The Master of the Hunt Affair
Chapter One: Controlled Conditions

"Dr. Cochran... I want my partner back."

"But... but! Dr. Kuryakin is my most valued assistant. He's an integral part of this process. I cannot spare him at this crucial time. I – I need him!"

"Well, I need him more. He was only on loan to Section VIII for the duration of his medical leave. He's been cleared for three months now. It's time for him to come out and play again."

Napoleon smiled across the room as Illya methodically organized the workstation and returned reference books and notes to their places on the shelves. The Russian agent moved quickly, with focused intent and an economy of motion. Napoleon was pleased that Illya was no longer wearing the brace and didn't have even a trace of a limp.

When he had finished tidying up, Illya walked to Solo's side and stood, radiating ambivalence.

Solo turned to speak to him. "Ready for some excitement outside of controlled conditions?"

"More than ready," Illya responded. He held out a stiff hand to Dr. Cochran, which the distraught scientist took absently. Illya executed a sharp bow over the handshake and turned on his heel, heading straight for the exit.

Cochran wasn't going to give up that easily. "Dr. Kuryakin! What about our work? We're so close to finding the solution! We're talking Nobel Prize material here... you can't just walk away from – " The door swung firmly shut in his face, cutting off his entreaties.

Cochran turned to Solo, who shrugged eloquently. "Some people just don't seek that kind of recognition. For them, the work itself is all the reward they need." Solo patted the man on his shoulder in a comforting way.

Illya was waiting just outside the door. He managed to look both patient and agitated at the same time. "If we're going, let us go. And don't expect me to thank you."

"Thank me? Well, that isn't strictly necessary," Solo replied, nonplussed. Kuryakin's acerbic disposition seemed more than an affectation; the Russian agent was genuinely annoyed. "I did think that you'd be a little happy to get back into the field."

"Naturally." Illya rolled his shoulders and stretched his neck to relieve stiffness from sitting in one position for a long time. Falling into step, both men began walking down the long, undecorated corridor toward the elevator. "But the work Dr. Cochran and I were doing is important. If I wasn't confident that he could complete it without me, I'd be with him still. Fortunately, we made our breakthrough last night, and the rest is just," Illya made a fluid gesture with his hands, "consecution."

"I'm glad," Napoleon said, honestly. "UNCLE is lucky to have brilliant researchers like Cochran. I would have left you in peace, but Mr. Waverly sent me to collect you. Channel D has been calling and you haven't responded, and somehow communications through the lab have been, um... diverted."

Illya halted in his footsteps, turning toward Napoleon. "Have they?" He frowned, patting down the pockets of the lab coat he was still wearing. "I hadn't realized. Dr. Cochran must have taken unusual steps to prevent us from being interrupted – including the confiscation of my communicator pen. Come, I must make my apologies to Section I."

"I'm sure that will not be necessary, Illya. Mr. Waverly is aware of what Dr. Cochran was doing. He waited until he knew that you could be pulled from this assignment without damaging the results. He is, however, expecting us right away." Napoleon reached out and turned back the lapel of Illya's lab coat, revealing the strap of a shoulder holster beneath the sturdy fabric. "I guess you are ready to get back in the field."

The corner of Illya's mouth twitched upward. "Perhaps more than a little."

They resumed walking, their brisk pace continuing even as the corridor ended in a seemingly solid wall. When they were a breath's close, sections of the wall parted and separated, permitting them to pass through before smoothly closing smartly behind them. The elevator carriage was open and ready to receive them. They stepped inside, turning around to face the closing doors with unconscious, synchronized grace.

xoxox

Illya's eyes roved over the screen filled with numbers, as another man's might roam over the curvaceous delineations of a Botticelli or a Serebriakova. Behind his rigid back, Napoleon Solo and Alexander Waverly looked on from their places, waiting.

Forgetting that he was not alone, Illya murmured softly, "Numbers are beautiful."

"Your opinion, Mr. Kuryakin?"

Waverly's voice drew him back to himself. "Ah, sir... it appears to be a code. One of simple principle, but layered into a complex pattern. It may take some time to decipher – "

"It's a puzzle," Napoleon offered.

"Yes, but why?" Illya pounced on his partner's statement, fascinated by the challenge. "And for who? How did this come to us?" Illya removed a pair of glasses from an inner pocket and put them on, studying the grid of numbers intently.

"Other minds are working on this, Mr. Kuryakin. Enough of it has been deciphered to tell us that this is probably not of Thrush origin." Waverly toggled a switch on his desk and the screen went blank. Illya blinked behind his tinted lenses and turned his head toward the old man. "They are, however, still unsure of what it represents. We'll leave it for now and concentrate, if you please, on these reports."

Illya took his seat, opened the top file, and began to read. "This assignment is most important, and entirely suited to your more, er… energetic talents, Mr. Kuryakin. I am sure that you'll give it as much attention as you have Dr. Cochran's project."

"Yes, sir."

"Mr. Solo, you'll be on the next flight to London. I want you to help with the reorganization of our UNCLE office there. They were hit rather hard by Thrush, and they're working with a skeleton crew until the new recruits graduate from the Island."

"Sir." Napoleon looked longingly over at Illya's assignment files. He would have much preferred something more stimulating than corporate reorganization and paperwork.

Waverly saw where his gaze had wandered. "Yes, Mr. Solo, I realized you'd rather go out and get your hands dirty… but first things first. There will be plenty of trouble for you to get into after London." He half-turned in his seat away from them, and began to pack tobacco into his pipe with a bony finger. "Off you go. Keep me posted. Preferably with favorable reports."

Napoleon and Illya glanced at each other, then gathered their papers and took their leave. Waverly's assistant had a packet of papers for Napoleon, which contained his travel documents. He extracted the airline ticket and saw that his flight was due to leave in an hour.

"I guess I better get going."

"Do you need a ride to the airport? I feel the need for some fresh air after living in Cochran's lab for four months."

"Don't you have some cramming to do for your assignment?"

"Yes, a bit," Illya tipped the files under his arm upward, "as well as a trip down to Section IV for some programming… but it must wait. I need a night's sleep in a bed and a meal that hasn't been warmed up over a Bunsen burner and served in a Petri dish." Illya smiled as Napoleon gave a mock-shudder. "Let me get my spare communicator pen from my desk and I'll drive."

"Deal."

The agents made their way through the gunmetal warren to the parking garage. Illya produced an oblong cylinder from his lab coat pocket. As they neared their vehicle, he lifted the device, pointed it at the car, and pressed one of the buttons on the side. The doors sprang open automatically, lifting like gull's wings to invite them in.

"Neat gadget," Solo said as he smoothly slipped into the passenger seat.

"The size is still impracticable. Section VIII ought to have it sized-down to something more compact in a few months."

"You lab guys get all the cool toys before we enforcement agents do."

"Perks." Illya said lightly, moving to the driver' side. Then he frowned and ducked down to give Napoleon a dirty look. "What do you mean—you lab guys?"

xoxox

Napoleon's retort was lost in a crash of gunfire. The windscreen of the little blue Piranha whined and sang as projectiles danced off its bullet-proof surface. Napoleon ducked instinctively below the dash of the car. Illya dropped flat to the ground, his own gun barking in his hand. He could see the muzzle-flashes in the darker recess of the parking structure.

An alarm began to wail. The machine-gun fire ceased, and Illya could see dark-clad figures running toward the upper level. He pushed himself up to give chase, but had to roll aside to avoid a parting spray from a single machine-gun; one man had remained to provide cover for his comrades. Illya scampered behind a concrete pylon. The man hosed the area with bullets, shooting wildly. Napoleon's shots whined past the gunman's head. He hunkered down and fired blindly until the weapon stuttered, and he threw down his empty gun and ran.

Napoleon climbed into the driver's seat of the car. Illya was already running, up the ramp to the next level of the garage in pursuit. Napoleon punched the button that started the engine—saying a silent 'thank you' to his partner for installing a keyless ignition system—and threw the car into gear. Once the car was in motion, the winged doors folded themselves down, not quite closing, and the carbon-covered windscreen cleaned itself, the wipers smoothing away the debris of shattered bullets.

Napoleon sped round the curve and saw his partner climbing over the embankment to reach the next level. There was no sign of the intruders, but UNCLE security agents were beginning to pour into the area from below. Footsteps and shouted orders echoed around the hard surfaces amid the screech of tires. Napoleon gunned the little car's engine and pulled it through another tight turn. He had to drive through one more level and another turn before he would reach the street level garage.

Illya's shortcut got him to that goal faster, but it also got him into trouble before his partner could back him up. He drew himself smoothly over the last rail, landing lightly on his feet with his gun ready, but four men were waiting for him. One gun whiffed and a dart thudded through the thick fabric of Illya's jacket. He slapped at it, but he was already beginning to sag to his knees as the tranquilizer took effect. His gun slipped out of his hand and clattered on the ground.

The fifth man picked up his gun as the other four bundled the unconscious man into a waiting van, slamming the doors shut as its tires screamed into movement. UNCLE security agents fired on the van as it lunged at them, but their bullets ricocheted off the vehicle without effect. They smashed through the barriers at the exit and fishtailed down the street and was swallowed by the midday traffic.

As Napoleon nosed his car through the debris, a series of gas capsules—carefully planted earlier to assist in the escape—exploded and bathed the entire block in thick, blinding smoke. Napoleon had to stop or risk hitting pedestrians and other drivers.

He pushed himself up out of the car and slammed his fist on the roof of the cabin, feeling helpless and angry. They'd snatched his partner right from under his nose!