PROLOGUE

Napoleon Solo was well briefed and truly thought he was prepared for the start of this Affair. However, when it came time to actually see his normally stoic and subdued partner screaming like his flesh was on fire it was more than disconcerting; it was horrifying. To think such a slight alteration in his brain chemistry by the UNCLE Medical staff could send the intellectual, cool Russian into this state gave Solo pause. It also made him very thankful for his own mental health.

Solo knew that the induced effect was temporary, but the idea of his friend and partner being this tortured by his own imaginary inner demons was unsettling. He swore to do his part to bring this affair to a swift and successful closure. Illya was certainly doing more than his share when he accepted the duty with no more than a raised brow of curiosity.

A voice brought the dark haired agent back into the now.

“Where to, buddy?” The winded ambulance driver’s question made Solo’s mind switch from that of worried partner to detached relative.

“I’ve all ready made arrangements for my poor cousin to be admitted to Deerwood,” Solo said in the voice of an aristocrat. “I shall meet you there to insure that admittance isn’t hindered. As you can see, the young man needs immediate treatment.”

The driver whistled. “Deerwood. Nice place.”

“Only the best for my dear cousin, my man.” Solo leaned in and spoke in a conspiratorial tone. “ I’m afraid insanity runs on his side of the family. Descendants of Van Gogh, you know.” Solo sniffed and regarded a pocket watch he pulled from his vest.

Illya’s screams were muffled significantly when the ambulance door slammed shut, but Solo’s nerves still prickled at the muted noise. He elbowed his way through the small crowd his partner’s actions had garnered and peered into the shaded window. Illya, writhing in the stiff straitjacket, was held firmly to the gurney by straps and the hands of a second beefy attendant. The driver fired up the car’s engine.

Act I:  "Please. Call Me Everett."

Solo found himself standing alone on the sidewalk as the ambulance pulled away from the curb. With the show over and the crowd disbursed, another UNCLE affair was underway. Solo found his keys and slipped behind the wheel of the red Ferrari and followed as backup.

Once in Deerwood, Illya would be on his own. Solo’s part was to make sure his compromised partner made it in and made it out; any contact in between would be an extra bonus that they knew they could not count on. Security was unusually tight for a mental health hospital, another indicator of possible Thrush involvement.

Deerwood had come under UNCLE scrutiny when colleagues of one Dr. Carl Bellows notified the agency that his family has committed their comrade. Interestingly, UNCLE found out that the family had come into a substantial amount of money soon after. Compounding the problem was the fact that UNCLE had thwarted an attempted kidnapping of Dr. Bellows by Thrush a mere two years previously. Being an expert in weapons design using spent uranium made Dr. Bellows a prime Thrush target.

Hopefully, Illya would be able to find out if Bellows’ infirm state was orchestrated by Thrush, and if so, get him out of Deerwood Sanctuary. It looked easy on paper.

But try as they might, absolute ties to Thrush at Deerwood were hard to prove. Deerwood was a last ditch facility for the embarrassing relatives of the very, very wealthy. The security was impressive and the place had a reputation of being ‘rumor free’; that is, no curious reporters or investigators had ever been able to glean information about any of the residents.

Solo was granted a brief tour only after he and his ‘cousin’ endured a thorough background check and secured two referrals from other doctors. During his tour, Solo managed to plant microphones that had proven to be useless. The communication dampening net around the place scored another point that it was, indeed, Thrush controlled.

Solo tried to convinced himself that all would go as planned, but there a niggling in his gut that simply wouldn’t go away. He resolved to be on his toes until the very end.

The entry to Deerwood Sanctuary was impressive. As he pulled through the massive iron gates after showing pre-approved identification to the gate guards, Solo couldn’t help but notice the beauty of the old stone work surrounding the facility. It was accented with tasteful landscaping which only added to the aura of a peaceful park. With his trained eye, Solo could see that the lovely trappings covered excellent security. He followed the ambulance to the side door labeled ‘Admitting’. The sign was made of tastefully carved stone, discreetly placed and pleasantly mossy. It blended seamlessly with the rest of the garden decorations that surrounded the door.

Illya’s nightmarish screams were reduced to moans and hoarse pleadings to free him of unseen torturers. He still writhed and squirmed in the bindings, his blue eyes glazed and unseeing. Sweat plastered his hair to his skull; dark bags huddled under his eyes like tormenting ghosts. It made Napoleon sick to see Illya like this, but he had to play his part as the embarrassed, at-his-wit’s-end cousin. He had to fight himself to keep his hands away as the attendants pulled out and set up the gurney. It was already difficult enough to maintain his well practiced expression of disturbed embarrassment.

Solo followed the gurney through the admitting door and into the most opulent receiving area he had ever seen. The room was decorated in dark greens and lots of wood - it reminded the agent of a study in a hunting lodge or a private library. His besieged partner was immediately rolled through a pair of swinging doors that swished firmly and solidly shut behind him. When Solo tried to follow a hand on his forearm stopped him.

“Please allow your cousin the opportunity to collect himself, Mr. Van Dorn.” The woman’s voice was smooth and professional with the perfect edge of sympathy. Solo turned and found himself immediately smitten with the woman’s speckled green eyes and calm smile. Her healthy brown hair was edged in hints of red and yellow and swept back off the nape of her long neck in a perfect French roll and topped with a white nurse’s cap. The rest of her white nurse’s uniform sat just as attractively on the rest of her.

Solo couldn’t help but smile in return and give in to her request. “If you think that’s best Miss . . . ?”

“Trueheart. I’m the head nurse for the facility.” She gently led him to a comfortable chair that flanked an impressive marble coffee table. Her nurse’s uniform had to be custom made to fit as it did, and Solo appreciated every tailored curve. “You must be Everett Van Dorn, Nicholas’ cousin? I believe you’ve had a tour of our facility?”

“Why, yes I have. It is quite impressive, Miss Trueheart. I have no doubt that cousin Nicky will get all he needs here.” He wanted to appreciate her fetching figure and tastefully displayed cleavage but he was distracted by the muffled moans behind the pair of doors.

She smiled pleasantly and settled into the matching chair that faced the agent. She tucked her feet together under her seat and leaned forward to retrieve the folder on the coffee table. Solo raised his brow in interest at the display before him. The moans behind the door stopped.

“There are just a few pages that need your signature, Mr. Van Dorn,” she started.

“Please. Call me Everett.” Solo said charmingly. “I’m sure we’ll develop a working relationship quite quickly. I plan on visiting Nicky as often as possible.” He took the pen nurse Trueheart offered and perused the forms, one eye on her assets and his ears straining to catch noises behind the door.

“That would be nice, Mr. Van Dorn, but I doubt it. Your cousin will be moved directly to the second floor and I will have little contact with him.”

Solo glanced up as he signed. “Really? Why’s that, may I ask?”

“Well, I’m sure you remember from your tour that the first floor is for admitting and patients who are ambulatory and require little supervision. They only are moved here when they are stabilized. As head nurse, that is where I spend most of my time. My office is the at the main desk.” Her eyes met his sympathetically. “It will be quite awhile before Nicholas is allowed down here, I’m afraid, and most of my own work is done on this floor.”

“Oh, yes, I remember.” Solo said, letting her find the next signature line for him. “The second floor is for treatment. I wasn't shown the third floor.” He signed where her peach-painted fingernail indicated. She efficiently turned to the next page. “Will Nicky be on the third floor at all?”

“I doubt it, Mr. Van Dorn. The third floor holds the doctor’s offices and the most incapacitated of the patients. I’m afraid the third floor residents will probably never be able to leave Deerwood. It’s very sad.” She smiled as he signed the last spot. “There! All finished.” She rose gracefully to her feet. “When you return, use the main entrance. They will direct you to Nicky’s room.” She slipped her hand through Solo’s elbow and turned him to the door. “It would be best if you called first to see if your cousin’s able to have visitors.”

Solo stopped, ignoring the firm direction from her hand. “I’d like to say goodbye.”

“It’s not recommended, Mr. Van Dorn. The patient needs to settle in.” She tried to get him moving again, but he didn’t budge.

“I’m afraid I can’t do that, Miss Trueheart. I promised him I’d say good bye.” He slipped his arm from her hand and pushed the door open before she could protest, sidestepping the ambulance attendants as they shoved the gurney out. Solo saw Miss Trueheart dodge the gurney with a surprised yelp just before the door swished shut.

His partner was sitting in a wheelchair, still confined in the strait jacket. His head lolled to one side, a line of saliva trailed from the corner of his partially open mouth to his shoulder. His eyes were shut, but Solo could see his lids twitching from the motion of the eyes underneath.

Shakily, Solo slipped his hand in his pocket and carefully fit the specialized ring on his finger, avoiding the sharp point designed to deliver the serum that would neutralize the psychosistic producing drug in Illya’s system.

Solo quickly knelt beside his partner and placed his hand on Illya’s neck. The point pricked deeply, delivering the antidote. “Hey, are you all right?” Solo asked, alarmed at the blond man’s posture.

“What are you doing?”

Solo looked up and saw a slight man with round glasses and a doctor’s smock standing behind a beefy attendant dressed in white. The attendant stared purposefully toward him as Solo saw the doctor drop a used syringe on the counter top. The agent hoped the neutralizing agent wouldn’t be counteracted by whatever it was this doctor had just injected.

The attendant pushed himself between Solo and his partner. The agent stood up. “What did you give him?” Solo had to lean around the substantial orderly to address the doctor.

As the doctor began to reply, nurse Trueheart pushed her way into the room. “I’m sorry, doctor,” she apologized. Solo didn’t miss the flash of anger in her eyes as she spoke. It was gone quickly.

“No, it’s all right, Miss Trueheart.” The doctor’s face only softened slightly as he spoke to Solo. “I’m Dr. Negril. I sedated Mr. Van Dorn for his own safety and now he’ll be taken to his room. It’s best if you leave now and check on him tomorrow. By phone.” He indicated with a flip of his wrist for the attendant to take Illya from the room.

Solo watched helplessly as his partner was taken away. Simple sedatives should be all right, he reasoned to himself, but the nagging warning that dogged him from the start wouldn’t go away. He wanted to be sure. “I’d really like to see his room. You know, to put the rest of the family at ease?”

The doctor shook his head. “I’m afraid I can’t allow that. It’s part of the rules of admission, which you agreed to in the contract.” Dr. Negril moved in smoothly and took Solo’s elbow. “Really, it’s for your cousin’s own good. You must trust our experience in this area, Mr. Van Dorn. Nicholas is in good hands.” Solo was expertly propelled back out to his car. Nurse Trueheart opened the door for him and the doctor helped Solo inside. The agent felt distinctly like he’d been given the bum’s rush. “Good bye, Mr. Van Dorn.”

Nurse Trueheart waved and smiled. The pair stood side by side, determinedly staying put until Solo started the car.

As Solo drove through the peaceful grounds to the exit gates, he couldn’t help but notice that the few patients he saw walking in the gardens had the same, vacant stare. A chill raced through his body when the gate closed behind him and he fought to ignore his rising sense of foreboding,

Act II:  "He Is The Vengeful Sort"

Nothing made sense. Every part of him fought against the drifting feeling but he didn’t seem to be getting anywhere. Noises ran all together for what seemed to be an endless stretch of time before he was finally able to pick out one voice clearly. He mentally latched on to it like a life preserver.

“Nicholas. Nicholas, open your eyes.”

He tried to force his eyes open and form words. Finally, he saw the fuzzy outline of a face, and felt something wet caress his dry lips.

“That’s right. Open your eyes, Nicholas.”

Nicholas?

He blinked, and the face was clearer; a woman with a white cap. His words came out an unintelligible slur.

“It takes a few minutes for the drug to wear off," the woman said sympathetically. "It’s normal.”

He tried to sit up but found he was unable to move.

“Here, Nicholas, have a sip of water.” A straw touched his mouth, and he turned his head away.

“I’m not Nicholas,” he said slowly, fighting an uncooperative tongue. Anger began to rise. He tugged at his arms.

“Calm down, Nicholas, or we’ll have to sedate you again.”

“No,” he grunted as he pulled harder on the restraints. “No, I . . .”

The woman turned away and pushed a door open. She called out to someone, and was joined immediately by a man in a white coat. They approached the struggling patient.

“Nicholas, stop.” The nurse said sternly as she pushed against his chest. The doctor looked in the patient’s eyes and consulted a chart.

“But I’m not . . .” His mind was still a chaotic swirl, but he knew the name wasn’t right . . . it was . . .

“The name on your chart is Nicholas Van Dorn,” the doctor said firmly as he put the chart back and pulled a syringe from his pocket. “Do you want to be called something else, Mr. Van Dorn?”

The words shocked the patient into stillness. The name ‘Nicholas Van Dorn’ triggered something in his mind and Illya relaxed into the mattress. He repeated the name softly out loud a few times, and each time his mind became a little clearer. Slowly, his true purpose came to the forefront in his mind. A cold feeling on is arm got his attention and he glanced down to see the doctor wielding an alcohol laden cotton ball. Fighting down the panic, the agent forced himself to relax and smiled tiredly, allowing the preprogrammed behaviors of a sociopath to guide him.

“I think I’ve slept enough, doctor.”

The hand holding the syringe hovered over his arm. The doctor and the nurse both studied him carefully. The nurse was the first to smile. She immediately moved in and adjusted Illya’s pillow. “There he is! Hello, Mr. Van Dorn. How are you feeling?”

“Please, call me Nick. I don’t like Nicholas,” he replied wearily. Then he turned his eyes on the doctor and tried to look pleasant, but wasn’t sure his facial muscles were getting the message. “Is that necessary?”

The doctor straightened, and put the cap back on the needle. “That’s up to you, Mr. Van Dorn. Do you know where you are?”

Illya calmly glanced around, fighting the urge to tug at the restraints. “Offhand, I’d say a hospital?”

“That’s right. Do you know why you’re here?”

Illya’s mind raced, the last of the fuzziness still hanging around the edges of his brain. He frowned. “Um, I think I broke something.”

“You had an episode in your cousin’s penthouse and broke several things. You hurt yourself in the process.” The doctor pointed out some cuts and scratches on Illya’s arms. “Your family feared for your safety. They were afraid your condition was getting worse, so they brought you here.”

The agent vaguely recalled . . . something. He last remembered getting an injection from an UNCLE doctor in a penthouse - things were a bit blurry after that, but the pain that was starting to creep into his awareness made it clear he’d put on quite a show. Immediately, he fell into the persona that he’d been schooled in for the past several weeks. He smiled charmingly. “Well, as you can see, I’m perfectly fine now. How about springing me?” He rattled the restraints to get the doctor’s attention.

The doctor spoke to the nurse. “Nurse, would you get an orderly please?” She left with a nod, and he turned his attention back to Illya and unbuckled the agent’s ankles. “Nick, we are here to help you, but we can’t help you unless you want to get better.”

“Of course, doctor.” Illya’s attention was drawn to the door as an orderly the size of a grizzly bear stepped in. He stood quietly to one side as the doctor unbuckled Illya’s wrists. The agent swung his legs over the edge of the bed, sat up and rubbed his wrists. “I seem to be fine now. Would you call me a cab?”

The nurse bit her lip and took a step back. The doctor shook his head. “No, Nick, you don’t understand. You aren’t leaving for awhile.”

Illya stood, holding the bed until his wobbly knees could support him. “Excuse me?”

“Your family had you committed, Nick. You are here at Deerwood until you are certified healthy and not a danger to yourself or others.”

Illya moved stiffly between the doctor and the nurse, circled the small room silently and stopped directly in front of the mountain of an orderly. He looked up into the man’s passive face, leaned in close, and said, “Boo!” The orderly scowled. Illya chuckled and turned to the doctor. “Well, at least it isn’t as stuffy as Cousin Everett’s place. The scenery is a lot nicer, too.” He raked the nurse with a look that made her outwardly nervous then he dropped into a chair with a laugh where he began to examine his fingernails. “Once again the family money will save me,” he sighed. “When’s dinner?”

The nurse edged her way around the orderly and opened the door. Illya winked at her, and she left in a huff. The orderly stood fast.

“It’s almost noon. You will eat in your room until you’ve been examined and we have determined that you can mingle safely with some of the other residents. We would like to withhold medications and clear your system, but your behavior will dictate that. Do you understand? It’s up to you, Nick.”

Illya saluted the doctor from his chair. “Aye, aye doc. What ever you say.” He ended the sentence with a big smile.

The doctor nodded. “Your dinner will be here soon.” He left with the orderly right behind. The click of the door lock was loud and clear.

Illya was the model sociopath patient for the rest of the day. The agent only had eyes for security, and through the small window in his door he watched and noted the shifts and shift changes. By lights out, he had his door lock figured out and a plan on how to investigate the rest of the floor.

At lights out each patient was locked in their individual room. An intercom in the ceiling was no doubt monitoring each cell and Illya noted that there was only one nurse at a main station for the night. From where the nurse sat in her glass office, each room door was visible down a long hall on either side. The day room separated the hallways.

Illya assumed the door was wired to notify the nurse if it was opened, and he decided to test that theory. With a crudely fashioned pick made from a mattress spring it only took a handful of seconds for him to pick the lock and crack the door. Through his small window, he saw the nurse’s head pop up. Quickly, he made for his bed, feigning sleep when the nurse arrived and wiggled the door closed again.

I’m going to need a distraction down the other hall, Illya thought as he settled down for the night. Let’s see who I meet tomorrow in the day room.

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

Meanwhile, Solo settled down for the night in his car, the gates of Deerwood in his sights, and began the tedious task of information gathering. He already had a long list of license plates in front of him taken from the vehicles coming and going from behind the stone wall. Weary and bored, he began to play with his communicator by tossing it like a tiny baton. Waiting for vehicle owner information would be so much more fun if Victoria was working right now, he thought.

By the time his relief showed up at midnight, his research had yielded only the names of a few lower level Thrush goons – not enough to prove Thrush control. Most of the cars had been legitimate employees, patient relatives and delivery trucks. No big fish so far.

Either the Thrush running the establishment is a new bird, or he never leaves the facility, the seasoned agent concluded.

Turning surveillance over to the next team, Solo wondered what his partner's nights were going to be like for the next few days.

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

Illya’s first night could be nothing but quiet since he was locked in his room for the duration. He was polite but guarded at breakfast, finding it east to play the elusive sociopath. He was allowed into the day room at lunch where he noted two burly guards posted near the exit doors. The agent wandered over, sandwich in hand, and smiled at the men. A glance through the double exit door’s windows revealed a hallway just outside. He spared the lock a lingering look, which made the guards nervous.

“Keep the food at the table,” snarled one of the guards, his piggish eyes locked on Illya’s blues.

The agent smiled coldly. “Sure,” he said, turning his back to them. He was about to move off when the door clicked and swung open. Illya looked over his shoulder to see a vaguely familiar nurse.

“Oh! I almost hit you, Mr. Van Dorn. You’re supposed to be eating at the table.” The woman’s name tag said ‘Nurse Trueheart’. Illya smirked, which made the nurse frown. “Is there a problem?”

“I don’t think so,” he replied brightly, returning to his sandwich as he looked her up and down. Much to her credit, she did not shrink away like the nurse yesterday. Instead, she put her hands on her hips and glared at him.

“Mr. Van Dorn. Sit down. It’s the rules.”

Blue eyes flashed, and the agent strolled back to the table, making the sociopath behavior believable. He had the information he needed for later. Now all he had to arrange was a distraction, and for that, he looked to his fellow patients.

UNCLE had been able to glean a little information about a few of the other patients, and he had an idea of which inmates he could probably manipulate. Now that he knew what he needed to about the physical layout of the place, and he could put names to the faces he had seen in his corridor yesterday, his list of possible accomplices shortened to two. They both resided in the hallway where the agent needed a diversion after hours. Once he identified them, he went to work laying the groundwork for a disturbance later that evening.

By the time lights out came, patient Duggan was certain he was being released at midnight, whereas patient Stacey was sure his things would be taken from him if he fell asleep. Now, all the agent needed to do was wait and stay under the radar of the staff and see if his needed distraction would come to pass.

Illya kept vigil at his small window, pick ready. Around ten, he saw the nurse's head jerk up. She spoke into the intercom for a minute, and then sat back down. At ten thirty, she jumped again and this time fished the keys from her pocket as she started down the hallway.

Instantly, the agent had his door unlocked. He slipped out and closed it quietly, then made for the exit doors to the hall. They opened just as quickly with his crude pick. Easing down the carpeted hall, he identified two other wards similar to his own before finding an office. The office lock yielded as quickly as the others.

Once inside with the door secure, Illya quickly scanned the room. A diagram of the facility with the fire escapes highlighted was tacked on the wall; from it, the agent was able to memorize the layout of the elusive third floor. In the dim light, he peered into a glass encased cabinet and saw rows of drugs, but none were labeled with patient names. He moved on and checked the whole office.

It was already apparent that Dr. Bellows was probably not on the first or second floors, and a fast perusal of the office files made that idea solid to the agent. Bellows’ file was not here. That left the third floor.

The only thing the blond agent found that was in any way useful was a list of doctors' names. There was a work schedule and after hours on-call lists in one of the drawers that provided names as well as phone numbers for the professional staff. Other than Dr. Negril, one name popped out at the agent: Dr. Phillip Ellroy was already firmly connected with Thrush and listed as a contract doctor to the facility.

“Well, that’s something,” the agent murmured to himself.

Illya memorized the names and numbers within a few minutes. Not finding anything else of immediate interest, the agent exited the office and scanned the hall. He eyed the elevator and emergency stair access to the third floor, deciding if he should give it a try right now. The sound of the elevator stopping on this floor propelled him back into the office, and he knew his wandering time was about up.

Running feet traversed the hall and entered the day room in his ward. The agent slipped back down the hall to the day room doors. A glance in the window showed him the heels of two orderlies disappearing down the hallway of Stacey and Duggan, so he took the opportunity to pick the lock and let himself back into his room.

The faint sound of a struggle made him mentally voice a silent apology to his unknowing accomplices. His next step was to figure out how to get the information about Dr. Ellroy to Solo, then find, exactly, where Dr. Bellows was being kept.

The agent was convinced Bellows was here against his will; Ellroy’s name was enough to convince him that Thrush was involved. He settled into his bed and laced his fingers behind his head as he studied the all-too-familiar ceiling. Tomorrow, the third floor. Somehow, he thought as he dropped off to sleep.

*********

Dr. Negril was livid. “Tell me again, Nurse Beckett, how things got so out of hand last night?”

Nurse Beckett managed to keep her poise, but her fingers were tightly intertwined as she stammered her report the next morning. The annoyed doctor and Nurse Trueheart listened without interruption for a second time, then the doctor excused the nervous woman with a sharp, barked order.

After she left, Nurse Trueheart said firmly, “There’s no need to put Miss Beckett on trial, doctor. She obviously wasn’t briefed on any possible problems and she handled the situation exactly as she was trained.”

“Then I suggest you find out why she wasn’t briefed, Nurse. Something must have happened to trigger those two patients’ anxieties. Now we have to re calibrate their medications so it doesn’t happen again.”

“Yes, sir.” Always the professional, Dianna Trueheart never let her distain for this particular doctor show. Something about him put her on edge. Usually, the size of the facility and his preference for not mingling with underlings was enough to keep them apart, but last night’s fiasco with patients Duggan and Stacey would put him on her back for most of the day. She intended to get to the bottom of the incident herself so Nasty Negril would go back to ignoring her again. She allowed a small smile for the nickname she’d tagged him with as she gathered her things to leave his office.

Nurse Trueheart made her way through the first floor, greeting the patients warmly as she passed them in the hall, and cheerfully telling nurses their orders for the day. She was standing at the main desk going over notes when one of the orderlies nervously approached her.

“Miss Trueheart?” the young man said quietly. “Can I show you something, please? It’s kind of important.”

The head nurse glanced up at him with a curious smile. This orderly was one of the few that she appreciated, as he seemed to really care for the well being of the patients. “Sure, Michael. What is it?”

He showed her a film reel he had hidden under his coat. “You need to see this. I don’t know what to do. I don’t want to get Nurse Beckett in any more trouble.” Interest piqued, Trueheart stepped around the desk and the orderly guided her to the elevator. “I have the projector set up on the second floor.”

When the doors closed, she asked, “What is that?”

“You know how we have a security camera on the drug cabinet in the office? Well, it picked up something last night.”

“Other than Nurse Beckett getting medications for those involved in the . . . incident . . . last night?”

“Yeah. That’s what’s weird. It’s before that.” Michael spoke softly, for her ears only. “I was told to look at the film to make sure it was Nurse Beckett that got the medications and not the orderlies. I think Negril was looking for a reason to fire her.”

The elevator stopped and the doors opened. Michael led Trueheart to a small storage room where the projector was ready to go. “He is the vengeful sort,” she said less than diplomatically.

The young man set up the film. “Anyway, this is what I saw.” After a minute or two of uneventful darkness, there was a flash of motion on the screen. “That’s the office door opening.” The lighting was very poor, but the figure that stepped into the frame was obviously not Nurse Beckett or an orderly.

“He’s dressed in pajamas!” Trueheart whispered.

“I know! It must be a patient!”

The man was in the frame for only seconds, but the shadow-dark profile recorded was sharp and clear and the lightness of the form’s hair undeniable.

“Mr. Van Dorn!” Trueheart gasped. “How did he manage that?” Her eyes narrowed. “I had a feeling he would be a challenging patient. Thank you, Michael. I will handle this.”

Michael sighed in relief. “Thanks. Don’t get me wrong, ma’m. I know Dr. Negril is a good doctor, but he gives me the creeps.”

“It’s all right.” Trueheart gathered the tape and prepared to follow Michael from the room. “He gives me the creeps, too,” she said quietly to herself.

This day was not starting out well.

***********

Outside, Napoleon Solo settled in for another day of stakeout. As he wiggled in the car’s seat to find a comfortable position, he hoped his partner would find a way to contact him. The American agent preferred being in the thick of things.

Illya needed to get to that third floor. They both knew that is where they wanted to be, but Solo also knew his Russian partner to be both thorough and efficient. Illya would get there only when he felt the time was right.

The CEA sighed and propped his chin in his hand, then began to toss the communicator with his other hand. He hated waiting.