The Cave Canem Affair

This story takes place in the West Highlands of Scotland, where Gaelic place names are common. For the benefit of those of you put off by seemingly unpronounceable names, here is a short guide:

Buidhe:                         BYOO ee

Inchbuidhe :             Inch BYOOee

Islay:                     EYE la

Slainte mhath:             slanji va

“Napoleon, I do believe you have managed to get us lost again!”

Illya Kuryakin’s voice held a note of exasperation. He stopped the car and snatched the map from his partner, who relinquished it with a sigh. Fumbling in his top pocket for his reading glasses, the Russian glared at it, as if by sheer force of will he could put them on the correct route.

Napoleon closed his eyes. He was jet-lagged and sleepy. He wanted to reach their destination as much as Illya did. If only these smallholdings, crofts or whatever they were called would have signs giving their names. He had not been enamoured of Scotland when he and Illya had been here several months ago, and so far, nothing had happened to alter his opinion.

“Aha – here’s where we went wrong,” announced Kuryakin, stabbing a finger at the map. “We should have taken this road to the right. We’re too far inland.”

“I didn’t see any road,” complained Napoleon, “They all look like farm tracks to me.”

Illya folded the map and passed it back to him. “We’ll have to find a place to turn round. Let us hope we don’t meet anything coming the other way.” He started the hire car engine once more and set off along the single-track road in search of a place to turn.

-0-0-

Several months previously, Alexander Waverly had received a strange communication from a former army friend of his, Gus Lamont, who had served with him in World War II. He had not heard from his old buddy in years and word had it that Gus had become a bit of a recluse since he retired from the British Foreign Office several years ago. Apparently he had taken up residence in the family castle, on a tiny island off the west coast of Mull, itself an island in the Inner Hebrides of Scotland.

The letter to Waverly had stated that his daughter, Shona, a gifted scientist, had gone missing several months ago from her Edinburgh home. Two days after her return from a conference in New York, she appeared to have simply abandoned her work at the university in Edinburgh, and vanished. Her father had gone down all the search avenues he could think of, having drawn a blank with the police, who abandoned their search after a week and merely added her to their file of missing persons. In desperation, Gus had remembered his old army intelligence friend, Waverly, and contacted him, knowing only that he was in charge of some international law enforcement group, somewhere in New York.

Eventually the letter had found its way to Number 1, Section 1 of U.N.C.L.E. North America. Waverly had been pleased to hear from his old friend and had discreetly set in motion a check on the daughter by MI5. When they discovered nothing untoward either, Waverly decided to send Solo and Kuryakin to see what they could winkle out in Scotland, and Slate and Dancer to check out the participants at the conference in New York.

The trip had been a long and tiring one, even for two experienced agents who thought nothing of circumnavigating the world in less than a fortnight in the pursuit of Thrush and other perpetrators of evil. They had flown from New York to London, Heathrow, then taken the train to Glasgow. From there they had hired a car and driven up to Oban, on the west coast. From Oban they had taken the car ferry to the Isle of Mull, which was where they were currently lost.

So far, they had been travelling solidly for two days. The roads on Mull were few and those that did exist were narrow and winding, often so little used that they had grass growing up the middle. Travelling at any faster than twenty-five miles per hour was inadvisable and pretty much impossible. If anything appeared coming in the opposite direction, it was necessary to reverse to the nearest passing place. It had taken them almost as long to drive the 20 miles from the ferry at Craignure as it had to drive from Glasgow to Oban.

“Look for a little road going off to the left. Let’s not miss it this time,” grumbled Illya, as they retraced their route while the light began to fade.

“I wish Gus Lamont had a telephone. It would make this next part a whole lot easier. Ah – I think you just passed the end of the road!”

Illya muttered something unprintable in Russian. He screeched to a halt and backed the car. Sure enough, a very narrow track, partially obscured by wind-blasted oaks, led down towards the coast. They turned and bumped their way down the unmade road.

“I guess he doesn’t have many visitors to Inchbuidhe,” remarked Solo. “According to the map, the castle is on the west side of the island.”

“Probably built for access by sea, or to defend the island from invaders. Oops – sorry.” Illya wrestled with the steering wheel as they went into a particularly large rut. “I don’t think the car was made for this kind of terrain. A tractor would be more appropriate.”

“Hmm – we seem to be running out of road.” Solo pointed forward, where the road did indeed come to an abrupt end. There was a small, wooden boathouse and a little jetty leading into a narrow stretch of water between the mainland of Mull and the small offshore island of Inchbuidhe.

Illya stopped the car and the two agents got out. Illya walked across to the boathouse and inspected a note attached to the wall. His mouth twitched with amusement.

“What does it say?” demanded Napoleon. He was becoming increasingly irritable and hoped they were not going to be left high and dry at this point. He could not even see the castle on the island.

Illya detached the note from the boathouse wall and passed it to him. “Read for yourself. Your turn to drive I believe.”

“Mr Solo and Mr Kuryakin. So kind of you to come. Use the rowing boat to cross. Transport waiting at the other side. I hope you arrive before evening as I have a meal prepared. Gus Lamont,” read Solo. “Well that’s something. At least there’s transport on the island. I understood it didn’t have roads.” He opened the trunk of the car and took out his bag. Illya collected his and locked the car.

The rowboat was small, but mercifully watertight. Solo reluctantly took the oars and rowed them the 300 yard distance. As they arrived at the little jetty on the other side, he looked around.

“I don’t see a car or a tractor. Maybe he’s given up on us,” he observed.

Illya’s lips quirked again. He was rather enjoying himself. Stepping over a large patch of mud, he pointed at two smallish, thick-coated horses, tethered to a tree nearby. Sure enough, a note was pinned to the tree.

Picking up his case, Napoleon followed him. “I don’t believe this,” he muttered.

“You’d better believe it. Apparently the horses know the way. Shall we?”

“Well I’m glad I didn’t bring a large suitcase,” his partner grumbled. He took advantage of Illya’s offer of a leg up, and swung into the saddle of the larger horse. Placing his bag in front of him, he held onto the beast’s abundant mane, letting the reins hang loose. Only after the Russian had nimbly leapt into the second saddle did the two garrons set off at a slow, steady plod.

Fifteen less than comfortable minutes later, Castle Buidhe suddenly loomed into view through the trees. In the fading light it looked bleak and eerie. The effect was heightened by the darting bats, which flashed across the horses’ path, as they emerged from the trees and the castle eaves for their night’s hunting.

Napoleon gave a low whistle. He half expected to be answered by the hooting of an owl as it flapped lazily overhead, silhouetted by the full moon. Instead, he heard the voice of his ever-prosaic partner.

“I think we should leave the horses at the gate and try to arrive with at least a little of our dignity intact.”

In fact, they did not have any choice in the matter. The horses halted at the gate and stood patiently, obviously expecting their passengers to dismount. Illya slid off his. “I hope they’re not expecting a tip. I’m all out of sugar lumps.”

A frantic barking from the direction of the castle door announced that their arrival had not gone unobserved.

Illya took Napoleon’s bag from him as the senior agent slid gracelessly and stiffly out of the saddle. He adjusted his clothing, gave his customary twitch of the cuffs, straightened his tie and flexed his muscles.

“Well, we’ve certainly taken advantage of the full range of transport this godforsaken country has to offer. If anybody asks me to ride in a dog sleigh or a submarine tomorrow, I’ll just take it in my stride.”

A man’s voice could be heard shouting at the dog to be quiet and a door opened. “I think this may be our host,” remarked the Russian, nodding in the direction of the approaching figure, a small, wiry man with a full head of hair and a bushy beard. He was accompanied by a circling, leaping, tail-waving dog of indeterminate breed. As they drew closer, Illya flinched. Dogs were not among his favourite animals and this one seemed particularly exuberant. “I think your dog-sleigh might not be outwith the bounds of possibility,” he muttered.

Napoleon gave a growl, which might have been amusement, and held out his hand to the approaching man. “Napoleon Solo. You must be Gus Lamont. How do you do?”

“Down dog! Down – Bracken, beatings! Get down,” admonished the bearded Scotsman, as the beast leapt joyfully around the two agents. Illya paled and gritted his teeth.

It was Napoleon’s turn to smile at his friend’s discomfiture. “This is my partner, Illya Kuryakin.”

“Get down, Bracken!” The exuberant dog at last obeyed but continued to circle the Russian, sniffing his trousers with interest. Gus took Illya’s hand and shook it. “Dobri dyen,” he greeted him, “kahk dyela?”

Illya smiled delightedly at hearing his native language, the dog forgotten. “Dobri dyen. I am very well, thank you, although a little saddle sore.”

Gus laughed. “Ah well, better than not here at all. Come away in and we’ll have supper. Go on Bracken, back in the house!” The dog hurtled towards the door, to Illya’s relief, and they all followed it into the castle.

The inside of the castle was an eclectic mix of old and not quite so old. To Solo’s disappointment, there were no suits of armour, but there was a large claymore mounted above a huge stone fireplace in the hall. Gus noticed him gazing at it.

“Family heirloom. My wife’s family, not mine. Her ancestor used it at Culloden apparently.”

Napoleon noticed a certain edge to Lamont’s voice when he spoke of his wife. He glanced at Illya, who raised an eyebrow fractionally, but said nothing. Gus directed them to a row of hooks beside the door. Several coats and a selection of hats and walking sticks already hung there. Beside the rack was an oak cupboard, glass fronted, which housed two shotguns in canvas cases.

“Leave your coats here then I’ll show you to your room. I hope you don’t mind sharing. I have very few visitors and many of the rooms are unusable because of the damp. I keep one spare room aired in case Shona puts in an appearance.”

Again, that slightly disparaging tone, which sat oddly with the concern he had shown over her disappearance. 

The dog had vanished down a passage leading off the hall, but Lamont directed Solo and Kuryakin up a wide stair.

“Your room is second on the left at the top of the landing. You’ll find a bathroom at the end of the corridor. Go and make yourselves at home while I get the supper ready. You must be hungry after your long journey. You’ll find me in the kitchen, down there. Just follow your nose.” And with that, he set off down the passage, leaving the two agents to fend for themselves.

“Hmm. Not exactly cosy, is it?” remarked Napoleon, looking round their allotted bedroom. The furnishings were Spartan, and if Shona sometimes inhabited the room, there appeared no signs of her. Two sagging single beds, a wardrobe and an oak dressing table made up the bulk of the furniture. In the tall window, which was curtained in faded brown velvet, stood a small table and two wooden chairs. The floor was dark-stained and uneven, and partially covered by a threadbare rug. The walls were bare except for a single painting, of an indeterminate rural scene, above the fireplace.

Illya shrugged. “Oh I don’t know. We could light the fire.” He waved a hand towards the fireplace, which had been laid ready; a basket of logs and some brown lumps, which they were later to find out were peat, widely used for fuel in this part of the world, in the hearth. “That should warm it up.”

“Well why don’t you do that while I go and investigate the bathroom?” Napoleon swept his gaze around the room, indicating to his partner that he should also check the room for listening devices. One could never be too sure.

Illya nodded and placed his bag on one of the beds, choosing the one nearest the window. He began the check.

When Napoleon returned from the bathroom, a fire was started in the grate and his partner was lying on the bed, hands behind his head, looking thoughtful.

“There. Your turn. Anything?”

Illya sat up. “Nothing. All clean. What do you make of Gus Lamont?”

“Hard to tell. Lives a little plainly for someone retired from the Foreign Office. This place needs money spent on it. No feminine touches. His wife’s either dead or absent I’d say. Daughter lives in Edinburgh and doesn’t visit often. Also estranged?”

“That’s what I wondered, although I’m not sure.” Illya took his washing kit and headed for the bathroom. In keeping with the rest of the castle, it was shabby, but there was hot water, albeit the colour of tea, and clean towels and he spent a pleasant ten minutes washing away the grime of the journey. When he returned to the bedroom, Napoleon had changed into less formal clothes, including a warm, burgundy jersey to combat the chilly, damp atmosphere that permeated Castle Buidhe. Illya followed suit, adding a blue sweater to his basic black.

They headed downstairs, in search of food and more information.

-0-0-

“So you live here alone, Mr Lamont.” Napoleon surmised as they sat round the scrubbed wood kitchen table.

“I do. I have always been self sufficient, ever since my army days.”

“What about your wife?”

Lamont gave a small frown. “Margaret finds life here a little isolated. She prefers the excitement of the city. The last I heard of her, she was in the States.”

Illya looked up from his venison stew. “I thought this was her family home.”

“No, it is mine.  Margaret has never liked the place. As a matter of fact she has not lived here since I inherited it. I tried to make it attractive to her, but to no avail. We lived in London while I worked at the Foreign Office. Shona was brought up there. When I retired, Margaret took the opportunity to leave. It was a mutual parting of the ways. She took the money and I retired to my castle. I consider it a fair deal.”

“Hmm.” Solo pursed his lips. “What about Shona?”

“She came to Scotland with me. She had a place at Edinburgh University. However, once she qualified, she decided to stay on and do academic research.”

“And does she remain in contact with your wife?” asked Napoleon, helping himself to more potatoes.

Lamont shrugged. “I have no idea. We never mention her.”

Illya put down his knife and fork. “That was very good. Thank you. When was the last time Shona was here?”

“Oh, more than a year ago. She doesn’t visit often, hardly at all in fact.  But her birthday is a couple of weeks after mine and we always try to meet, usually in Glasgow. She couldn’t get away for a visit. Had this conference in New York, then needed time to catch up with work in the Department, so she said. She sent me a very decent bottle of whisky for my birthday. I sent her a card and a rather nice sweater I picked up in Oban. But I received no reply. That was how I realised she was missing. One thing Shona has been taught is good manners. She has always written to thank me for anything I give her.”

“I see.” Napoleon said. He too laid down his knife and fork. “Can I help you with those?” He moved to assist Gus Lamont as he cleared away the dishes. The dog rose and followed its master to the sink, expectantly.

“Thank you.”

 Napoleon carried the plates to the sink and dried while Lamont washed. Eventually Lamont shooed Napoleon back to the table. “You and Mr Kuryakin have had a long journey and you both look tired. I usually have a dram about this time. If you would like to join me, I shall open the bottle Shona sent. It is a rather fine Islay malt and I’ve been looking for an excuse to open it since my girl disappeared, but I’ve not had the heart.”

Napoleon made a small, formal bow and sat back down again. “We would be delighted, wouldn’t we Illya?”

Illya didn’t answer at first but then seemed to shake himself. “Sorry, um – yes, whatever you were saying.” Napoleon noticed that he looked pale and frowned slightly.

“You OK?” he whispered, as Lamont clattered, putting away the dishes and scraping out the remains of the stew for the dog.

Illya gave him a ‘stop fussing’ look. “Of course, why shouldn’t I be?”

“No reason, you just look a little strange. We could probably do with an early night. Just one whisky for the sake of politeness then we’ll turn in, huh?”

Illya nodded. As a matter of fact he was feeling slightly unwell, rather dizzy and nauseous. He wondered if there could have been something in the food, but his partner and Lamont appeared unaffected and they had all eaten exactly the same.

Just then, Napoleon’s communicator went. He answered it. “Yes Sir?” He turned to Lamont. “Excuse me, I’ll just take this out in the hall if you don’t mind.”

Once outside the door he spoke quietly to his boss. “Not a lot to report as yet, Sir. Your friend has been very hospitable. I’m going to take the opportunity to have a proper look around later tonight, once he’s in bed.”

“I’ve been in touch with Miss Dancer and Mr Slate. They have obtained a list of all the delegates to the conference. So far nothing to tie in with Lamont’s daughter.”

“Tell them to look for someone with a first name Margaret. That’s Lamont’s wife. She’s estranged and last heard of in the US. I have a feeling she is involved somehow in the girl’s disappearance.”

“I’ll do that Mr Solo. Last name – any ideas? There was no other Lamont on the list.”

“You don’t know?” Napoleon was surprised. “I thought you and Lamont were old friends.”

“We knew each other during World War Two. He was not married then. We lost touch.”

“All right. I will find out. She may have reverted to her maiden name. Oh, wait a minute.” He remembered the claymore on the wall over the fireplace and went over to look at it. Sure enough, there was a clan crest engraved on it. “I think it might be McQuarry, Sir.”

“Very well, Mr Solo. I’ll pass that on to Mr Slate and Miss Dancer. Please keep in touch. Out”

He went back into the kitchen. Lamont had finished putting away the dishes and had set three glasses on the table. As Napoleon took his seat once more, the Scotsman poured a generous measure into each glass.

Sitting down, Lamont sniffed his glass appreciatively. “Ah, smell that peat. My favourite malt. Slainte mhath, gentlemen!” He held up his glass in a toast and took a generous swallow.

Napoleon held his own glass aloft. “Here’s to locating Shona safe and sound.” He took a sip. The malt was strong, smoky and peaty at the same time. An acquired taste. He glanced at Illya and frowned.

The Russian was very pale and had a fine sheen of sweat on his face. He lifted his glass but did not touch the drink.

“Are you sure you’re OK?” asked Napoleon, with some concern.

Illya stood, unsteadily. “I think I’ll go and get a little fresh air.”

Lamont went over to the back door and opened it. The dog expressed interest. “You can take a turn round the grounds. There’s a full moon so you’ll be able to see. Stay, Bracken!” Kuryakin went outside and Lamont sat down at the table again and took another swig of his whisky. “He doesn’t look too good. Perhaps an early night?”

“Yes indeed. I think I’ll turn in as well. Thank you for the dinner and the whisky.” Napoleon took another small sip, but was glad of the excuse not to drink it. “I’ll just go and make sure Illya’s all right. Thank you again for your hospitality.”

“Not at all. If you come in the main door, you don’t have to lock it. We never have any intruders here that the dog doesn’t tell me about.”

“Well goodnight then.”

“I hope your partner is all right.”

“Oh I’m sure he will be. He’s as tough as old boots.”

Napoleon went out of the back door and wandered along the path to look for Illya. He was soon able to locate him by the sound of vomiting.

“It wasn’t that bad, surely.” He patted the Russian on the back as he straightened up and sagged against the tree he had been clutching. “Here.” He handed Illya his handkerchief to wipe his mouth.

“Thanks.” Illya said, weakly. He was breathing heavily and shaking a little.

“All right now?”

Illya looked at him and grimaced. “Yes, I think so. Something in that stew disagreed with me. Do you feel OK?”

Napoleon yawned. “Just sleepy. If you’re done throwing up shall we go to bed? I’m pooped all of a sudden. You’re sure it was the stew?”

”Fairly sure. I started feeling odd just after I’d eaten it. What was in it? I couldn’t tell.”

Napoleon yawned again. He really was very sleepy. “Venison and oysters, Lamont said. Deer from the woods and oysters from his oyster beds in the bay. He told me as we washed the dishes.”

“K’chortu!” Illya swore. “I should have recognised them. I’ve never been able to eat oysters.” He felt another wave of nausea. “You go in. I’ll follow in a minute.”

Napoleon couldn’t stop himself yawning again. His eyes would hardly stay open. He was desperate to get to bed.

“OK. If you’ll be alright. . . “

“Just go, Napoleon.” Illya leaned against the tree, groaning.

Napoleon decided to leave Illya to his misery. There are some things that are better endured alone. He headed back into the castle, wincing as he heard his friend throw up again.

By the time Illya staggered in through the front door and up the stairs to the bedroom, Napoleon was fast asleep. He hadn’t even bothered to change into his pyjamas, but lay face down on the bed in his underwear. He did not stir as Illya entered the room.

Illya could hardly think, he felt so ill, and so took little notice of the fact that Napoleon, who was normally fastidious in his habits, had left his clothes in an untidy heap on the floor. Instead he changed into his own pyjamas and fell into bed. He stared for a moment at the undulating walls and gently rotating ceiling, then put out the bedside light. He would be all right in the morning. He had been through this before.

-0-0-

Illya did not have a restful night. He had to get up a couple of times and didn’t sleep well. Napoleon, however, did not stir, even when Illya fell over his shoes in his haste to get to the bathroom.

When Illya finally awoke from a fitful sleep, morning light was streaming through the window. He drank some water, appraised the state of his insides and decided the crisis had passed. Looking over at Napoleon, he realised that his friend had not moved from the position he had been in when Illya came to bed. Alarm bells went off in Kuryakin’s mind and he slipped out from under the sheets, shivering in the chilly air. The peat fire had long gone out.

“Napoleon, wake up.” He shook him by the shoulder, risking injury if his friend reacted to the touch in his usual way. However, Illya had a bad feeling that Napoleon was going to be difficult to wake.

“Napoleon! Come on, wake up!” Nothing. The only response was a gentle snore. Well at least he was breathing. Illya looked at his watch. Nine o’clock. It must have been before eleven when they went to bed. Something was definitely wrong. Napoleon rarely slept longer than seven hours.

There was one more thing to try. Going to his bag, Illya took out a small capsule, which he snapped beneath Napoleon’s nose. The sharp smell reached his own nostrils and he winced. Eww! If that didn’t do the trick he was in trouble.

“Oof! What the . . . “ Napoleon started and groaned. “Oh my head. Illya . . . what happened?”

“Take it easy Napoleon. I think you may have been drugged. Here, have a drink.” Illya gave his partner a toothmug filled with water.

“Thanks. Oh boy.” Napoleon could still hardly open his eyes. The water helped a little. He squinted at Kuryakin, sitting on the bed beside him. “Are you OK now? You were in a pretty bad way last night.”

“I’m fine. I’m allergic to oysters. That’s all. Did you eat or drink anything more after I left so precipitously?”

“Only the whisky. I just had a couple of sips. Then I came to find you.”

“And started yawning suddenly. You were drugged I’m sure. Probably sleeping pills. Did you notice anything? Did Lamont have the chance to slip anything into the drink?”

Napoleon rubbed his eyes and tried to cast his mind back to the night before. He had been worried about Illya, but still alert at that point. The sleepiness had started suddenly, after Illya had gone outside.

“No. I saw him open the bottle and pour it straight out. You were there. He left the table to let you out the door. I saw the glasses all the time. Whatever it was must have been in the bottle. He drank . . . Oh god, Lamont. Have you heard anything of him this morning?”

“No, I only just woke myself. I was up and down a bit through the night.”

The two agents’ eyes met. Without a further word, they grabbed their clothes, dressed in record time and headed downstairs.

“The dog’s not barking,” commented Illya, as they ran down the stairs.

Napoleon grabbed Illya by the arm. “Listen.” They stopped a moment and listened. There was a whining sound coming from the kitchen. “Come on.”

They burst through the kitchen door. The dog did not move but continued to whine gently. Slumped over the table, an empty whisky glass still in his hand and the half empty bottle beside him, lay Gus Lamont.

As they approached, Bracken growled, warningly. Illya backed up a little. “Careful. It’s guarding him.”

Napoleon advanced slowly. Illya remained a couple of paces behind, regarding the dog warily. “He’s maybe just drunk himself into a stupor,” suggested the Russian.

“I don’t think so. Look, yours and mine are still untouched and the bottle’s only half empty. Any Scotsman worth his salt would be only slightly tipsy after that amount.”

The dog continued its guard duty, but Napoleon persevered and gradually it allowed him access to its master. Illya, meantime, retrieved the whisky and sniffed it appraisingly.

“Can’t smell anything but whisky. Is he dead?”

Napoleon nodded. “I’m afraid so. Damn. Poor guy. Mr Waverly’s not going to be pleased at all. I told him I was going to look around last night but I fell asleep instead. Lamont told us the whisky was sent by the daughter as a birthday present.”

“Some present. That could easily have been us too. I’d have drunk the stuff if I’d not been ill. My guess is sleeping pills dissolved in it. With alcohol they can be lethal. It must be very potent to knock you out after such a small quantity.”

“That particular whisky has an exceptionally strong taste. It would easily mask something dissolved in it. Just as well you got sick. I’ve a feeling that saved our lives. I would have drunk more for the sake of politeness if I hadn’t been worried about you.”

 “Hmm. Shona was probably not expecting him to wait this long before he drank it. Now why would she want him dead?”

“That’s for us to find out. One thing, communications are slow here. We’ll have plenty of time to search the place before anyone gets wind of Gus’s demise. Your turn to report in I believe.”

Kuryakin made a face. “Thanks. I get the dirty job as usual. My communicator’s still upstairs.” He went to find it and prepared to face his boss. Meantime, Napoleon went in search of breakfast.

It was some time before Illya reappeared. He looked grim. Napoleon was cooking eggs, and water for tea boiled on the range, which mercifully had not gone out overnight. He waved a wooden spoon at his partner.

“I take it we’re not popular.”

Illya sighed. “You could say that. I convinced him that it was beyond our control, I think. There’s a team coming up from London by plane. They should be here in about four hours. They’ll take the body and the whisky to London HQ to be examined. Meanwhile, we have to try and come up with something positive here. Oh, and Mark and April have a possible identity of the wife. If it turns out to be her, she was at the conference. The name is Dr. Meg Quarry. The Meg sounds right for Margaret. Does that mean anything to you?”

“Yes. That’s her all right. Her family name’s McQuarry. These eggs are ready. Tea OK for you? There doesn’t appear to be any coffee.”

They took their breakfast outside, not wanting to eat beside their host’s body. The dog remained at its vigil. Illya shot it a wary glance as he went through the back door.

“What will happen to it I wonder?”

“I expect someone will look after him. There are the horses and the chickens as well.”

“Oh dear. Something tells me this is more than just a family quarrel. The daughter’s chosen field of study could be attractive to our feathered friends don’t you think?”

“What was it again, something to do with earthquakes?”

“Seismology.”

“In that case I do. And we don’t know about the wife yet, but she sounds like a scientist as well. We should make a thorough search of the castle and see if there is any clue as to why Shona and/or her mother wanted Lamont dead. Perhaps Shona wants the castle.” Napoleon chewed thoughtfully.

Illya put down his half empty plate. His stomach still felt a little rocky. He turned his attention to the tea. “With Lamont out of the way, presumably Shona inherits the castle. What I can’t see is why she has suddenly turned against him after all this time. I’m sure the mother is at the bottom of it. Let’s hope Mark and April bring her in.”

“But why would Thrush be interested in this particular castle? Scotland is littered with them.”

“This one is remote by land but easily accessed by sea. It’s not too far away from the centre of population. And remember, there’s a whole nuclear arsenal held in the hills.”

Napoleon frowned. “Hmm. I suggest that after the boys from London have been here, we search the island and see if there’s anything else of interest. Meanwhile, we should thoroughly turn this place over.”

The preliminary search of the castle proved disappointing. Apart from Lamont’s library, which was extensive, his study, which was a mess of papers, bills and letters, and his bedroom, which was almost as Spartan as the one Napoleon and Illya were in, none of the rooms showed any sign of recent habitation.

The one that yielded the most information was the study. A close examination of Gus Lamont’s bank statements revealed that there was little money in the bank. His regular pension from his years at the Foreign Office was almost immediately swallowed up each month by a large alimony payment to Dr. M. Quarry and a smaller, regular payment to Dr. S. Lamont. It would appear Gus had lived plainly to keep his women well provided.

Napoleon discovered a cache of letters from Shona in the desk. They were all affectionate and chatty, but were fairly typical father/daughter letters, newsy but giving little away. The final letter spoke of the upcoming conference in New York. Nowhere did she mention her mother.

The seaplane from London did not arrive until mid afternoon. It landed out in the west bay and a small rubber tender was lowered into the water to make the short crossing to the beach. Solo and Kuryakin met the two British agents on the beach and conducted them to the castle kitchen.

There was a difficult scene with the dog, which was reluctant to allow the body of its master to be removed. In the end, Napoleon had to capture it and shut it in the scullery beside the kitchen, from where it set up a dismal howling.

It was early evening before Napoleon and Illya stood and watched the seaplane rise into the air. Illya sat down on a rock, squinting up into the low evening sunlight. He looked exhausted, Napoleon thought. They’d had nothing to eat since breakfast and he’d hardly touched his. It was time to stop and recharge the batteries if they were to work efficiently.

“Let’s leave the island tour till the morning. I don’t know about you, but I’m ready for some dinner and a good night’s sleep.”

Illya frowned. “Me too so long as we steer clear of oysters. What about that poor dog? It’ll be hungry by now.”

Napoleon grinned wickedly. “Now’s your chance to make its acquaintance properly. Take it its dinner and it’ll love you forever. I’ll see what I can find for us.”

Illya found a supply of dog biscuits and something unspeakable in a meat-safe, which Napoleon assured him was cooked lights from the venison. He put some of it into a bowl along with some biscuit and placed it outside the back door. Then he opened the door to the scullery and stood well back.

The dog hurtled out barking and yelping with joy and homed in on the food, which disappeared within seconds. Then it vanished into the grounds.

Illya returned to the kitchen and sat down at the table, watching Napoleon, who was stirring something on the range. There was an appetising smell coming from the oven. His stomach growled.

“It would appear Lamont was well provisioned. There’s enough food in the larder to last a siege,” announced Napoleon as he set two plates down on the table.

The dog returned, later in the evening, and, in that fickle way of animals, attached itself to the two agents whom it now considered its new masters. Napoleon stoked up the range in the hope the fire would remain in until morning. Illya fell asleep and had to be wakened by his partner to go to bed.

-0-0-

The following day, they began their search of the island. Bracken opted to accompany them and the two agents had little option but to take him along.

“Perhaps we should have brought the horses,” remarked Illya, looking dubiously at the bracken covered, rocky landscape.

“I’d rather be footsore than saddle sore.” Napoleon was carrying one of the walking sticks from the hall-stand to beat a path through the bracken and heather where necessary. “These must be deer paths.”

They decided to circumnavigate the island, which turned out to be naturally divided into two sections; the flatter, rolling moor and woodland of the north and the rocky, cliff edged south. The cliffs were of basalt and looked like organ pipes in parts. In other places, where the layers of rock were distorted by movement of the earth’s crust, they were riddled with caves. They passed two deserted, tumble down villages on the way. At one time the island must have had quite a few inhabitants.

“Pogroms,” muttered Illya, in a tone of disgust as they stood, looking at the tiny, ruined cottages.

“What?”

“These villages have been cleaned out all at once. The people were forced to leave.”

“How can you tell?”

“The houses are all in the same state of disrepair. If they had emptied gradually, say by natural wastage, some would still be standing, or at least be in a better state.” He turned away from the sad sight, shuddering slightly, as if he could see old ghosts.

The whole island was just more than two miles long by three quarters of a mile wide. The walking was difficult, however, and so it was early afternoon when the two agents came across a particularly large cave right at the south tip of Inchbuidhe. It was high tide, and waves rushed in and out of the wide mouth of the cavern. The cliff was very steep and neither agent could see a way down.

“I’d like to come again and look at this at low tide.” Napoleon watched the seabirds wheeling round the cave, some flying in. “I wonder how far back it goes.”

“This kind of rock often has enormous caverns. Hey, you remember what you said about a submarine?”

Napoleon grimaced. “Don’t tell me you have one up your sleeve.”

“No, not this time, but look, out there, about half a mile offshore.” Illya pointed out to sea, and sure enough, Solo spotted the black sail of a small submarine, just above the surface. It seemed to be heading towards them.

“I think we should stay invisible,” cautioned Napoleon. “You never know who it might be.”

“Thrush?”

Napoleon shrugged noncommittally. The two men settled down behind a rock, a good distance away, to watch. The submarine came straight towards the island, the low, throbbing engine note and the small black sail the only evidence of its existence and, to their amazement, disappeared into the cave.

“Now that is interesting.” Illya stood up. “It’s a pity the tide’s so high. That water looks lethal dashing against the rocks. There’s no way we can risk going in without wet suits in that sea. We’ll have to come back at low tide. There’s definitely something that smells of Thrush to me. If this was anything official, U.N.C.L.E. would know about it.”

“Might explain why someone wants Lamont out of the castle.” Napoleon looked around. “Where’s that dog?”

Illya looked around as well but could see no sign of Bracken. “It was here a moment ago, panting in my ear.”

“Oh well, not to worry. It knows the way back.” Napoleon set off along the cliff top path, heading north back in the direction of the woods and Castle Buidhe. The leaves on the oak and birch trees were turning the yellow that gave the island its Gaelic name, translated as Yellow Isle.

Bracken did not join them as they clambered and scrambled along the rocky path. Nor did he appear once they approached the castle. It was not until the two agents let themselves in the front door that the dog greeted them joyously from inside.

“Well that’s strange. Are you sure the back door was shut?” asked Napoleon, replacing his stick in the hall-stand.

Illya looked puzzled. “Quite sure. There must be another entrance we’ve not noticed.”

“I thought we searched the place thoroughly yesterday.”

“So did I, but these old houses often have odd doors from cellars and the like.”

“Or secret passages.”

“Perhaps. Let’s see, low tide should be about five hours from now. That gives us time to raid poor Gus’s kitchen again.”

Low tide saw the two agents back at the enormous cave, having locked the dog indoors this time. They were equipped with flashlights and other items. As they had surmised, access was now possible by climbing down a rocky, steep pathway to the shore about a quarter mile back.

Illya scrambled nimbly up the rocks followed by Napoleon. Treading warily, they entered the cave.

Inside, it quickly opened out into a cathedral sized cavern, complete with a few stalactites and stalagmites. There was no sign of the submarine, but they saw a huge pile of small and medium sized crates stacked up on a natural shelf above the water line. Illya climbed up and investigated one of them, taking a small jemmy from his belt.

“Strange, it looks as if someone is planning to set this up for human habitation at least. This has parts for a generator and lighting equipment.” He looked in another crate. “Some other kind of machine. Do you want me to look in all of them?”

Napoleon was frowning. “No. Look on the side of that one up there.” He pointed to one of the crates near the top of the pile. On the side was a familiar stylised bird.

Illya hissed. “Thrush. Hmm, so we were right – what’s that?” He spun round at the sound, whipping out his gun. Napoleon followed suit.

Bracken lolloped into view, wagging his tail in greeting. The two agents exchanged a glance and put the guns away.

“Well I’ll be . . . how did he get out?” Napoleon patted the panting, circling animal. Illya stepped back with a wry expression.

“What did you say about secret passages?”

Just then, Napoleon’s communicator went off and Mr Waverly’s rich tones filled the echoing space.

“Mr Solo, Mr Kuryakin. I have had a report from London HQ into the cause of Lamont’s death. It was, as you thought. A massive overdose of Temazepam, a common sleeping pill. When mixed with a sufficient quantity of alcohol, it is fatal. Where are you now?”

“We’re in a large cave, Sir. There appears to have been a visit from our feathered friends.”

“Did they come by submarine, Mr Solo?”

Napoleon looked surprised. “Yes Sir, how did you know?”

“Mr Slate and Miss Dancer picked up Dr Meg Quarry last night. She put up quite a resistance. Miss Dancer has a dislocated shoulder.”

Illya winced. He had been a victim of that particular injury a few months ago. “Please pass on our commiserations to her, Sir. I take it Dr Quarry talked?” he interjected.

“Yes, indeed she did, Mr Kuryakin. She needed a little persuasion of course, and in your absence, Mr Slate did a fine job.”

Napoleon shot his partner a look that said ‘teacher’s pet’. He spoke once more into the communicator. “What of the girl?”

“Apparently she is no longer in New York. I doubt if Dr Quarry knows of her whereabouts. However, she did tell us she recruited young Dr Lamont for Thrush while she was at the conference in New York, and that she was now involved in the start of some very important project, part of which is to be based on the island of Inchbuidhe. It is as we thought, gentlemen. Thrush has some diabolical reason for wanting Lamont out of the way.”

“Ah,” mused Napoleon, thoughtfully. “So they are only at the start of the project.”

“Exactly, Mr Solo. And I don’t want them to go any further with it. It is up to you, and you there, Mr Kuryakin, to stop Thrush in their tracks! Now, I suggest you get on and do that right away. Out.”

Napoleon put the lid back on the communicator. “Well. We have our work cut out, tovarisch.”

“Indeed we do.”

Suddenly, and for no reason that either agent could see, Bracken took off out of the cave at a gallop. Illya looked at Napoleon. “Curiouser and curiouser.” Then he delved in his pocket to find some small but powerful explosives he had brought. “Shall I get rid of this lot now, or do we want to keep our presence a secret for a while?”

“Let’s plant the bombs to detonate when we decide. That way, we can maybe take out the submarine along with it.”

They decided to head back to Castle Buidhe to formulate a plan. Darkness would fall soon and neither relished the thought of negotiating the treacherous cliff path at night. Despite Mr Waverly’s admonishments, things could wait until morning, now that the explosives were in place.

As they approached the castle, Illya stopped suddenly. “Listen. There’s Bracken barking from inside again.”

“That’s funny,” mused Napoleon. “He didn’t bark last time we approached, once he’d decided we were his masters.”

The barking stopped and they heard a scuffling sound from inside.

Glancing warily around, the two agents approached the front door with caution. Illya stepped off to the side out of sight, gun at the ready. Napoleon opened the door carefully. The double barrel of a shotgun greeted him.

“Hold it right there!”

It was a woman’s voice. Napoleon put up his hands. Illya tensed. Napoleon stepped back, allowing the woman to see that he was unarmed. She stepped out slowly, the gun pointed at Napoleon’s heart.

“Ah – you appear to have me at a disadvantage, Miss er . . . “

The woman, who looked to be in her mid twenties, small and curvy with chestnut brown hair and sensible glasses, glared at him.

“The name’s Lamont. Who are you and where is my father?” She poked the shotgun into his chest. He stepped back, just as Illya emerged from the shadows, gun in hand.

“Put the shotgun down, Shona.”

She spun round at the accented voice, and Napoleon stepped forward and took hold of the shotgun. He was alarmed to note that it was loaded and cocked.

Shona Lamont’s body sagged. She looked about to burst into tears. Illya took the shotgun from Napoleon and allowed his partner to do what he was best at.

“Come now, Miss Lamont, Shona. We’re not here to do you harm. Quite the reverse, in fact.” Napoleon placed a comforting hand on her shoulder. She brushed it off, angrily.

“Where’s Daddy? Bracken’s here all alone. Daddy never goes anywhere without him. What’s happened to him?”

Illya growled, “We thought you might be able to tell us about that.” 

Napoleon shot him a ‘take it easy’ look. “Shall we go inside and sit down? I think you should put the shotgun away, Illya.” He waved his arm in the direction of the kitchen. “After you, Miss Lamont.”

“It’s Doctor. And you still haven’t told me about my father.” The tears were not very far away.

Illya unloaded the shotgun and replaced it in the cupboard in the hall. He put his own gun back into his shoulder holster and led the way down the passage to the kitchen, from where Bracken emerged to greet him rapturously. Shona Lamont glared at the dog, clearly feeling betrayed by the welcome it gave these two strangers.

“Please sit down, Shona,” said the Russian, his face solemn.

She sat down at the table, her eyes still wary. Illya moved to the range and put water on to boil for tea. Something told him they were going to need it. Napoleon sat beside the young scientist and looked her in the eyes. She had nice eyes, he thought - hazel, but with a touch of green.

“Shona, I’m sorry to have to tell you that your father is dead.” He watched her reaction very carefully.

Either she was an excellent actor, or else she really did have no idea that anything had happened to Gus Lamont. Her face drained of colour. She stared at him in disbelief.

“No . . . ”

“I’m afraid so. He died of an overdose of sleeping tablets and alcohol.”

The tears she had been holding back now ran suddenly and unchecked down her face. Illya stepped forward and silently handed her a handkerchief, which she clutched, convulsively.

Napoleon put his hand over hers. “I’m very sorry, Shona.”

“But,” she stuttered, “But Daddy never has . . . had any trouble sleeping. Why should he .. . . why . . .” She removed her glasses and dabbed at her face with the handkerchief, but never took her eyes from Solo. “I don’t understand,” she said, at last.

The kettle started to whistle and Illya went over to make a pot of tea. Meanwhile, the young woman tried to compose herself. She passed a distracted hand over her face, smearing the tears.

“I’m afraid I do not know your name.”

Napoleon smiled kindly and patted her hand. “Napoleon Solo. This is my partner, Illya Kuryakin. We work for the U.N.C.L.E. Your father asked us to try and find you. He’d been anxious about you for a while. You seem to have been out of touch.”

Illya put three mugs of tea down on the table, and without asking, added several spoonfuls of sugar to Shona Lamont’s.

They sat in silence for a few moments. Shona made no move to drink her tea, but seemed to retreat into herself while she wrestled with the devastating news she had just been given. After a while, Napoleon put an arm around her shoulders, and this time, she allowed the gesture.

“Take a drink of your tea, Shona. When you are ready, I’m afraid we need to ask you a few questions.”

Illya sipped his tea thoughtfully and looked away. He was uncomfortable in the face of the girl’s grief. Bracken came over and thudded down to lie at his feet.

At length, Shona blew her nose and seemed to rally herself. “What was it you wanted to ask, Mr Solo?”

“Napoleon, please.” He removed his arm from her shoulders, but placed his hand over hers once more. Again, he looked her in the eye and held her gaze.

“You see, Shona, what puzzles me is that the whisky which poisoned your father was from a bottle you sent him for his birthday, just after that conference you attended in New York.”

“What . . . what? You mean the Islay? No . . . it couldn’t have been.” She put her head in her hands, sobbing in earnest now.

Illya turned to Napoleon and whispered, “Maybe we should leave this for later. It’s clear she’s . .. . “

“No, we have to do it now. We can’t give her time to think out a story. I want the truth.”

Illya sighed and rose from the table to refill the tea. The dog followed him and nuzzled his leg. Without thinking, he reached down and patted its head.

Napoleon waited a few moments for the girl to compose herself once more, then persisted. “Where did the bottle come from, Shona? I’m sorry, but we have to know. It has been tested by our people and been found to be heavily spiked with Temazepam. Can you tell us where you bought it?”

Shona wiped her face once more with the now sodden handkerchief and took a shuddering breath. “It came from the airport, from the duty-free shop. Mother bought it and gave it me just as I left the departure lounge. I don’t like whisky, so I sent it to Dad for his birthday.”

“Don’t you think it was a little strange for your mother to give you something you don’t like from the duty free shop?” Illya asked, returning to the table and pouring more tea. “Wouldn’t she have been better to give you perfume perhaps?”

Shona shook her head. “The thing is, Mother and I hardly know one another now. I haven’t seen her since I was seventeen. Meeting up at the conference in New York was just so fortuitous. She probably forgot. She’d know it was Daddy’s favourite brand though. Perhaps she meant for us to share it.” She sniffed and wiped her eyes again.

“Did you see your mother buy the whisky?” Illya frowned and glanced at Napoleon. Shona shook her head.

“No, She just handed me the bag. As a matter of fact, I hadn’t even expected her to come to the airport, since I had promised to return a few days later, once I had sorted out a few things in Edinburgh. Mother had a project she was very excited about and persuaded me to join her for a while.”

“Project? What kind of project?” asked Napoleon, glancing at his partner.

Shona shook her head again. “I can’t tell you . . . it’s secret, but really worthwhile, honestly.”

Illya turned his intense blue gaze onto the young woman. “Shona, your father is dead – killed by that bottle of whisky. Napoleon and I need to know all the facts if we are to find out exactly why that happened to him. We really need your help in this.”

Napoleon patted her hand again. ”Tell us about the project, Shona. I believe it is very important.”

“Oh yes, it is very important. It could possibly save the world, you see.”

Illya’s eyebrows shot up into his hair. Napoleon continued to hold the young woman’s attention. “So tell us how.”

Shona sighed and rolled the handkerchief round her hand. “All right then.” She took a deep breath. “Well, I don’t know if you are aware, but there’s a great number of nuclear weapons hidden away in the hills near here – on the mainland. I have always been against such things, right from childhood after I heard what happened to Japan at the end of the war. Now this project is run by an organisation called Thrush. I don’t expect you have heard of it, but they plan to render the weapons unusable by causing a minor earthquake underneath the places where they are stored, so that they can no longer be accessed.

My speciality happens to be seismology. Mother heard of the project and knew that I would be interested, so she introduced me to the man in charge. His name is Dr. Petrenko. Have you heard of him?”

Illya drew in a sharp breath, but said nothing.

Napoleon turned to him. “Excuse me a moment, Shona. Illya, I’ve suddenly remembered your uncle Alexander. Shouldn’t you get in touch with him before he – er – goes out?”

Illya rose from the table. “Of course.” He smiled at Shona. “Please excuse me. I will be back very soon.” And he left the kitchen.

Once he was out of earshot, he took out his communicator and opened the overseas relay channel.

When he returned to the kitchen, Shona was explaining how she had travelled to Inchbuidhe.

“. . .and I caught the postbus from Craignure. I had to use the leaky boat to cross over because the good one was already over here. Mother said it would be fun to surprise Daddy, so I didn’t let him know that . . . oh, poor Daddy.” And she burst in to another storm of sobs.

“Why don’t you go and freshen up, Shona?” said Napoleon, gently, squeezing her hand. “Illya and I will do something about supper. You should eat and then get some rest. You have had a long journey and a terrible shock.”

“I . .. .I think I’ll sleep in Daddy’s room tonight. I expect the two of you are in the room I usually use.”

Shona rose unsteadily, still swiping at her face with the soggy handkerchief, and left the kitchen. The two agents immediately compared notes.

“Well she knows nothing about the submarine as far as I can find out. I’ve a feeling her involvement may be minimal. They’ve recruited her so that they can get the use of the island, and because of her knowledge, spun her some tale about nuclear disarmament,” stated Solo, peering into the larder.

Illya agreed with him. “In fact, that particular tale is true. Meg Quarry’s been singing like a canary. Waverly confirmed that Petrenko’s onto something big in league with his former pals in Moscow. Thrush is gaining quite a foothold in the Soviet Bloc as we know. It seems that this isn’t the only location where there are plans to destroy Britain’s nuclear weapons and, incidentally, most of Great Britain along with them. There are more in England as well. By destroying the best part of Great Britain in a nuclear holocaust, Thrush would eliminate America’s strongest ally. ”

Napoleon frowned. “Good grief. Looks like we’ve stumbled onto something bigger than we imagined. What else did he say?”

Illya’s face was grim. He could not help feeling responsible when Moscow featured in anything such as this, despite the perpetrators being Thrush rather than his former government. Living and working in the United States was not easy for a Russian and he had worked hard to gain the trust of his colleagues at U.N.C.L.E. New York. This could set that trust back by many degrees.

“The boys in London are fully occupied with the nuclear bases down there. I said we could manage here, but Waverly’s standing by with backup for them and us from New York if necessary. It won’t be here till at least tomorrow though.” He passed a distracted hand through his hair, causing it to stand on end. Napoleon could sense his discomfiture.

“Why don’t you go and raid the vegetable patch for something to go with this ham? I’d like to find out more from Shona before we tackle the sub. We should keep an eye on her. I don’t know how involved she is. My feeling is, she’s been used so that they can get a foothold on the island. I wonder where the supplies are coming from?”

“Probably a ship somewhere in the Atlantic.”

“I guess so. Tomorrow we’ll quiz Shona some more, stake out the cave and catch the sub returning.”

“Why don’t we just blow the cave and be done with it?”

Napoleon patted him on the shoulder. “Patience, patience. I don’t know about you, but I’d feel a lot better if I knew there was backup if I wanted it. Also, I’d like to get that sub. I’ve a feeling there’s still more to find out and that Shona can help us. She needs a little time to get over her shock. There was a reason they wanted Gus Lamont dead and I’m not satisfied with what we have yet.”

Illya sighed and opened the back door to go out and forage for vegetables. Bracken jumped up and followed him into the grounds.

Nobody had much of an appetite for dinner and soon after they had finished eating, Shona excused herself to go to bed. As she went out the door, Illya followed and stopped her. Bracken sat watching him balefully, then followed as well, placing himself between Illya and the young woman.

“I wonder if you could solve a small puzzle that has been confusing my partner and me?” Illya asked.

Shona gave a tired sigh. “What, apart from why I would want to help save the world from nuclear disaster?”

Illya smiled. “Well, perhaps not quite on that scale, but it is intriguing us, and as someone who knows Castle Buidhe well, I think you may be able to help.”

“Certainly, if I can, I will. Ask away.”

“It is to do with Bracken,” began the Russian. At the mention of his name, the dog thumped his tail on the ground and looked up, expectantly. Illya continued:

“He seems to be able to come and go from the castle as he pleases, despite being locked in or out. Is there some secret entrance somewhere that the dog knows about?”

Shona laughed – the first time the agents had seen her smile at all. “Come with me.”

Napoleon noted with approval that her face changed from studious young scientist to pretty young woman. He rose and followed her and his partner out into the hall. Bracken bounded into the lead. Dog and girl led the way to the fireplace with the claymore above it.

To the agents’ surprise, first Bracken and then Shona, entered the fireplace and disappeared.

Napoleon and Illya exchanged looks and followed.

A short passage leading from the right of the open grate, hidden from view from the hall, opened up into a small room. The room was lined with wine racks, mostly empty, and another passage was accessible from the opposite side. Bracken circled round and round, running to the other passage and then back to circle expectantly.

“Wine cellar, sometime priest hole and general escape route.” Shona explained.  “The fireplace is just for show. Most old castles in this area have such places. They date back to the Reformation.”

Napoleon whistled. “This is really something. Where does the other passage lead?”

“Oh, it has several exits all around the island. The passages have been extended and added to at different times in the castle’s history. It’s a veritable rabbit warren down there. The longest is over a mile and a half long. You can get right down to the south of the island where a boat would have been waiting if you wanted to escape the authorities. I’m told one of my ancestors had quite a business in illegal whisky at one time.”

“Anywhere near that huge tidal cave at the south tip?” Illya asked, casually.

“Oh yes. That’s the farthest exit. Now, if you don’t mind, I am feeling very tired. I’d like to go to bed. Come, Bracken.” The dog moved reluctantly from Illya’s side and went with her.

Solo and Kuryakin exchanged glances and followed them out of the secret room.

Back in the kitchen, Illya consulted his watch. It was nearly 11 p.m. “Do you want me to go and check out the cavern at high tide? It’s due just after 1 a.m. The moon’s full so I should be able to see all right. I’ll plant a listening device somewhere nearby. That way we can tell if the sub arrives and hear what’s going on. Maybe I should try the subterranean route. We never did find the way down at high tide.”

Napoleon nodded.  “If the sub is approaching, a flashlight on the shore path would give you away and it could be treacherous in the dark. Try the passage then. If you go that way at least there is no risk of a light being seen.  Perhaps I should come too.”

“No, someone has to keep an eye on Shona. Remember, she could be a loose cannon. We still don’t know how innocent she really is. You stay here and watch out for any problems.”

“I’ll monitor you carefully. At the first sign of trouble, holler.”

-0-0-

Kuryakin was not a tall man; but even he, at his modest height, had to stoop a little along the secret passage. Besides the listening device, he had a flashlight and a compass with him, as well as the detailed map of the island the agents had liberated for their use from Gus’s study.

The tunnel had a dank, earthy smell about it, as if the air was distilled from the rest of the castle itself. The darkness soon became total. At first he tried to allow his eyes to get used to the dark, but the blackness was so all enveloping that there was nothing for his eyes to pick up. In the end, he settled for the small penlight he carried along with his communicator. That way, his pupils would remain wide and he would still be able to see by moonlight once he got outside.

As he progressed along in the dark, the roof of the passage began to get lower so that he was forced to bend over further. The walls also seemed to be closing in on him. Illya shivered. He did not suffer from claustrophobia, but this did bring back some less than pleasant memories of a time, long ago, when he had been forced to exist for a while like a rat in the sewers under Kiev. A tiny boy, resourceful and clever, he could scuttle through the narrowest tunnels. But when the message was carried or the delivery made and he was no longer needed, he often felt cold, alone and frightened. Now those memories crowded back on him like the walls of the tunnel.

Pushing them firmly back where they belonged, he upped his speed, uncomfortable though it was. Shona had said the passage was over a mile long and he wanted to reach the cave well before high tide. A minute change in the smell and air quality warned him of an approaching branch in the tunnel. He flashed his penlight in front of him. Sure enough, the tunnel branched in a Y shape. Which branch to take? He unfolded the map and took out his compass.

But it was difficult to maintain a sense of direction in the dark passage and he found it impossible to decide. In the end, he took the left hand branch, because the compass told him it was southwest. He did not entirely trust the compass in this underground environment. He had noticed the orange stain of ferrous deposit on the rocks and cliffs when he and Napoleon had explored before.

One hour later, after several twists and turns and branches there was still no sign of the end of the tunnel. Illya was beginning to feel a rising panic that was becoming increasingly difficult to control. He forced himself to breathe slowly and evenly, and took out his communicator. He opened the top and set it at Channel F, which he and Napoleon were using between them. There was a crackle of static but nothing else.

He tried several times, using different channels, but always with the same result. He began to sweat, despite the chill air, and choked down the desire to hyperventilate. He sat down for a moment, leaning against the damp wall, and flashed the light at his watch. It would be high tide in less than ten minutes. The sub could arrive at any time. Maybe it was there already. The flashlight was growing dimmer as the battery began to fail. Well he had another, but the beam on that one was very strong and could compromise his night vision. He concentrated on the map, trying to figure out where he could have gone wrong. The blackness about him seemed to be closing in and he again resisted the urge to switch on the powerful flashlight. The map was no help. He switched off the small light to preserve the battery and closed his eyes to compose himself.

As he sat, blood pounding in his ears, he became aware of another deep throbbing. His heart gave a thump. The sub. He must be really near the end of the tunnel after all. With renewed spirit, he stood up and started to edge his way along, leaving the flashlight off, the better to pick up any glimmer of light. He did not know where the tunnel would emerge. It could be right in the cave itself. Bracken had certainly appeared in the cave as if by magic. As he moved along, the throbbing noise became louder. He put his hand into his pocket and activated the listening device. Even if the communicator didn’t work, the listening device might. He hoped Napoleon was still awake and listening out for the signal. He tried the communicator once more. Still nothing.

As he strained to hear his communicator, he noticed another sound in the tunnel. It was coming closer from the other direction to the noise of the submarine’s engines. He couldn’t decide what it reminded him of – something from those far off days in the sewers of Kiev.

Then, with a great shudder, it came to him. Rats. No, perhaps not. This was a heavier tread. Probably Bracken on one of his excursions.

Rats had been everywhere beneath the ruins of his native city. They had thrived while the inhabitants died. As a little boy, he had learned to live with them, but never to like them. They were rivals in the constant quest for food. Of course they themselves made good eating, but they were wily and difficult to catch. With revulsion he made an effort to dismiss them from his mind and concentrate on the job.

The air was changing. Kuryakin’s sensitive nose picked up the difference in smell. The sound of the sub’s engine was louder and louder. He had to be nearly there and the tunnel was going to emerge into the cave. His senses almost ached with the effort and his brain was on full alert. Now he could hear voices, muffled but definite, and the sound of something heavy being dragged. And then he saw a glimmer of light.

He had been walking blind for so long that even the faintest glimmer was detectable. Cautiously, on cat like feet and gun in hand, he approached the end of the tunnel.

-0-0-

Napoleon lay on his bed, the earpiece from the listening device in his ear and his communicator open. From the latter there came nothing but the crackle of static. He was worried that he had not yet heard anything from Illya. Plenty of time had elapsed for the Russian to walk a mile through the tunnel and arrive at the cave, and yet he had not made any contact. He knew the communicator worked in the cavern. They had held that conversation with Waverly.

Solo was just considering his options, whether to go after his partner or leave it a little longer when there was a gentle knock at the door.

“Napoleon, Illya?” It was Shona.

Napoleon got up hastily from the bed. The door opened a crack and Shona’s face, minus the sensible glasses, peered round.

“Shona. Are you all right? Do you need anything?”

She came into the room. She was wearing what could only be her father’s dressing gown over her nightdress. Her face was pale and tear streaked.

“Oh, I’m so glad you are not in bed yet. Have you seen Bracken?”

Napoleon shook his head. “No, I thought he was with you.”

“He was. I wanted him to sleep with me, you know, for company, but about half an hour ago he started scratching at the door, wanting out. I let him out but he didn’t come back and now I can’t find him.”

“Well he’s not here. Maybe he’s gone outside to do whatever it is dogs do when they go out.”

She sighed. “Yes, I expect that’s it. He does come and go as he pleases. I just wanted him with me tonight.”

“Come and sit down if you want to talk.”

Shona sniffed and sat on the bed. Her eyes had filled again. “I’m sorry. It’s all been such a shock. I can’t sleep for thinking. Where’s your partner?”

“He went down that secret passage to check out the big cave. It seems your friends from Thrush have begun to make preparations for their little anti nuclear operation on the island. I’m afraid we need to talk about that soon. All is not as you think.”

Shona gasped. “Down the passage at this time of night! Oh Napoleon! He’ll get lost!”

“Illya’s very resourceful you know. But I must admit I am a little worried about him.”

Shona shuddered. “Nothing would induce me to go down that passage at night. It’s bad enough in daylight when there are a few glimmers of light from the various exits, but at night – at night it’s terrifying!”

Just then, Napoleon held up his hand and listened intently into the earpiece. He could hear a low, rhythmic engine sound. The sub was there. “Ssh. I think it’s all right, Shona. He seems to have found his way to the cave after all. But I think he maybe needs help. Will you excuse me?”

“You can’t possibly go! You’ll fall down the cliff. It’s really treacherous when you can’t see!”

Napoleon soothed her. “It’s all right. I’ll go the same way as Illya. We didn’t find a way down to the cave at high tide.”

But the young woman grabbed Napoleon’s sleeve as he made to go. “No, no! You’ll get lost too! Please don’t go that way. I wish I’d never shown it to you. It’s a rabbit warren down there. Illya was very lucky to get through. There is a way down from the cliff path. Let me come with you - we can take the garrons. They know the way.”

“Garrons?”

“The horses. They’ve been reared on Inchbuidhe and they know every bit of the island. They are very sure footed.”

Napoleon mused a moment. Perhaps Shona had a point. “Well, maybe I will. But I can manage by myself. You should go back to bed.”

Shona kept a hold on his arm. “Don’t leave me. I’ll be able to show you the way and I’ll be no trouble. I’ve been thinking and thinking about what happened to Daddy and I just can’t bear it. I’m sure now Mother wanted him dead. You are right – why should she have given me his favourite brand of whisky? Or maybe it was me she wanted dead!” She was sobbing again.

Napoleon put an arm around the weeping young woman and felt in his pocket for his hanky. It wasn’t there. Too many calls on his handkerchief this mission. Shona wiped her face on her sleeve. He squeezed her shoulder comfortingly. In his earpiece, the thrum of the sub was getting louder.

“OK. You win. Come with me and we’ll talk about your mother and Thrush on the way.”

“Just give me a moment to put on some clothes.” She scrubbed at her face again. “Perhaps we’ll meet up with Bracken.”

-0-0-

As Illya had surmised, the tunnel opened up into the cavern, well above the high water line. As he crept out, the noise of the sub’s engine was deafening. The cave was partially lit by arc lights. The generator was unpacked and running. He could see two men unloading more crates. A third had his back to him. He appeared to be directing operations and held a large flashlight, which he shone on the other two.   Illya hoped Napoleon was picking up the sounds through the listening device. He did not dare try his communicator again, although because of the conversation he and Napoleon had with Waverly previously, he was confident it would work now he was in the cavern itself.  He left it open on Channel F.

Something about the man with his back to him was familiar. Petrenko. Late of Moscow. Now perpetrating his evil with Thrush.

Almost simultaneously with the moment of recognition, Petrenko swung the flashlight around the cavern, sweeping it past Illya in the mouth of the tunnel. Illya had no time to consider his actions. He saw the minute change of expression on the other Russian’s face and knew he had been spotted.

He fired twice with deadly accuracy. The sound of the shots echoed deafeningly around the cathedral sized cavern. Petrenko and the nearer of the men dropped like stones. The third man spun around, grabbing for his own weapon. He darted behind a pile of crates before Illya could aim and fire again. A shot rang out. Illya felt the sting of a bullet graze his thigh and he stumbled. Gasping in pain for a second, he saw his adversary run from cover towards him. He fired again but his shot went wide as his injured leg buckled under him.

Suddenly, out of nowhere, a red-brown streak launched itself over Illya’s head and landed, snarling, snapping and growling on top of the Thrushman. With a cry of surprise and fright, the man toppled over backwards as Bracken went for him; 28 kilograms of muscle, teeth and claws. Another shot rang out but Illya didn’t see where it went, he put a bullet in the man’s head, and it was over.

He hauled himself to his feet. His leg hurt, but not too much, although he could already feel blood running down his trousers. Bracken turned around and thumped his tail at Illya’s approach. There was blood on the dog’s shoulder. It made no attempt to rise.

Despite a sudden anxiety about the dog, Illya had first to check the sub for anyone left aboard, although since nobody had appeared at the sound of the shots, he was fairly sure there was no one else. His stomach clenched as he heard a soft whine from Bracken, but he tore his attention back to the job in hand. His leg was bleeding freely.

There was a narrow gangplank leading onto the submarine from the natural shelf above the waterline of the cave. Illya limped aboard. He knew Napoleon would be on his way by now, but how long it would take him to arrive was another matter. He gritted his teeth against the increasing pain in his leg.

The forward hatch was quite large, presumably adapted to accommodate the size of the crates the sub was carrying. It was open and Illya peered inside before lowering himself gingerly below.

As submarines go, this was a small one and much of the space below was taken up with several more crates still to be unloaded. A swift check confirmed that there was nobody else aboard. Illya wasted no time in planting several explosive charges strategically around. He wanted to do enough damage to disable the sub, without taking himself and Bracken with it or setting off the charges he and Napoleon had planted earlier.

When he was satisfied, he hauled himself up the ladder and back out of the cargo hatch. There was a familiar bark and Bracken limped towards him, putting no weight on his left front leg but wagging his tail as exuberantly as ever. Illya sat down on the ledge and allowed himself to be gently licked and nuzzled.

Suddenly he remembered his communicator. The channel was still open.

“Napoleon?”

“Illya! Thank God! What was all that? Are you OK?”

“I’m fine. Slightly scratched. Where are you?”

“Almost at the cave. We’ve come the long way round.”

“We?”

“Myself, Shona and the two horses.”

“Good. Petrenko was there and a couple of others. I dealt with them.”

“Is Bracken with you?”

“Yes. How did you know?”

“I’ll tell you soon. Hang on.”

“Stand by for a bang.”

Illya administered a little emergency first aid on his leg. The wound was not serious as far as he could see although it was stinging wickedly now. Then he pressed a small hidden button on his watch and the charges aboard the submarine exploded with a very satisfying whumph. Bracken pricked up his ears as the sound echoed round the cavern but seemed otherwise unconcerned. He laid a large paw on Illya’s lap.

Man and dog lay together, licking their wounds – one metaphorically and one literally. Illya stroked the dog’s head. “Spasibo tovarisch,” he whispered. Bracken turned his head and licked Illya’s wounded leg companionably.

-0-0-

“We have to leave the horses here.”

Shona dismounted. Napoleon followed her example with relief. The trip had not been comfortable with the uneven ground, but at least they had arrived this far in one piece. Shona had assured him that she knew the way into the cave even at high tide. There was a branch of the tunnel, very short, which joined the main one from a point near the cliff edge.

“Follow me down here. Do you have the torch? It’s quite steep.”

 She led the way down a steep, rocky path. The moonlight was enough to see by as their eyes were accustomed. They had no wish to give away their presence to any lingering Thrush.

During the thirty minute ride, Napoleon had, as gently as possible, explained to the young scientist the true nature of the organisation to which she had given her services. The girl had received so many shocks today that she appeared to be functioning on autopilot. All credit to her, thought Napoleon. If she can just keep going long enough for me to get Illya out of there, retrieve Bracken and blow up the equipment . . .

Just as this thought entered his head, he heard a loud explosion. Shona screamed and Napoleon grabbed her and put his arms around her.

“It’s OK. It’s just Illya. He told us to stand by for a bang, remember? Blowing things up is his favourite pastime.”

-0-0-

Both Illya and Bracken considered themselves walking wounded, and while the Russian consented to ride back to the castle on one of the garrons, Bracken had other ideas. He wanted to use his own route through the tunnel, and when that was denied him because of his injury, he insisted on limping along beside the horses, holding his left front paw up and gamely keeping apace.

A call to Mr Waverly, as the little party trudged back in the early dawn light, was encouraging. The combined forces of U.N.C.L.E Great Britain and U.N.C.L.E. New York had located and destroyed the supply ship from where the submarine and other Thrush craft were unloading the equipment for the Petrenko Project, as it had been dubbed. Waverly was satisfied with his agents’ work, especially the killing of Petrenko, but was anxious for the question of his old friend’s death to be explained satisfactorily. Mark would continue to work on their prisoner.

Shona had been shocked at the sight of the three dead men in the cave, but she had been even more shocked to discover exactly what she had spent the best part of three months assisting in. However, her main concern was for her father’s injured dog at that time, and so far she seemed to be managing to hold together, despite the fact that she had just endured what must be the most difficult day of her life.

Illya insisted, once they were back in the castle kitchen, that Bracken be attended first.

“That dog is an asset. I don’t suppose we can recruit him for U.N.C.L.E.?” he wondered, as Shona and Napoleon bathed and bandaged Bracken’s shoulder.

The dog lay patiently, allowing their ministrations.

“He’s a much better patient than my partner,” confided Napoleon to Shona, who glanced up at Illya and smiled. He glared back at Solo mutinously.

“I heard that. Just wait till the next time you get a bullet in the leg,” the Russian growled. Bracken thumped his tail in approval.

Shona sat back and admired her handiwork on the bandage. “I may not be a medical doctor . . . “

“But you tie a mean bandage,” finished Napoleon. “Shona, you have been a very great help to us, despite all that has happened today, well yesterday actually because we have all missed our sleep. But I think now you should go and get some rest and leave me to deal with this irascible partner of mine.”

Shona looked dubious. “I have a lot to think about but perhaps I could sleep now.” She rose and started for the door. Bracken followed, limping on his three legs.

“He seems to have deserted us for you again,” Illya remarked, nodding towards the dog.

“He’s a hero today. He deserves to be allowed to sleep on a bed.” Shona patted her father’s dog affectionately. “Come, Bracken. Let’s see how you manage the stairs on three legs.”

“I’ve a feeling that dog understands almost everything you say. Watch you don’t give him delusions of grandeur,” warned Solo as they left the kitchen. Then he turned to his partner, who was holding a towel over his bleeding leg. “Now, let’s have a look at you, tovarisch. You may have single handedly saved Scotland from nuclear disaster, but you are not going to go very far on that leg.”

“It’s not too bad, just messy.”

“We’ll see about that. Stop wriggling and let me get at it properly.”

“I wish we could come up with an explanation for Gus’s death. If the project was so secret, why use an inhabited island and why draw attention to it by killing the owner of the island in such a way? Ouch! Careful what you’re doing there!”

“Well hold still so I can see. Hmmm - this really needs stitching. Are you going to let me do it?”

Illya hissed and gritted his teeth. ”Do I have a choice? Get on with it then.”

Napoleon delved in the first aid kit for the needle and thread sterile pack that was always carried but rarely used. As he prepared, he continued, “Petrenko must have had a reason. And you’re right, I still don’t see what is so special about this island. There are plenty of uninhabited islands they could have found, probably nearer to the nuclear storage hills. My guess is it was something personal. OK, ready?”

“As I’ll ever be.” Illya shut his eyes, wincing at Napoleon’s first aid administration.  “Do you remember when we first arrived, Lamont greeted me in Russian? Ow!”

“Keep still then. All those years spent at the Foreign Office. He probably got around a bit. I’m sorry, this is going to hurt.”

“It’s been hurting for the last ten minutes. You’re a lousy doctor you know. I suggest you don’t give up the day job. Ouch, just watch what you’re doing! His Russian was very good from what I heard.”

Illya stopped a moment to grit his teeth as his partner dug the needle into his flesh again. Then he let out his breath and went on:

 “I wonder if he had dealings with Petrenko in Moscow. The time scale would be about right.”

“Funny, I was just wondering that; and where does wife Margaret come into it? Would she have known about Lamont’s work, whom he dealt with?”

“Well you should know a bit about pillow talk. Of course Petrenko used to be quite an important member of the Soviet Government in Moscow before he turned rogue. I wonder if they met before he joined Thrush. I’d like to know more. Ooh. Is that it?”

Napoleon finished tying off the last stitch on Illya’s leg and gave it a gentle pat. “There you are - good as new. We’ll just get a dressing on that. I think we should get a hold of Mr Waverly and suggest a new line of questioning for our friend Meg Quarry.”

-0-0-

“Yes, Mr Solo. It seems Petrenko and Meg Quarry had an on/off love affair.” Mr Waverly’s clipped tones came through the communicator loud enough for both agents to hear. They were in their bedroom now, resting a little, while they waited for their boss’s answer.

“Do you know if it had been going on for some time, Sir? Perhaps since Gus’s days dealing with the British Embassy in Moscow?” Illya asked.

“It has indeed, Mr Kuryakin. It seems she was never a faithful wife. According to Mr Slate, after Petrenko’s sudden appearance in the West and subsequent defection to Thrush, he decided to look up his old friend Meg Lamont or Quarry as she started calling herself. They cooked up this plan together, and sadly, Thrush had the wherewithal to carry it out- almost.”

Napoleon frowned. “But what I don’t understand, sir, is why Quarry would turn against her own country in that way. Surely she has some feelings of loyalty to the country of her birth.”

“Apparently not, Mr Solo. We are going to have our psychiatrists assess her, but we are fairly sure she suffers from schizophrenic delusions. She seems to blame the UK Government for her failure in marriage, for the fact that her husband, in the course of his work, was often absent, that she was often left at home with a small child, whom she saw as an impediment to her happiness.”

“And tricking the daughter into working with them, spinning a tale which she knew would appeal to her anti-nuclear ideals, was her way of getting back at her for spoiling her life.”  Kuryakin mused, an expression of disgust on his usually bland face.

“Not an edifying story at all, gentlemen, but one that has been prevented from being made infinitely worse by our organisation once again.” Waverly’s voice held an uncharacteristically smug tone.

“Try telling that to Shona,” muttered Illya, darkly. He got up from the bed and limped over to the window. The golden light of an autumn morning shone through the birch trees. In the distance, the hills of Mull were purple and brown. It seemed unthinkable that something as wicked as the Petrenko Project could take place in such a setting. He wondered just how much evil this beautiful place had seen.

“What was that you said Mr Kuryakin?”

“Nothing Sir,” interjected Solo. “Mr Kuryakin was just wondering when you would like us to return.”

“As soon as possible gentlemen. Thrush does not hang about while you indulge in vacations. See to it that Miss Lamont is all right then return immediately. I shall expect you back in New York by the end of the week. Out.”

“Well that gives us until tomorrow here.” Napoleon joined his partner at the window. “Poor Shona. She’s effectively lost two parents both at once. I think she’ll be OK though, in the long run. She’s a feisty young woman.”

“She has this place to remember her father by. I doubt if she’ll really want to be reminded of her mother.” Illya looked wistful. “You know those deserted villages we came across?”

“The ones that gave you the heebie jeebies. Yes?”

“I wonder if any of the inhabitants ended up in America.”

Napoleon thought for a moment. “Probably all of them. You’re suddenly in very pensive mood, tovarisch.”

Illya sighed. “Well, this mission has had quite an effect on me.”

“In what way? You’ve had near misses plenty of times.” Napoleon smiled at his partner fondly. ”Although I admit saving a country from nuclear disaster ranks fairly high up your list.”

“Well for one thing, I’ve had to reassess my relationship with certain members of the animal kingdom.”

“Oh?”

“Yes – oysters for instance. I’ve always avoided them ever since one time in Paris, when a rather lovely young Frenchwoman attempted to apprise me of their aphrodisiac qualities.”

Napoleon laughed. “I take it the date was not a success.”

“That is certainly a generous way of describing it.” Illya shuddered at the memory. “But now, of course, the little devils have saved my life – our lives. I feel they have been vindicated.”

“Well when we get home you can send a contribution to a home for retired bivalves. And I take it the second is dogs. You‘ve never been a fan of our canine friends, have you?”

“Never.”

“And Bracken has convinced you otherwise?”

Illya gave a little shrug. ”Perhaps. However, I’m not entirely convinced that dog is typical of the species. He seems to have an uncanny knack of being in the right place at the right time.”

As if on cue, there was a thump thump and the bedroom door opened as Bracken invited himself in by the expedient of leaning his not inconsiderable weight against it. He limped over to the two U.N.C.L.E. agents and thrust his nose into Illya’s hand, his entire back end wriggling and waving in greeting. The Russian did not flinch, despite the wet nose snuffling dangerously close to his injured leg.

“See?” said Napoleon, “You’ve made a conquest. He likes you.”

But Illya shook his head. “Oh no. It’s not that at all. I just remembered. Poor fellow’s looking for last night’s dinner. With all the drama yesterday, he missed out on his meal. I was the one who fed him before. He considers I’ve failed in my duty as provider I think.”

“So no wonder he came looking for you down the tunnel! Well, poor Bracken.” Napoleon started towards the door and the dog followed, his injured leg apparently not holding him back at all. “Come on boy, I’ll see you right. You just can’t get good help these days.”

By the time Illya managed to limp down the stairs and along to the kitchen, Bracken was already tucking in to an extra large helping of venison lights and biscuit. He cast the Russian a baleful look, then went back to gobbling his belated meal. Illya sat down at the table.

“What about me? Last night’s dinner was a long time ago.”

Napoleon put the dog biscuit away. “Oh no, you’re not getting away with that.” He sat down as well. “I fed the dog. Your turn to make breakfast.”

“Right then.” Illya hauled himself back to his feet. “I saw some oatmeal in the larder. I believe the Scots have their own version of kasha.” He smiled wickedly at the look of horror on his partner’s face. “When in Rome . . .”

Napoleon stood up once more, “OK, OK. I guess we’d best not offend the hens anyway. How would you like your eggs?”

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