning to the corner. Alex picked up her cup and silverware and carried them to the nearby table. She sat facing Illya and waited for the police to make their entrance.

It didn’t take long. She watched two men in dark suits, one in black and the other in navy, walk over to the counter and ask for Thetis. She pointed to Illya who acted oblivious to their presence. As they approached the booth where he was sitting, Alex could see them slowly reaching for guns hidden in shoulder holsters under their jackets. As they neared the table, two uniformed officers entered. A quick glance told her that four more were on the sidewalk. Before any of the restaurant patrons could react and give them away, one of the plainclothesmen had his gun drawn and pointed at Illya’s head.

“Don’t move, sir. Put both of your hands on the table where we can see them.” The other officer had walked around the back of the restaurant and stood next to the booth facing him. He held his gun solidly pointed at Illya.

“Keep your hands on the table and slide slowly out. That’s right. Lean over against the table.”

Illya did as he was told. A uniformed officer came round to the table and slapped a cuff on his right wrist, pulling it around to the back. The other officer yanked his left hand around back, securing it in the other half of the handcuffs, which dug tightly into his wrists. The officer shoved him roughly against the table, banging his head hard against the formica. The one in the navy coat frisked him thoroughly as shocked diners watched on. His search netted a gun and a small knife, which he handed to one of the uniforms. While Illya had not planned on using them this morning, he thought that the absence of weapons on an UNCLE agent might look oddly out of place so he stuck the gun in his pocket and strapped the knife to his right calf. The two detectives grabbed him forcefully and dragged him to the street where half a dozen police cars were parked at odd angles.

“Don’t forget to read him his rights,” said one of the uniforms. “We don’t want this slime getting off on any technicalities.”

Detective Shannon, the officer in the blue suit, turned to Illya. “Kuryakin,” he said, his voice remaining professional. “You are under arrest for the murder of Duncan Moore. You have the right…” Illya tuned it out. He knew the routine, or what had come to be routine for police in the last three years. He let out s soft derisive snort, and of course Shannon and his partner interpreted it incorrectly. He had been thinking about his interrogations at UNCLE, where they were free from the constraints of the Miranda ruling. They usually didn’t worry about their subjects going to trial. Information was needed and gotten, and how it was obtained often didn’t matter. He didn’t remember ever advising anyone of his rights, not with UNCLE and certainly not with the KGB before he came to the United Network Command.

“You think this is funny?” boomed Detective Abernathy. He shoved him roughly in the back of a police car, banging his head as he pushed him in. With a sidewalk full of onlookers, he lowered his voice. His volume was soft but the tone hard. “You fucking son of a bitch. Just keep laughing. But you won’t be laughing when we get you to interrogation.”

A wild and zealous hatred filled his eyes. Illya’s face sobered as the angry words brought him back to reality. He wasn’t quite fearful. As he had told Alex, he had been through much worse at the hands of Thrush and other enemies. He had been beaten, tortured, and left to die. He had been stabbed, whipped, shot, and almost guillotined. He’d been electrocuted and nearly drowned, staked out in the desert and hung up in a meat locker. He’d been tied up and left as bait for a man-eating tiger. Yes, he had suffered vastly at the hands of UNCLE’s adversaries so a little police brutality was nothing to fear. On the other hand, though, it didn’t promise to be a pleasant experience. While members of the NYPD were for the most part decent law enforcement officers, not sadistic villains, they saw themselves as protectors of the innocent. And in their minds, Illya had just raped and murdered a young man. Illya knew what he would do in their place, and he wasn’t looking forward to it. The drive to the 6th Precinct on Charles was a fifteen-minute ride in relative quiet. His left eye throbbed from where Abernathy had banged him against the car. It didn’t seem to be bleeding, but he could tell it was swelling. When he was brought into the police station, the uniforms led him to the interrogation room. Shannon was already sitting at the table and motioned for him to take a seat. As he sat down, Abernathy walked in the room and stood with his back to the door and his arms folded across his chest. His jacket was gone, and he had rolled up his sleeves.

Shannon pushed a pad of yellow paper in Illya’s direction. “Want to save all of us some time and trouble and just write out a confession?”

“Well, it might be a little difficult with my hands cuffed behind my back, and then there’s that annoying little detail of my being innocent.” Illya wasn’t sure why he was being flippant with these officers. They weren’t the bad guys, just his adversaries at this particular moment. But old habits are hard to break, and he always seemed to like to dish out the cheeky remarks when he was about to be tortured. Never let them know they are getting to you, he thought. It might not have been the wisest thing to do in this case. Usually he was sure he was going to be tortured so he might as well get off as many insults as he could. In this case, while the chances were probably five to one that he was in for it, he wasn’t certain. The remark probably tipped the balance.

Abernathy strode across the room and slapped him hard in the face, knocking him off the chair. “Fucking smart ass! I’ve about had it with your wisecracks. You sick, fucking maniac. I saw that kid. I saw how you sliced him up.”

“Calm down, Jimmy. You don’t want another reprimand like you got last month, do you? All that paperwork and the cost to the city for hospital bills.”

Illya almost laughed. Were they trying to scare him? Didn’t they have any idea with whom they were dealing? All these two had in the room with them were their fists and black jacks. No cattle prods or acid or mind altering drugs. Shannon got up and lifted Illya to his feet, setting him back down in the chair.

“You don’t want to mark this guy up. The new sergeant tends to frown on that.” He turned to Abernathy. “Use the phone book. No marks.”

The phone book? That was a new one on Illya. Of course when he was being tortured by Thrush, or conversely when he was conducting his own interrogation for UNCLE, no one ever worried about leaving marks. The phone book? How much could that hurt?

It hurt a little more that Illya had planned for.

Abernathy hit him on the shoulder and then along the right side of his face, the side that wasn’t already throbbing. “Just confess, you fucking pervert. It might be the only chance that you don’t fry.”

“No, this one thinks he is too smart for us. He’s a big secret agent with a big international organization. Thinks he can outsmart us. Well, you’re caught now, asshole, and there’s no diplomatic immunity.”

“I did not kill Duncan Moore,” Illya said quietly. Of course he didn’t really want to convince them of that. The whole point of this charade was to get him publicly arraigned. Just keep professing your innocence, he thought, like every criminal brought in here does, and don’t give them any details.

“We found him in your fucking bed! Your fingerprints were all over the murder weapon! Your jizz was up the kid’s ass and in his mouth! Yeah, you’re innocent. As innocent as Stalin!” Abernathy pulled him from the chair and tossed him to the ground, kicking him violently. With his hands still cuffed behind him, Illya could not even fend off the blows. He just tried to relax his body and absorb the impact as best he could.

“Come on, Jimmy, cool it. We still have to get him to fingerprinting and get his photo taken.” Shannon took the cuffs off of Illya and put him in the small holding cell. “Let’s give him a few minutes to think this over. I’m going to get some coffee. Want some?” The two detectives walked out the door and left Illya alone in the interrogation room. Well, that wasn’t too bad, he thought. His hands free, he reached up to touch his right cheek. It was warm to the touch and beginning to swell. His left eye, now throbbing insistently, was half shut. As he slid down to the sticky floor, he winced at the pain in his lower left back. Probably a bruised kidney. Shit. That was going to cause him a few weeks pain. He took a couple of deep breaths, summoning strength for the detectives’ return. Maybe they were tired of playing with him and would just take him to booking. It had been a long couple of days, and he was exhausted.

Shannon, holding two cups of coffee, entered the room alone. “You want some?” he offered Illya.

Okay, Illya thought, so now you’re playing the good cop. He knew the routine. Napoleon was always the one offering coffee and protection from his ruthless Russian partner. Napoleon liked to call him Rasputin in front of his victims. This routine certainly was transparent. Still, the coffee smelled good, and Illya wasn’t sure when he would be offered anything again. Might as well play along for a bit.

“Yes, thank you,” he said politely. He took the cup from the detective, who sat down at the table. It was strong, sweet, and hot and helped replenish some of Illya’s spent energy.

“I hope sugar and milk was okay,” said Shannon.

“Yes, very good.” Illya wondered what was next.

“Look, you’re an intelligent guy. You know where this is going. My partner is taking a call on another case and won’t be back for ten minutes or so. Why don’t we just discuss the situation rationally?” He gave Illya an understanding smile.

Sounds and looks like Napoleon, thought Illya.

Reassuring. Calming. Get the victim all relaxed and trusting and then pounce when his defenses are down. “I know your job is high pressure. Sometimes you just gotta let off some steam. So what happened? It just got out of control? Hey, I know you didn’t plan this or anything. Come on, pal, talk to me. You can make this a lot easier on yourself.”

“I can’t tell you anything because I didn’t do anything.”

“He was in your bed.”

“And I have no idea of how he got there.”

“Or how your prints were all over the murder weapon?”

“No, I can’t explain that. What was he killed with? Something from my apartment? Something that I might have used a dozen times?” They were clever to use the ice pick instead of a knife, thought Illya. Had they used a knife, the fingerprints would have been wrong. After cleaning it, I would have held it differently to put it away than to stab someone. The ice pick I didn’t wash after I used it the last time, just stuck it back in the crock on the counter. My prints would have been all over it.

“And your semen in his mouth and his anus?”

“Again, I have no explanation. All I can say is that I am innocent.”

Abernathy walked in the room. “I’ve had it with this Commie fag. Let just get him into booking and over to Riker’s.”

He summoned a uniformed officer who took Illya for fingerprinting and photos, after which he placed handcuffs and leg shackles on Illya and led him to a police cruiser headed for Riker’s Island. The complex of aging jails was surrounded by a twelve-foot fence topped with razor tipped wire. The vehicle came to a halt, and Illya, the lone prisoner on this trip, was led to the intake area. Fifty or sixty inmates filled two of the three holding pens. The poorly ventilated room was hot and smelled of sweat, urine, and vomit. Each of the pens was furnished with wooden benches and an open toilet. Men milled around waiting to be processed. Illya was taken to a third pen and shoved in. There was no one else in the cell with him. “Dangerous prisoner,” the transport officer had told the guard as he handed him the paperwork. “The guy is a spy and a master at escape.”

Illya sighed and sat on the worn wooden bench, waiting there for what seemed like hours. By this time, his eye had completely swollen shut, and a headache was pounding. His side ached and he thought momentarily about stretching out on the bench to relieve the pressure. He thought better of it, though, and sat up straight. Better not to let them know how much he was hurting. He wondered how long this would take. Well, at least not as long as the time he had to stand for hours waiting to be interrogated at the Soviet prison in Leningrad. That had been a nightmare; this was just a bad dream. There was nothing that these American guards could do that would begin to compete with the sadistic treatment he had suffered in his former country.

Finally, a guard came for him. He led him to a room where he was told to strip and to place his clothes on a table. “Everything,” the guard said. Another guard sitting at the table shoved his belongings into a cotton bag and attached a label. “Under the shower, over there,” the first guard ordered. After being sprayed with what was probably a disinfectant, he was led to another table. The guard was putting on gloves. Illya breathed in and then exhaled slowly through his mouth. Okay, he thought, I knew this was coming. The body search was standard, not some special torment just for him. Guards had to check carefully for inmates “slamming” contraband. Frequently in their searches they found blades protected in match covers and tape that prisoners had stuck up their rectums. Illya relaxed his body so the internal search would not be as painful. After a humiliating few minutes, it was over, and a guard motioned to a slate gray jumpsuit that Illya donned. He was cuffed again to a chain that surrounded his waist, and a set of clamps around his ankles completed the ensemble.

The guard led him to a five-story building a short walk from the intake area. He held the door and motioned for Illya to walk inside. Tier 3-C, one of the guards had said. The most dangerous, violent, and high-profile prisoners were kept here in private cells. They walked to the second floor and Illya was directed to a dark, 6’ by 8’ cell. After removing Illya’s restraints, the guard left, clanging the door closed behind him. The cell was sparsely furnished, if one could even call it that. The cell had a cot with a thin mattress and a coarse olive drab blanket, a sink, a toilet, and a shelf. A single ceiling light dimly lit the cell. Illya lay down on the cot to catch a short nap as he awaited whatever the next two days would bring him. By law he had to be arraigned within forty-eight hours of arrest so he knew his stay here would be brief. Napoleon was holding the evidence that would release him after the court appearance and after they spotted Ola in the court. At least that was the way it was supposed to happen. Illya gave in to his exhaustion and fell asleep.

“Hey, you, get up!” The surly sound of a man’s voice woke Illya from his nap. “Dinner!” he snarled, shoving the tray through a space at the bottom of the bars. Illya walked over and picked up the tray, the contents of which looked less than appetizing, but then appetizing had not always been a requirement for him when it came to food. During the German occupation of his homeland, anything not totally rotten or rancid was considered gourmet, and in the orphanage where he grew up after the war, food was so meager that one gobbled it down no matter what it looked like. And he’d had a strange assortment of sustenance in all kinds of Thrush cells. This certainly didn’t look like the worst he’d been offered. He sat on his cot and set the tray on his lap, sniffing at the food and taking a tentative bite. Not that bad, he thought. Overcooked by a few hours but still edible. He had only taken a few spoonfuls when two guards walked over. A tall one sported a mustache and a head of closely cropped hair. He was muscular and looked as if he could handle his own in any situation. The shorter one was maybe thirty pounds overweight with a paunch that showed a weakness of character. While he didn’t seem as physically intimidating as his partner, he swung a thick baton that he seemed well practiced with.

“We need to check your cell for contraband,” the tall man said as they entered the cell.

“I’ve just been here a few hours,” Illya began.

“Did I tell you to say anything?” the tall guard shouted, slapping Illya hard across the face. The tray clattered to the concrete floor. “Clean that up!” he bellowed. “Now!” He grabbed Illya by the hair and forced him to the ground, tossing his blanket at him. “I want this spotless!” He stood watch as Illya wiped the stew from the floor. He rinsed the blanket in the tiny sink and finished the job. While he cleaned the mess, the other guard checked under his mattress. “Why, look what we have here.” He held up a small blade. “You know we can’t just let this go by.” He swung his baton at Illya, hitting him hard on the back. His kidneys already bruised and aching, Illya crumpled to the floor. Two more blows landed, and, although he tried not to, he cried out in pain. They left, clanking the bars closed behind them, and Illya dragged himself painfully to the cot. This was going to be a long two days.