He should have recalled them well before now. At the time, when Mr. Kuryakin had been pushed past his formidable limits, it had been his best improvisation. He knew his protégé had long since become but a part of a partnership. Oh, Mr. Solo could still operate without Mr. Kuryakin, but they were, attuned. Even while they worked separately, their Affairs linked up in a non-statistical manner. So, he'd decided that they should both seemingly leave U.N.C.L.E., for his own piece of mind.

When Mr. Solo had turned forty would have been an obvious juncture. They had left the days when staffing constraints left them bending the mandatory field retirement rule into double-curves. However, he'd considered the younger man actually seeing something through, in starting a computer business, a good experience before taking over North America U.N.C.L.E.

It had never occurred to him that Illya would reach forty and still they wouldn't balk. He'd known his two top agents were lovers for quite some time. At first, he'd considered what to do about it, considered long enough that the advantages became evident. Perhaps the Thebans had known something. It wasn't replicable. But he was nothing if not an opportunist.

He'd made a mistake then. Not his first; he was old not delusional. Their trust that he knew better, that he needed them in their new roles, played to his ego. He left them in place, gambling for a payoff he couldn't foresee.

It hadn't occurred to him they didn't know he knew. That came to him during one of his heart attacks. Wouldn't think something that hard could stutter. What sort of agents were they?! He knew THRUSH Central knew Mr. Solo and Mr. Kuryakin's relationship. Had known. That explained why Napoleon was so rarely the one captured. There was a special directive that Mr. Kuryakin must be secured first.

He'd used not having a permanent successor to maintain his position. Indignation and pride were powerful things, let him recover his faculties. Mr. Solo would have compromised that, the other section heads would have insisted he'd let the younger man take over. Slowly, he accepted their blindness wasn't a matter of blatant stupidity. U.N.C.L.E. simply had done too well at selecting people that could accept difference. They'd taken no shoes dropping as proof they'd kept their secret. It had a certain naive sense.

At that point he should have recalled them. Or let them off the hook if that was more amenable. House of Vanya was doing very well for itself. It amused him, considering Illya in the center of a web of women, the good soviet as a boss. Rife with contradictions. He could admit he'd been wrong. At least that the moment had passed. But he didn't and time itself did...

And then, the improbable happened. Sepheran was making a move. They needed to let his plan unfurl, so they could root out those he'd suborned and be led to his backers. He knew just how to make sure Napoleon was placed correctly that he'd be able to snap like a trap.

He'd set it all into motion.

Dr. Patel closed the old man's eyes and pulled up the sheet. "Time of death, 3:18 am." She sat down in the chair, weary. Couldn't get him to work a twelve-hour day. "Cause, stroke."