Napoleon Solo had a strong sense of deja vu as he entered the cab; for both the sake of the mission and Illya, he remained calm and settled down for the ride.

His suspicions were confirmed when, ninety minutes later, the cab pulled along side a sleek private jet. The driver came around to open the door - - a chauffeur's duty. "Showtime," he muttered to himself, as he exited the vehicle. "How much do I owe you?" he asked the driver.

For a moment there was silence; then, the driver drew a small handgun from beneath his uniform jacket. "You cooperation will do for the moment, Mr. Solo." Stepping aside, he gestured with the gun. "After you."

Raising his hands in the classic gesture of surrender, Solo headed towards the jet. He was not surprised when the hatch opened, revealing a definitely female occupant. "Angelique Du Cheine, I presume," he inquired, putting all the Solo charm into his voice.

Angelique smiled and nodded. "It is good to finally meet you, Mr. Solo, and you may dispense with the charm. I am not interested."

Napoleon's jaw clenched, but he kept his temper - - and his ego - - under control. "What does interest you, then?"

Angelique studied her prisoner for several minutes, then smiled in approval. "It interests me to see that Illya still has excellent taste," she crooned; then paused as she saw the effect of the sexual innuendo. "Now to the business at hand," she continued, her voice suddenly cold. Slowly pull out the communicator you carry and activate it, please," she ordered.

"And if I refuse?"

She sighed, in frustration, as one would face with a stubborn child. "Your bravery does you credit, Mr. Solo, but Illya's death would be on your hands." Not giving her captive time to reply, she reached in her purse and pulled out a small compact. "Do you have any idea what this is?"

Solo shook his head and sneered. "The old 'explosive in the compact' trick. How unoriginal."

Blue eyes narrowed into slits. "I do not appreciate your arrogance, Mr. Solo; yet, unoriginal or not, powerful enough to destroy his car."

"I got the point!", Solo snapped. Reaching into the inner pocket of his tuxedo jacket, he retrieved the device and activated it.

MFUMFUMFUMFUMFU

Meanwhile, across time, Illya had just parked the car into the driveway of Angelique's mansion when his communicator wailed. Immediately he activated the device, noticing the red button that appeared on the receiver - - it was not Channel D. "This is Kuryakin", he announced. A pause, then, "Napoleon?" Another pause. "Napoleon? Is that you?"

"Sorry, darling Illya; it"s me," Angelique crooned.

Illya verbally groaned. "Forgive me if the feeling isn't mutual. What do you want?" he snapped.

Angelique tsked. "Gently, darling, gently. For Mr. Solo's sake," she cautioned.

Illya took a deep breathe to control his emotions. "Well?"

"What I want is YOU to meet me on the Teaming Shore within twenty-four hours."

"Or?"

"Or, I will give your Mr. Solo to my men for their amusement. They have been giving him rather hungry look. Oh, and I'll be certain to take lots of yummy photos for your scrapbook; not to mention for the pleasure of mutual female friends Mr. Solo and I have in common. Clear enough?"

Illya fought to keep his temper under control for the American's sake. He knew, from experience, Angelique was more than capable of carrying out her threats. Yet, the American's ego was nothing compared to hers. "When I'm certain Napoleon is all right, you'll have my answer," he challenged.

Angelique chuckled. "Pushy as always," she countered, then addressed the American. "You're on, Mr. Solo. I would suggest you choose your words carefully."

"Thanks," he muttered; then spoke into the device. "Hi. Before you yell at me for going off half-cocked, remember the mission and do as she says - - go to The Teaming Shore."

Angelique sniggered. "A wise decision, Mr. Solo; but, I am disappointed. I expected a little more....spirit."

"I'm a playboy, not a secret agent," he quipped.

Angelique shook her blond head. "Obviously. Twenty-hours, Illya."

"Count on it! Kuryakin out!"

Beside him Mark Slate looked triumphant. "Well, at least her clues are predictable....," he began.

"Cancel that thought, Mr. Slate," came Waverly's voice from the communicator. "Your Mr. Solo is surprisingly clever," he added in approval.

"Your orders?" the Russian asked.

"There is an UNCLE jet at the airport, and reservations at the resort, awaiting you both."

Mark cleared his throat. "Forgive me, sir, you've lost me. Reservations at a resort?"

"Yes, Mr. Slate. The Teaming Shore is a very exclusive, private resort/spa in Southern California. One that would suit both Madame Du Cheine and Mr. Solo well."

Illya grinned. The Old Man was extremely devious.

"When our target arrives, Miss Dancer will meet her. Good luck, gentlemen. Out."

Mark's eyes widened as his superior's last sentence sunk in. "Meet her? As what?" he demanded.