The Waverly's Mission Affair

Series: Out of the Gate

Prologue

Mrs. Higgins, a Korean War widow with prematurely silver hair and three children, was devoted to her boss, Alexander Waverly, Number 1 of Section I, U.N.C.L.E.—New York. He was generous with both her paycheck and time off to tend to her children. So whenever she came across a report or agent evaluation from one of the other U.N.C.L.E. headquarters that she knew would be of particular interest, she would bring it to his attention.

This particular time concerned one of his pet projects, one that he had worked on for years.

She stood and made sure her weapon was secured properly at the small of her back before pressing the button that informed Waverly of her imminent entry to his office.

"Yes, Mrs. Higgins?" he said without looking up from his reading.

"I've been sorting through and scanning the latest packet from Mr. Beldon. It included Illya Kuryakin's semi-annual evaluation. It made for interesting reading. I thought you might want to peruse it more closely than usual, sir."

At the mention of the Russian's name, Waverly looked up at his aide. "Yes, yes, of course. Thank you, Mrs. Higgins. Please leave it on the top of the reports."

He waited until she left before he opened the file in question. After quickly digesting the contents, he knew it was time for his next move, which he hoped would eventually deal a crippling blow to THRUSH and other nasties bent on world domination and disruption. But there were a few high hurdles he had to jump, the first being a temporary U.S. visa for a Soviet citizen.

Act 1: "Your command of English is very good for an American"

"Ah, Mr. Solo, nice of you to join us."

Alexander Waverly stayed seated, but the other man in his office stood quickly at Napoleon Solo's entry. Waverly knew they were assessing each other, as any highly trained and still-breathing U.N.C.L.E. agent did on coming into a new situation. Solo, undoubtedly, was thinking Illya Kuryakin was quite young and small for an agent and whose unique sense of fashion was the polar opposite of his own.

On the other hand, Kuryakin was likely thinking Solo was something of a peacock – and an over-confident one at that – and afraid to get dirty when necessary.

"Apologies for the delay, sir. I was dressing after my work-out when I received your summons."

"Yes, yes, of course. Mr. Solo, this is Mr. Kuryakin, Section II, from the London, Berlin, and Paris, um, stations."

They shook hands, with Kuryakin bowing slightly at the waist. Without delay, each man took a seat.

"Mr., uh, Kuryakin is here for your next assignment. This will involve the destruction of a laboratory known to be involved in the production of a gas that reportedly induces extended if not permanent and painful paralysis. Nasty business that." He tapped the thin manila folder in front of him. He could tell Solo had noted the small orange dot, signifying Risk Level 2, on the label tab.

"But, sir, I can do this without anyone's assistance."

"I have little doubt you could, Mr. Solo, but this is a high-priority target and U.N.C.L.E.'s top demolitions expert is necessary to increase the likelihood of success to 100 percent. For this mission, you will assist Mr. Kuryakin."

Solo glanced at his temporary partner. The pale face was parked in neutral, intense blue eyes still focused on Waverly.

Kuryakin shifted minutely but Waverly caught it. He was surely aware of the scrutiny and must be wondering if Solo had a problem with Soviets. Also obvious was that Kuryakin wanted to speak but was hesitant to speak freely at this stage in his association with both men. Reports from Europe indicated he was slowly overcoming this particular harsh standard enforced by the Soviet Navy and the KGB.

"Is there something you wish to add, Mr. Kuryakin?"

"Perhaps it might be a good idea to inform Mr. Solo of my credentials in demolitions, sir."

"Oh, your reputation in blowing stuff up precedes you, Mr. Kuryakin," interjected Napoleon pleasantly. "As does your setting some records at Survival School."

Illya's lips twitched in an effort to block a smile. "One can only do the best one can."

"Mr. Solo, since you appear to be aware of Mr. Kuryakin's bona fides, I suggest you two get to work. Mr. Kuryakin is here on a limited-time visa. Please go to Section III for the intelligence you'll need for this mission. They should have it ready for you by now."

Both men stood and said in unison, "Yes, sir." Waverly appreciated their moving in concert, their flawless timing. Not every team had that – only the outstanding ones.

Solo waited until Kuryakin caught up him so they could leave Waverly's office side by side. They left at a leisurely pace, not noticing or caring that their boss was beginning to fume about the extended leave-taking.

"Your English is very good for a Russian, Mr. Kuryakin. I'm thinking by the accent you learned the language at the source. And you can call me Napoleon."

Kuryakin gave him a one-sided smile. "Great Britain – Cambridge specifically – is where I perfected my grasp of the English language. I must say your command of English is very good for an American."

Solo laughed. "Touché, Monsieur Kuryakin."

In a perfect Parisian accent, he replied in French, "It is not often that someone appreciates my sense of humor. You may call me Illya."

"Illya." He pronounced it in two syllables, using the short vowel sound for the I. "That's Russian for Elijah, isn't it?"

"That is correct. However, my name has two L's instead of one, thereby giving it three syllables. It is pronounced eel-le-uh."

"Is that so?"

"It is, Napoléon." Kuryakin used the French pronunciation.

Solo smiled amiably. "Well, on this mission, let's hope you're more miracle worker than prophet."

"On this mission, let us hope you are more emperor than failed invader of invincible Russia." Subtle teasing was evident in Kuryakin's tone.

Waverly harrumphed to get their attention. Both turned partially back toward him. "Gentlemen, I suggest you carry on this, um, language lesson on your own time."

Again in unison they said, "Yes, sir," and hurried out of the room.

The door swished closed behind them. Waverly chuckled. Finally, he thought. Someone who can keep up with Solo, at least verbally. I suspect Solo will have to keep up with Kuryakin as well. Perhaps his idea of this pairing would work into a full-fledged partnership. They would no doubt be a handful for him.

Now, if he could persuade Harry Beldon to loosen his proverbial stranglehold on the Soviet and the U.S. government to grant a resident visa.

He snickered. "What would I be unleashing on the world," he whispered so quietly that the recording microphones didn't pick up the statement.

FYI: Elijah was a prophet and a miracle worker. Napoleon Bonaparte's account of the Battle of Borodino was, "The most terrible of all my battles was the one before Moscow. The French showed themselves to be worthy of victory, but the Russians showed themselves worthy of being invincible."

oOo

Once they left Waverly's office, Solo and Kuryakin didn't have the chance to continue their conversation because the halls were busy. Solo greeted everyone with a nod, though his gaze lingered a bit longer on those of the female persuasion.

Kuryakin was mortified at his less-than-professional demeanor with Alexander Waverly and the engaging Solo. How had the latter make him drop his guard so easily? Maybe it was the agent's accepting smile and attitude that made him falter in his resolve to keep his distance.

Regardless of the reason, Illya chose to a half-pace behind Solo and close to the wall in an effort to be inconspicuous. His tactic wasn't entirely successful as almost everyone eyed him with either curiosity or suspicion.

As they neared the elevator that would take them to Section III, Napoleon stopped abruptly. Illya promptly bumped into him.

Kuryakin blushed lightly. "Please forgive me. I should have been paying closer attention." Despite his embarrassment, he was pleased that Solo, though of average size, was powerfully built. This would bode well for them both should things go badly.

Napoleon, surprised that Kuryakin was unexpectedly solid as reinforced concrete, smiled an apology. "My fault. I shouldn't have stopped so suddenly."

Illya's lips twitched on deciding to use humor to diffuse their discomfort in the invasion of personal space. "You are forgiven – this time," he said with the tiniest hint of playfulness, at the same time wondering why he was taking such liberties with revealing so much of himself to someone he'd just met.

Solo chuckled. "How magnanimous of you, Illya."

"'We should be too big take offense and too noble to give it.'"

Napoleon stared in amazement at Illya. He may have finally found someone who could match wits with him. "Are many Russians able to quote Abraham Lincoln?"

"It is likely most of my countrymen do not even know who President Lincoln was."

"Well, just for that, I'll treat you to lunch. That's why I stopped. I'm too hungry to work on planning the mission. How about you?"

Illya was ravenous, though he wouldn't admit it. "I could eat."

"Follow me, my new friend."

Illya grinned to himself; he had never expected an American to call him friend. Solo's statement felt real, genuine. Perhaps he could consider Napoleon a friend one day; he hadn't felt this comfortable around anyone for a very long time. It was a refreshing change of pace to be regarded positively and not with misgiving.

oOo

The commissary was quiet after the lunch rush so there was no waiting in line, for which Kuryakin was grateful. The choices were plentiful, more so than what he was accustomed to in those European stations that provided food.

"Napoleon, I am curious. Food is without charge at other bases. Why must one pay here?"

There was a moment's hesitation before Solo replied, "Oh, ah … well, when I said I'd treat you, it was a different way of inviting you to join me."

"I understand. I have much to learn about American idiomatic phrases."

"I suppose I could say the same about Russian phrases."

"Indeed. An appropriate one would be, Do not feed me bread, because any chance I get, I will eat whatever I want."

"And is there meaning beyond the obvious?"

"Yes. Do not feed me bread signifies that what follows is what one has a strong and passionate desire to do or for something."

"In that case, I suggest you should fill your tray with whatever you want to eat." Solo signaled Illya to go first.

Watching the wide-eyed Russian pile his tray high with numerous culinary delights made Napoleon think of an unfettered kid with ten dollars in a candy shop. "You know you can come back for more," he said as a half-question.

"That is my plan," Illya replied as he balanced an iced carrot cake muffin on the huge pile on his tray.

"Good thing the food is free; otherwise, I'd have to take out a loan against my next three paychecks." Napoleon, chortling, went for soup, salad, and a half-sandwich.

"May we sit anywhere?"

"Yep. No reservations needed here. You choose."

Out of survival habit, Illya selected a table that allowed him to see all entrances into the seating area. He had learned at an early age that no place was truly safe. In addition, he felt he needed to be especially cautious in the United States, even in U.N.C.L.E. headquarters.

Napoleon nodded his approval when Illya looked back at him. The American was becoming increasingly assured that his fellow agent had well-honed spy skills.

Illya settled into his chair then quickly tucked a napkin in the collar of his shirt. His next tuck was into the small mountain of food.

Solo ignored his own repast, too enthralled in watching Illya devour and still appearing to savor every morsel. He reached for a french fry that had strayed from Kuryakin's tray, but stopped when Illya looked up, giving him a threatening glare.

"Please eat your own food. Also, I prefer not to engage in conversation while I eat." Actually, he did prefer to converse while dining with friends or family, but too many years of scarcity and starvation and spying had ingrained in him to eat as much and as quickly as possible because one never knew when there would be food again or the time to eat it properly.

Napoleon sat back, an agreeable smile on his face. He turned to his own food and enjoyed it and the entertainment that was Kuryakin in dedicated consuming mode.

oOo

After polishing off with gusto his second serving of massive amounts of cafeteria fare, Kuryakin pronounced, "I have had enough to eat for now. While I am fresh, I will modify some standard charges. I have found they can be improved but the change in a standard is sometimes slow. It is not necessary for you to accompany me."

No way was Solo going to pass on an opportunity to expand his knowledge or to see this wunderkind work. "No, no, this I want to see. Do you mind?"

Kuryakin gave Napoleon a cautious, reserved smile. "I would be honored. But first I must retrieve a few things from my travel kit."

They bussed their trays in silence. Illya nodded to the commissary entrance and off they went, side by side this time, to the guest agents' quarters.

This time, Illya felt his skin crawl at what he perceived to be inadequately-masked antagonistic looks from the personnel passing them. There had been enough time for the grapevine – a term he had learned several years ago – to spread word about him. This is worse than Berlin.

Solo, always observant while appearing to be indifferent to his surroundings, noted most of his colleagues' hostile expressions and the tension they seemed to be causing Kuryakin. Methinks everyone needs to be reminded we're in an organization where nationality and politics don't matter. He would bring this up in his next private moment with Waverly. In the meantime, he would go further out of his way to make Illya feel welcome.

They arrived at the door to Kuryakin's temporary room, which had been programmed to respond to his visitor's badge in addition to Sections I, II, and III badges. It slid open with a faint whoosh.

Automatically, Kuryakin scanned the room. Pleased that nothing appeared to have been disturbed at first glance, he proceeded to check his little "alarms."

"Ah, Illya, you are aware you're in a secured building." Another half-question.

"I am aware, Napoleon. However, one cannot be too careful in any environment." Especially when so many are hostile to people such as myself. He stood and turned to face Solo after ensuring the third and last alarm was still intact. "You did notice the … disagreeable miens of our fellows, did you not?"

The American sighed. "Of course I did. I apologize, Illya. They've forgotten a few of the principles and goals of U.N.C.L.E.. If it helps, I'm glad you're here, if for nothing else but a little competition on the shooting range."

Illya looked at him blandly. "I will not be here long enough for any competition. My visa is good only for 48 hours. And I doubt I will be returning. It seems Mr. Waverly had to, what is the expression …? Yes, he had to call in a few favors." He paused, then let one side of his mouth curl upwards. "Perhaps we can arrange something next time you're in Europe."

Solo smiled brightly at that suggestion. "You're on!"

Illya looked around. "I am on what?" he asked innocently.

"It's just a saying, my friend. It means I accept the challenge."

"I am looking forward to it. Now we must deal with the business at hand." Kuryakin opened his kit and withdrew a lighted head magnifier and a tri-fold pouch of worn brown leather from his carry-on. "Shall we?"

For some reason, Napoleon wasn't surprised that Kuryakin carried his own tools with him.

oOo

Illya, his face lit up like a bright sun, explained what he was doing while doing it and never once faltered or hesitated. Napoleon thought the man's over-sized – considering his rather compact frame – hands were like a well-rehearsed ballet troupe. And from what he knew about explosives, he knew Illya's modifications were significant improvements.

Kuryakin finished the sixth charge and said, "I believe that will be enough. If needed, I will alter more."

"Ah, can – may I ask a few questions?"

"Of course."

"Where and when did you learn to do this?" Immediately, Napoleon knew he had touched an open nerve at Illya's withdrawal to frigid blankness.

The Russian, as rigid as a statue, replied, "In the Soviet Union. I have been doing this for … a while. There is nothing more you need to know on this matter." Illya feared he'd lose the possible friendship growing between the two of them if Solo knew his history.

Napoleon nodded amicably, making note to avoid asking this intriguing person about his past. And eating his food.

Act 2: "Whoever wins next gets bragging rights?"

The tension proved short-lived and was gone completely by the time the agents reached Section III where the mission data were waiting for them. Napoleon introduced him to the secretary.

"Pleased to meet you, Miss Montgomery," said Illya with a slight bow. Napoleon noticed that she returned the gesture with a seductive smile. He sighed to himself; he'd been trying to wrangle a date with her for months. He could probably ask her to watch paint dry and she'd be excited to join him.

At the sound of the door behind them swishing open, both men turned to see the second-in-command of Section III enter.

"Illya Kuryakin," Napoleon began, "this is -"

"Mr. Spencer," interrupted Illya icily. The emphasis on the honorific was definitely not congenial.

"Kuryakin," replied Spencer in an equally frigid tone.

Solo immediately went into diplomatic mode to calm the animosity between the two men. "Ah, good. You know each other. So why don't we get started? Spence, who is assigned to go over the intel with us?"

Without taking his narrowed eyes from Kuryakin, Spencer said, "Me."

"Excellent. Which map room are we using?"

"Two."

Napoleon, closest to the map room entrances, lead the way. Spencer sped up and slid in between Solo and Kuryakin in an obvious ploy to one-up the Soviet. The maneuver didn't escape Solo's attention, or the fact that Illya looked to take it in stride.

Spencer filled them in on the guards and their postings, the timing of their rounds, shift changes, and the topography and features of the area on maps pinned to one of the corkboards. Next, all three agents turned their attention to the blueprints of the satrapy, as bomb placement would affect their ingress and egress.

Illya put on green-tinted spectacles he had withdrawn from an inside pocket. "Spencer, these appear to be similar to building plans in Europe. However, I do not wish to assume anything. Would you please review these, in particular pointing out the gas lines?"

Napoleon nodded in approval. Kuryakin admitting what he didn't know gave him a greater degree of confidence in the Soviet.

"Gas lines are here and here," Spencer said as he traced the lines with a pencil. He quickly finished explaining the rest.

"Thank you." He moved closer until he was a few inches from the boards. Spencer scowled, but Napoleon watched with interest as the man apparently was memorizing each square inch.

Finally, Illya stood back to imprint the full picture of the blueprints in his brain. After a few minutes, he said, "In my opinion, four modified standard charges will be required. However, we will take all six for caution's sake. Optimum placement is here, here, here, and here," he stated as he circled each position with a drafting pencil. "Would you concur, Napoleon?" Illya looked at him with an impassive expression, not wanting to influence his decision.

Solo's eyebrows rose at both the unexpected request and the fact that Spencer's opinion wasn't solicited. He perused the plans more closely. When he could find no better placement, he said, "I would. Spence?" Inwardly, he winced at his faux pas, afraid he'd insulted Illya and overstepped his authority in this mission; after all, Kuryakin was the lead. A vague straightening of the Russian's shoulders told him he had.

"He's the expert, Napoleon. Who am I to question his choices?" Spencer's facial expression of disdain translated fully to his tone.

Kuryakin remained unchanged, but Solo, infuriated with Spencer, gave him a black look. He was gratified when the Section III agent softened his manner somewhat.

"What are your suggestions for entry and exit, Napoleon?" queried Illya. He wanted input from Solo, given what he knew of the agent's near-legendary successes in the field. And he knew asking was important to team building – something he rarely experienced since few U.N.C.L.E. agents in Europe deigned to work with him and KGB agents seldom worked with partners.

Solo smiled to indicate his pleasure at being asked. "Of the three possibilities, I'm thinking ingress at the northeast and egress at the south. That should give us plenty of time to get far enough away before the detonations."

Illya studied the maps carefully. He liked it, but wasn't completely satisfied. "If I may ask, why not the southwest door?"

Solo bristled for a brief moment, feeling his ego and expertise challenged by this youngster, but let it go. "South is closer to the trees and there are some rises in the ground that could provide cover if needed."

Kuryakin nodded. "Agreed." Turning to Spencer, he declared, "We are done here. Thank you. Napoleon, may we discuss the remaining details in your office?" At Solo's nod, he brushed past Spencer as if he were a post and left the room.

Solo stared at Spencer until the agent snorted. "You got a problem, Napoleon?"

"Yes, I do. Don't ever let me hear of you treating anyone like you did Agent Kuryakin," he said, threat and fury grossly evident in his tone. He left the room in the same manner Illya had.

oOo

Illya was waiting for him in the corridor. "My apologies for exiting the room so abruptly. I thought it best I leave as soon as possible." He paused. "You seem … upset."

Napoleon took a deep breath. "More like perturbed. I have a couple questions but they'll wait until we get to my office."

"Certainly."

Soon they were ensconced in Napoleon's office. Before Solo could ask, Illya said, "I know Richard Spencer from Survival School. We were … classmates. When he did not complete successfully the demolitions portion, he had to take the course, taught by me, twice more. The final time he passed marginally. That is likely why he remains in Section III."

Solo knew of Spencer's multiple applications for transfer. "So, he blames you for not getting in Section II."

"That is a fair assumption."

"Anything else I should know?"

Kuryakin wanted to tell him about the "accidental" injury acquired during a lull in knife-fighting practice, how Cutter believed Spencer's claim that he had mistakenly used a real knife and hadn't realized the training was paused, but telling Solo was unnecessary. "No."

Napoleon looked at Illya's indifferent expression for a long moment, knowing there was something else, as if he could read Kuryakin's thoughts. "All right. Let's get started, shall we?"

They reviewed hand signals, learned how the other worked, came up with contingencies. Finally, Illya said, "I believe the light is now green."

Napoleon grinned at Illya's attempt at another "foreign" phrase. "I think you mean we have a 'green light'."

Illya rolled his eyes – something he never did where it could be seen. Could I be feeling safe enough not to hide everything from this American? "I believe that is what I said."

"Must've gotten twisted in translation."

oOo

"Shall we get started with the protocol?" asked Illya, referring to the procedure for a night-time covert operation.

"Sure, why not. And I can guess why you want to start it now," quipped Solo. "Race you?"

Illya caught on to what Napoleon meant. "Running in the corridors is unprofessional when there is not an emergency. However, I could be induced to walk very rapidly." He arched an eyebrow, which Napoleon took that Kuryakin understood the ribbing.

Side by side once more, they headed quickly for their destination, Illya looking forward to it with great anticipation.

The first step was to eat a light meal. Napoleon's eyes widened in amazement when he realized a light meal for his temporary partner was just one mountain of food instead of two. Illya refrained from shaking his head when he saw the meager amount Napoleon had. He wondered how the man could sustain life, much less any level of activity.

Second step was to shower and shampoo using unscented products to avoid detection by smell. The locker room offered one open shower area equipped with several four-headed sprays to accommodate multiple men at once. They showered together under the same spray, each man comfortable with their nakedness – a necessary trait given how often U.N.C.L.E. agents ended up in various stages of undress on a mission. Each one knew the other was evaluating each other's physique.

Napoleon was not-all-together surprised to find that Illya was well-muscled with no discernable body fat. He had almost been expecting a 98-pound weakling despite experiencing his solidity earlier, hired only for his expertise in explosives. If this mission went south and he couldn't make it out under his own power, Napoleon felt confident that Kuryakin could carry him to safety.

And then there were the scars – lots of them it seemed. Some were an old, faded white; some a middle-aged pink; a few others a young red. Created by bullet, knife, whip, cigarettes ... Yep, definitely not just a demolition man.

This raised a couple questions for him: had Kuryakin been sent on assignments purposely to put him in danger of dying? Were those older scars from injuries sustained when he was a child?

"So, Illya," Napoleon said, "I couldn't help but all the, ah, damage to your skin."

"Seeing as you have some man-made cutaneous flaws as well, you must know that such is the nature of our work," he stated flatly.

Okay, so not going there either with him. Yet Solo couldn't blame the man. He disliked seeing his own healed wounds because they served as reminders of how he got them. He disliked even more having to explain them away to his curious bedpartners when the lights were on. On the other hand, they were a record of what he had endured in fighting – and winning most of the time – the good fight and he wasn't ashamed of them.

Kuryakin was reassured when he saw the scarring on Solo's body. It meant that the well-groomed, seemingly vain man was not averse to getting into the action. The job must come first for Solo, not neatness or cleanliness or the integrity of his lavish clothing. He was confident the American would not hesitate to help him in a fight.

As he rinsed off the soap, Illya looked at his own collection of "damage," to borrow Napoleon's term. For him, they were the memory of war, of failures during his training with the GRU and KGB, of his targets fighting back before he could execute them, of solitary U.N.C.L.E. missions because no one in Europe wanted to even back up a Russkie. They were reminders that he had survived despite so many odds against him.

Both men felt the air of melancholy, brought on by their reveries, that had joined the steam in the shower room. They finished in silence, avoiding eye contact not because of their nudity but because of their recall of their invisible scars. This was too private to share even with a casual look between them.

oOo

Third step was to dress for the mission. Napoleon chose and donned a navy blue utility suit.

Illya snorted his displeasure when the only suit available in his size was dark gray and not his preferred black. He knew it was because virtually all Section II agents across the entire organization were larger than he. However, he had no issue being the minimum for height and weight for that section; he frequently exploited the advantages of being of smaller stature.

They grabbed two backpacks and headed back to the armory. Illya placed three charges in each pack along with a few other items that might be needed.

They had a little time to kill before napping, which was the fourth step, so Napoleon asked, "Do you play chess?"

Illya hid his disbelief at that question. "I am Russian. We learn to play chess while we are in the womb."

Solo grinned and said, "Of course. How did I not figure that out? I have a set in my office. Shall we?"

The first two games were a matter of each player learning how the other approached the game, with Solo favoring the strategic, long-game aspect. Kuryakin had more of a shock-and-awe bent evidenced by his capturing as many of his opponent's pieces as quickly as possible.

By the time they had finished four games, they were tied and flushed with excitement of the challenge each one gave the other.

Napoleon asked, "I think we have time for one more game? Let's say whoever wins the next one gets bragging rights."

Illya, not exactly sure what "bragging rights" meant, nodded his assent.

The game was close, closer than the previous ones, both playing cutthroat, adjusting their moves to hopefully overcome the strengths and exploit the weaknesses of the other. Ultimately, Solo won the hard-fought match, pleased that someone could play this well against him. "Well played, my friend. Now I can brag that I beat a Russian. For that, I owe you a nice dinner."

Illya's lips smiled but his eyes promised a trouncing in a future rematch. "I will hold you to that, Napoleon," he said graciously.

oOo

Lastly, they settled in for a long nap, Illya in his guest room and Napoleon in the one next to it. Illya had requested a wake-up call for 0200, which Solo opined was truly a rude time for anyone to be calling, even from Communications.

Illya chuckled to himself at that and said, "Sleep well, Napoleon."

Act 3: "No bread for you"

About 0300, Napoleon parked the dark sedan in a secluded area about a mile from the site in New Jersey. During the drive from the city, the agents reviewed the plan and contingencies several times.

Yet there was one thing that Napoleon wanted to ask the Soviet- and U.N.C.L.E.-trained agent. "Ah, Illya," he said after a long stretch of comfortable silence, "we haven't really talked about how we're going to handle any guards we meet. Are we going to use bullets or sleep darts?"

Kuryakin, who had turned to look at his companion when he started talking, said dryly, "My apologies, Napoleon. I believe I made an incorrect assumption that you knew we would be using bullets."

"Just checking. Doesn't hurt to be sure and on the same page."

Illya, unfamiliar with that phrase, deduced from the context that it meant there was agreement between them. Even though how and when to use bullets rather than tranquilizing darts was covered extensively in Survival School, he figured it wouldn't hurt to reiterate policy. "I agree, Napoleon. In this case, bullets are preferred. Even though anyone who works for THRUSH should expect death, as do we working for the Command, death by bullet would be more … humane." He returned to watching the dimly illuminated night pass by through the passenger window.

Napoleon shuddered at the thought of burning or being blown to bits while still conscious. Illya, and U.N.C.L.E., were right. Killing others still bothered him profoundly, even of evil people or people trying to kill him or an innocent or his fellow agents. This was the source of some of his invisible scars, even though he killed protecting others and saving a piece of the world here and there. He wondered if Illya felt the same way.

This short burst of conversation on such a sensitive topic made Kuryakin shudder as well, but for a different reason. He recalled all too clearly burning alive the Nazis responsible for the rape of his mother and the deaths of his entire family and most of his neighbors. He firmly believed that mode of death was better than they deserved, yet his clandestine upbringing in the Ukrainian Orthodox Church made him realize that any death he caused, even if justified, diminished him. Convincing his Soviet masters to allow him to join U.N.C.L.E. had put him on a path of what he considered redemption. Never again would he kill at the whim of the KGB or GRU. He had never spoken about this with anyone, but unexpectedly found himself knowing he could tell Napoleon Solo. But he didn't, and probably never would. His past – and future – was his to endure alone.

oOo

Solo and Illya, now wearing a black watch cap, met at the trunk. They took turns applying boot black to each other's face and helping each shrug on a rucksack. Illya gave the let's-go signal.

They moved side-by-side virtually soundlessly. Illya was impressed by Napoleon's stealth and attention to the environment. Napoleon thought, Cat … nope,more like a tiger, now aware of a strong ruthless quality about Illya that hadn't revealed itself until now. I pity any THRUSH mice we might run into.

The site was quieter than expected. It was Memorial Day weekend and, incredibly, THRUSH apparently was observing the holiday, the evidence being only a skeleton crew on guard.

Kuryakin signaled for Napoleon to take the lead. They crouched and slowly, noiselessly, approached the northeast entry point. Napoleon drew his Walther after placing a small charge on the lock. Once Illya signaled that the nearest guard was out of sight, Solo activated the charge. It flared and sizzled and a second later they were in. They paused until certain no one was aware of their existence.

It appeared that THRUSH hadn't remodeled so they would be able to breeze through "planting our seeds of destruction," as Illya had called the bombs during modifications – sounding not entirely tongue-in-cheek diabolical in Solo's opinion.

At the first location, Illya used a charge from Napoleon's backpack. Napoleon split his attention between watching Illya carefully while he set the bomb and for any guards that might happen on them. He realized he was equal to the task but Illya had him beat in time, and seconds could make the difference between success and failure.

After the second charge was set, they came across an 8x8-foot enclosure that hadn't been on the blueprints. The wood used still had a strong odor.

Illya lifted a questioning eyebrow at Napoleon, who shrugged noncommittally and tapped his watch face once.

The Russian decided to chance it even with time running down. He quickly applied a small amount of thermite to the padlock. Even before he had finished this task, Solo was ready to ignite it. Kuryakin inwardly smiled his approval of his partner's time-saving action.

They stepped away while the compound fizzed and flamed. Once the burning stopped, Solo gingerly touched the hot metal numerous times to avoid harming himself. As soon as the lock fell, Illya caught it before it could hit the floor and send out a warning sound to any nearby guards.

Napoleon opened the door slowly while Illya set the padlock on the floor in a place where they wouldn't trip on it later.

Inside was an empty desk made of a plank of wood the size of a door and two sawhorses, a folding chair, and a safe. Illya knew the sturdy, thick-walled structure would probably survive the blasts.

"Formula?" mouthed Kuryakin.

Napoleon mouthed back an I-don't-know.

A quick look didn't reveal any alarms or booby traps. Even better, it had been unlocked. He grinned triumphantly when he recognized several formulae and text. He signaled for Solo to shine a flashlight into the safe.

"Hurry," Solo whispered in his ear. Illya ignored him and continued to study the pages. He took a deep breath, closing his eyes to ensure everything had been committed to memory. He shoved Napoleon away, activated and tossed a tiny button explosive from his fatigues into the safe, and closed the door quickly. A second later, he smirked happily when the safe emitted a muffled boom and shook.

They had to race to set the remaining charges. Just after the final one was placed and armed, they faced each other when they heard something from opposite ends of the corridor. Without a word, Illya leaned to his right to give Napoleon, whom he had determined was right-handed, some space to act and drew his silenced pistol. Nearly simultaneously, they fired.

Neither guard could fire before Napoleon's bullet caught one squarely in the throat and Kuryakin's gave his victim a perfectly placed third eye.

Illya re-holstered his gun. He tapped his watch four times to indicate the first charge would blow in four minutes. Napoleon nodded his understanding and waved his weapon toward the egress point, which was the exit closest to the last bomb.

Just before Kuryakin reached for the door lever, Napoleon spotted a thin, silvery filament attached to it. He touched Illya's arm and said sotto voce, "Wait." He pointed to the wire.

Illya's eyes opened wide. In his controlled worry, he sent the American silent gratitude for saving their lives. He nodded before turning Napoleon's back to him and pushing him a couple feet away.

Over his shoulder, Napoleon murmured placidly, "Rapidement, mon ami. Le temps s'arrête pour aucune bombe." [Quickly, my friend. Time stops for no bomb.]

"Atrocious accent," he breathed. The absurdity of this exchange helped to focus him, to not let time push him into a mistake. He strained his eyes to study the wire.

Good luck was with them. Disabling the explosive took only a few seconds – wise on THRUSH's part, considering this was an exit. Still, he hesitated a heartbeat before depressing the lever.

Illya exhaled audibly with relief when no explosion ensued. Drawing his weapon, he stepped out and checked for any sign of the enemy. All appeared quiet, so he gestured for Napoleon to join him. They ran over the uneven terrain to the cover of the trees.

Kuryakin caught some movement to the left of their destination. The meager light from the facility reflected off a THRUSH rifle scope that was rapidly being leveled at them. Illya shouldered Napoleon out of the way, causing him to stumble and fall. Illya, too, fell next to Solo, but as he did, he fired twice. Immediately, he was rewarded with a yelp and a thud from the woods.

"What the -" Napoleon started but stopped when the first of the explosions erupted, turning the night into dawn, rumbling the earth beneath them. By the time the fourth charge blew, night was day.

He looked to Illya, whose full attention was on the conflagration. The Russian's face telegraphed unbridled exuberance. Napoleon shivered and wondered, Pyromaniac?

Illya, feeling Napoleon's eyes on him, dragged his gaze from the fire. "That was ..."

"Big?"

"Satisfying."

Napoleon chuckled and assured himself that Illya had been thoroughly vetted by U.N.C.L.E. Probably. Hopefully. And that he'd actually passed.

"No bread for you."

Act 4: "A blessing and a curse"

The sound of approaching sirens drew their attention away from the raging fire. "There's my call back to action," Napoleon said as he stood. As prearranged, Solo would deal with the U.N.C.L.E. cleanup team and the local fire and police departments to preclude any possible issues with a Russian national.

"I will check on the casualty." Illya quickly made himself scarce, melting into the cover provided by the trees.

Napoleon shook his head in awe at the way Illya seemed to blend in to such an extent that it was difficult to even detect his movement. He jogged over to the rapidly set-up command center to start his post-mission work.

oOo

It was well past dawn before the two agents got back to their car. After opening the trunk, Napoleon pulled out two towels and tossed one to Illya, who immediately began removing the boot black.

Though he had been with Illya for less than 24 hours, it seemed to Napoleon that the Soviet was more introspective than usual.

"Something bothering you, my friend?" asked Napoleon as he scrubbed his forehead.

"It is nothing."

"I beg to differ."

Illya nailed him with a glacial stare. "You are being presumptuous." How could this brazen American ask that question of someone he hardly knew? How could he explain that even though he could kill without qualms when justified, he could still feel crushing remorse in the aftermath?

"Didn't mean to be. Just thought you might feel better if you talked about it."

Illya hid his silent sigh with his towel when he realized that Napoleon wasn't just curious or judgmental but truly caring. "I apologize. I am not used to, what is the expression … 'baring my soul' to anyone." If I were to do so, I am sure you would be the one with whom I would share. That thought both pleased and terrified him.

"I understand. I'm like that way myself a lot." Without warning, he wiped away a dark smudge on Illya's cheek that he had missed. "Ah, there. Presentable once again."

Illya surprised himself when he didn't recoil from the touch or stab the hand that invaded his space outside the circumstances of a mission. His vow to keep things strictly professional and impersonal with all U.N.C.L.E. personnel appeared to be breaking rather rapidly and thoroughly with Napoleon Solo.

"By the way, thanks for saving my life back there."

Illya smiled gently. "And I thank you for spotting the tripwire."

Napoleon chuckled. "Guess that makes us even. Or is it one more than you? And next time, you don't have to push me so … enthusiastically." He flashed Illya a brilliant, teasing smile.

The smile for Illya meant hope – hope that they would work together again, that he had made the right decision in leaving his home for the ideals of U.N.C.L.E..

oOo

Once back at HQ, they dropped off the unused bombs at the armory. Their next stop was the locker room, where they showered again and dressed in their suits.

"Excuse my rudeness, Napoleon, but I must hurry to complete my tasks. Otherwise, I would have 'treated' you to breakfast."

They laughed softly in unison, then Kuryakin bowed slightly and left the room.

oOo

Kuryakin, as lead on the mission, provided their superior with a succinct verbal report, including verbalizing the fact that Solo had spotted a tripwire to a small bomb, saving them both.

"Well, gentlemen, congratulations on successfully completing your assignment. Mr., um, Kuryakin, committing to memory the documentation then ensuring its destruction was an unexpected but welcome outcome. I understand you've already recounted your, um, findings with the appropriate people in our labs."

"Yes, sir," Illya said.

Napoleon gave the Soviet an incredulous look. "You memorized all those pages? In just those few minutes?"

Almost blushing, Kuryakin responded shyly, "I have a knack for … remembering."

"Mr. uh, Solo, Mr. Kuryakin has an eidetic memory." Waverly cleared his throat, which brought Solo's gobsmacked gaze back to him. "I think Mr. Kuryakin would agree with me that it is both a blessing and a curse."

"Yes, sir," Kuryakin replied.

Napoleon simply tapped his lips with a finger. So the Old Man has a photographic memory, too. That explains a lot. And how did I miss that?

"Thank you for your written report as well, Mr. Kuryakin. Mr. Solo, I expect yours by the end of the day."

Solo tossed Illya a pseudo-scornful look. "Yes, sir."

"That will be all."

Both men rose simultaneously. Illya practically bolted; he still had to pack before catching his flight. He dare not miss it, as surely the FBI and the CIA, not to mention representatives from the Soviet Consulate, would be at the gate to ensure he boarded and remained on the plane.

Solo stopped just short of leaving Waverly's office. "Sir, if I may have a few minutes?"

"Of course, Mr., uh, Solo. What's on your mind?"

Napoleon cleared his throat. "If I may say, sir, Mr. Kuryakin would be a great asset to Section II here. And I, um, wouldn't mind partnering with him." He hastily added, "From time to time."

Waverly waited a heartbeat before replying, "I will take that under advisement, Mr. Solo," he said halfheartedly. He picked up a folder on the desk.

Napoleon took that as his dismissal. He nodded while he fiddled with a non-lethal coat button, then left. Though Illya hadn't even left the building, Napoleon was already feeling the loss of the agent who could offer a synergy to their partnering that no other agent ever had, as well as a person he believed could turn out to be a true friend.

oOo

Waverly finished reading Kuryakin's typed report of the mission and set it aside for Mrs. Higgins to file. He was pleased he hadn't jinxed the pairing by putting the Soviet in charge, but he had needed to know that Solo, a natural and ambitious leader, could follow for a change now that he was soon to be promoted to senior agent status.

He also needed to know if Kuryakin could plan and lead a mission and show initiative when something presented itself that was not in the assignment, given that rote KGB training was notoriously hard to overcome.

Most importantly, he needed to know if they could work together. He had no reason to believe that Solo held a grudge against anyone from the Soviet Union, but he needed to validate that opinion. He also needed to know that these two "loners" could cooperate to complete a mission without bad blood rising between them.

He nodded at the success of this part of his mission and reached for the humidor for a self-congratulatory smoke.

Now to maneuver Harry Beldon into thinking the transfer would benefit him and, secondarily, the organization. He began contemplating his strategy in this game, knowing that Beldon was a bright and fierce competitor. Once he won Kuryakin, the next and much more difficult task would be to get the man a resident alien visa.

oOo

Illya was buckling his carry-on when Napoleon showed at the open door. "Is there anything I can do for you, Napoleon?"

"Yeah. Let me drive you to the airport."

"That is not necessary. I have arranged for an U.N.C.L.E. taxi cab to take me. But thank you for the offer."

"Could you cancel it? There is something I'd like to discuss with you."

"And that would be … ?"

"The possibility of you transferring to New York."

Illya found himself momentarily tongue-tied; never had anyone within U.N.C.L.E. made him feel truly welcome, much less wanted, except for this man. "That is an interesting idea to which I am not averse. I will cancel the taxi."

"Good."

"If you are planning on listing the reasons why I should request transfer, there is a glaringly obvious one."

"And that would be?" Solo echoed.

"Someone needs to give you language lessons in proper English," he said dryly. His blue eyes glittered with humor.

Solo's mouth gaped open for two seconds then converted to a broad smile. "Let's go before I change I mind."

the end

copyright 2018

Thanks to CoriKay for the beta – wonderful suggestions as always.