Author's notes: This was originally supposed to be a cross-over with an excellent police series from 1967-69, called N.Y.P.D. Those who were original MFU fans may remember it, or, at least, recall the fantastic theme song. Sadly, there is very little footage available, so I couldn't get much on the actual "flavor" of the show. Also, as with many of my stories, the plots seem to take a life of their own and I don't always know how they will end when I start them. Such was the case here, and Lt. Mike Haines, Det. Jeff Ward, and Det. Johnny Corso have much smaller roles than I intended. Perhaps in another story---
Many, many thanks to the author and friend who writes under the nom de plume of LaH Carabele for the section between Napoleon and Heather McNabb.
Please be reminded that I write from a 1960s perspective, so some of the facts will be different than what is currently true. As always, I hope you enjoy.---wz
Prologue
An alley somewhere in Lower Manhattan, early 1968
"I thought the message said we weren't supposed to bring anyone else!" Napoleon Solo yelled across the alleyway from his cover position behind two over-flowing garbage cans.
The recipient of the statement looked over his shoulder at his partner. "It did!" Illya Kuryakin ducked behind his own reeking garbage-filled trash cans as two slugs tore at the brick just above where his head had been a moment before.
Solo called out again. "So, what are those guys doing here?"
Kuryakin fired his weapon at a pile of boxes currently shielding two THRUSH operatives with infrared scoped rifles. "Don't look at me. I didn't invite them!"
"I'm beginning to think that this was a set-up," Solo mused as he replaced his empty magazine cartridge with a full one.
"Really?" Illya yelled back at him. "Getting a little slow on the uptake, aren't you?"
"I haven't had my first cup of coffee yet." He fired again. "Got any ideas?"
"It occurred to me that either they aren't very good shots, or we're being kept busy here for a reason."
"What makes you say that?"
Illya looked up at the fire escape opposite him and fired rapidly at the THRUSH who seemingly appeared out of thin air. The man gave a cry and collapsed. Illya looked back at his partner. "That," he said with a sigh, but then he caught a glimpse of two men at the street entrance to the alley behind them. "We've got more company, Napoleon. Behind."
"You take the back, I'll get the front."
Illya replaced his empty magazine. "Sounds like a plan. On your mark."
Solo raised up to a half-crouch. "Go!" he called and set up covering fire for his partner to retreat behind him.
Kuryakin began a run towards the street, his semi-automatic spitting bullets. Suddenly, the THRUSH agents on both sides of the shooting UNCLE agents began to disappear behind the discharge from carefully placed smoke grenades. Illya charged through the smoke only to find his quarry had vanished. A scan up and down the street showed no activity at all, not even an escape vehicle. Curious, but not enough to leave his partner to deal with the THRUSH agents on his end, he made his way back to where he had left Napoleon.
The dark-haired agent, however, was standing his Special at the ready, but the gunfire had ceased.
Illya approached his partner, gun drawn. "My guys disappeared. What happened to yours?"
"I don't know. I got one of them, but the smoke was too thick to see where the other one went."
Kuryakin shook his head. "I've got a really strange feeling about this. We shouldn't be standing here in one piece like we are."
"Leave it to you to complain about surviving a certain death situation."
Illya holstered his weapon and strode forward. "I don't think it was."
Napoleon did likewise. "So, why lure us down here if it wasn't a set-up?"
"Oh, I believe it was a set-up, Napoleon. I'm just not sure what kind." He pointed at the fallen THRUSH rifleman lying face-down on the asphalt." There's the one you hit."
Solo knelt down beside the body while Illya kept a watch on the alley. A sputtering oath made the Russian agent look down. Napoleon had rolled the body onto its back to reveal that the gunman was, in fact, a young woman dressed in a THRUSH jumpsuit with her hair hidden by the black beret. He looked up. "Good God, Illya, when did they start using women as gun fodder? She can't be more than sixteen!"
Illya knelt down and pulled the beret from the head of the dead girl. "Seventeen," he corrected quietly.
"You know her?"
"No, not personally. You've been out-of-town most of this week, so you haven't seen the newspapers. This is Rachel Morrison, the daughter of New York City's Deputy Police Commissioner. She went missing earlier this week." He stood up. "We have a big problem."
Napoleon stood to face his partner. "Illya, the person I fired at was not this girl! I shot at a fully-grown man." When the Russian continued to stare at the corpse, Solo caught his arm. "Illya, you do believe me, don't you?"
The blue eyes finally met his and the blond head nodded slightly. "Of course, but I'm afraid I'm going to have a difficult time trying to explain to anyone else why I do."
Act I: "I hear Rikers Island isn't very pleasant this time of year."
Kuryakin knew that no amount of persuasion was going to convince his partner to leave while Section Three secured the area and collected the bodies. Solo stood against the brick wall across the alley from where the teenager lay, encased in a black, zippered body bag, his eyes riveted on the spot. Illya stood a few feet away, watching the handsome face struggle for composure. Finally, as the clean-up crew carried the bodies to an awaiting van, the Russian approached his friend.
"Napoleon," he said quietly, "we have a report to make."
Solo drew a deep breath. "What kind of a report does one make in a case like this?"
"One that reflects the facts as you know them to be."
"Even when those facts contradict reality?"
"What we perceive here cannot be reality, my friend."
Napoleon turned his head and glared at Illya. "A teenager girl, the daughter of a prominent member of the City government, has been shot and killed in a firefight, and the perception is that it was my gun that killed her! That seems goddam real to me, Illya."
"Are you now doubting your perception of events, Napoleon? I can't confirm what you saw; I can only believe what you told me you saw."
"No matter what, the shit is going to hit the fan. Immunity or not, for the good of the Command, Waverly's going to have to give me up to the local authorities."
"Mr. Waverly won't let them take you into custody. Not while I have anything to say about it."
"They're not going to let me continue as if nothing happened."
"No, and I agree that you shouldn't be in the field while there is an investigation. There's no reason why you can't continue your administrative duties as CEA. In the meantime, I will find out what really happened."
"The NYPD is going to love you. They have rules, you know."
"And they have no idea with whom they are dealing. On both sides." He bumped Napoleon's elbow with his arm. "We need to get to Headquarters."
The dark-haired agent sighed visibly. "I really hope Waverly can talk them out of the whole arraignment ordeal. I hear Rikers Island isn't very pleasant this time of year."
The two men entered the tailor shop to be greeted by a sympathetic expression from the man behind the pressing machine. As Illya pulled the curtain across the changing booth opening, he murmured, "News travels fast."
The atmosphere was the same behind the heavy metal door. Heather McNabb, one of Napoleon's more steady dating partners stood up and kissed him on the cheek while she pinned on his badge. "Anything I can do for you, just say the word," she whispered in his ear.
"I appreciate that, Heather, and I might just take you up on the offer," he replied with his charming smile, that they both knew was forced.
Illya tapped her on the arm. "I really hate to interrupt, but Mr. Waverly is probably expecting us."
Heather blinked and came back to herself with a small gasp of surprise. "Oh, yes! I'm sorry, Mr. Kuryakin, I forgot you were here." She handed him his badge.
The blond Russian sighed and turned, affixing the badge to his jacket. "Happens all the time," he grumbled. "Just part of the furniture---" He did not pause to see if his partner had followed him.
The door to Mr. Waverly's office opened, revealing their chief seated at his large round table in discussion with three dark-suited men. Both agents recognized the Police Commissioner of New York City, and guessed other two strangers were plain-clothes detectives. Solo leaned over and remarked in sotto voice: "That must be my escort."
Illya looked up at his partner, somewhat annoyed. "And you say I'm pessimistic."
At that point, Waverly stopped speaking and turned to his agents. "Mr. Solo, Mr. Kuryakin, please join us. You probably recognize Police Commissioner O'Connell. His escorting officers are Lt. Mike Haines and Det. John Corso of the seventeenth precinct." The men nodded to each other as Waverly continued: "I've been explaining our policies in matters of this kind. He is agreeable for you, Mr. Solo, to be put on administrative duty, with the provision that your weapon does not accompany you should you decide to venture without these walls."
"You might, just as well, paint a target on his back," Illya objected.
"Your opinion is noted, Mr. Kuryakin. Perhaps you would like to offer your services as Mr. Solo's bodyguard."
Napoleon saw his partner's change in body language as he responded to their superior's couched reprimand. "I would much rather participate in the investigation. Sir." the Russian replied with temperance.
This time, the younger of the two detectives protested. "Yeah, so you can sweep it all under the rug to save your own reputations!"
The Police Commissioner frowned. "Lieutenant Haines, control your rookie."
The older of the two detectives grasped the younger man's arm. "Put a lid on it, Johnny."
Det. Corso knew better than to back-talk his superior, but he was still indignant about so-called UNCLE policy.
Solo studied the young man and understood his anger. "I agree to the terms," he said evenly. "I will make arrangements to stay here for as long as necessary."
Mr. Waverly seemed pleased, but the commissioner was merely pacified. "Mr. Kuryakin will be joining your detectives on the investigation."
"Our detectives are quite capable of handling this investigation, Mr. Waverly," the commissioner replied stiffly.
"I don't doubt that for a moment, Mr. O'Connell, were you dealing with the normal criminal element of the city. The people responsible for this crime are not the type of gangsters your organization is used to, or capable of dealing with. They used this unfortunate young woman for the very purpose your detective mentioned: to discredit UNCLE and Mr. Solo, in particular. They may even have a further-reaching agenda, we don't know yet."
"I have orders from the Mayor to co-operate with you. What happens if we find that your Mr. Solo's weapon is the one that killed Rachael Morrison?"
"In that case, we would not be dealing with a murder, but an unfortunate and tragic mistake. But you must remember, the responsible party is still THRUSH." Waverly looked up at his CEA. "Mr. Solo, please, surrender your weapon to Lieutenant Haines."
Illya stared at his partner in alarm, but Napoleon, expressionless, pulled the Special from his holster. "I'd like it back in one piece, if you don't mind," he said as he extended the gun, butt end towards the officer.
Mr. Waverly stood. "Thank you, Mr. Solo. Now if you would, please, see these gentlemen to reception where they can wait for Mr. Kuryakin to join them in a few minutes. Then I want to to see you back here."
If the CEA was uncomfortable preceding three men who undoubtedly entertained the notion of putting a bullet in the back of his head, he did not reveal it, neither by his expression nor in his bearing. "Follow me, please," he said politely.
Illya knew, however, that his friend could feel the animosity like his own Special digging into his back. He watched his colleague as he strode confidently towards the door, and willed that Napoleon might feel his loyalty and belief in him. Mr. Waverly's voice brought him reluctantly back.
"The findings on the physical evidence of the murder will be shared by the police and our people. I am giving you the responsibility of seeing that nothing is held back, from either side."
"Sir, you're not suggesting I take one of those detectives with me when I infiltrate the satrap? That would be putting him in unacceptable danger."
"Not at all. If one of your associates seems up to the task, you may use your own judgment, but remember they are categorized as innocents by our definition as well."
"Do you have a recommendation for how you would like this to be resolved? The police are going to want a perpetrator, after all."
"Yes, I know. Let's hope you are able to provide them with one. The higher the rank, the better, don't you think?"
"It would be my pleasure, sir."
"Try to co-operate with them, Mr. Kuryakin. I'm sending you to the lion's den, somewhat like Daniel, on this one."
An ironic smile touched Kuryakin's lips. "More like Elijah, sir, but I appreciate the analogy."
Waverly echoed the smile. "Good luck, Mr. Kuryakin. Keep me posted."
"Yes, sir," the Russian replied and went to catch up with his waiting cohorts.
Solo waited in reception with the three police officers wishing to be anywhere but where he was. Not even Heather's flirting smile in his direction eased the feeling that he was ready to jump out of his skin. His ear caught part of a phrase about the "short blond guy with the funny accent" and he zeroed in on the conversation. The one named Johnny was commenting on height requirements.
Napoleon smiled surreptitiously and couldn't stifle a come-back. "I wouldn't let Illya hear you say that."
The three men looked over at Solo and Lt. Haines said, "Why is that, Mr. Solo?"
"He might be inclined to show you how his height is one of his greatest advantages."
This time, the commissioner spoke: "Your partner is Russian."
"Well, he's very quick to point out that he's really a Ukrainian national, but yes, he's from the Soviet Union."
"A Communist."
"Yeah, what of it?"
"Who's bright idea was that?"
"Mr. Waverly's, actually. What's your point?"
"Does the CIA know about him?"
"Of course, as does the FBI, NSA, MI5, Interpol, and several other agencies I could mention. Again, what is your point? He's been with UNCLE for over a decade and he voluntarily fights against an enemy you know nothing about." Napoleon was becoming increasingly annoyed.
Before the commissioner could reply to Napoleon's terse oratorio, the steel door slid open and the subject of their discussion entered. He stopped short. "What's wrong?" he queried, catching their stares in one glance. He looked at Napoleon. "Warming them up for me?"
Solo caught the officers' attention. "Yeah---something like that." He gave his partner an apologetic smile. "Have fun."
Napoleon entered Waverly's office feeling a little like a teenager who had broken curfew. He knew he hadn't done anything wrong, but it was going to be a hard job proving it to the local authorities. He knew it was only by Waverly's standing with the Mayor's office that he wasn't being escorted to an interrogation room at 240 Centre Street. (The address of the NYPD headquarters until 1973.)
"You wanted to see me, sir?" Napoleon said, standing opposite Waverly at the large round table that dominated the room.
Waverly looked up from a report. "Yes, Mr. Solo. I have the Section Three report from this morning. I would like your oral rendering right now. Mr. Kuryakin is setting up a tentative agenda with the detectives. I suspect one of the first things they will want to do is get your statement."
"And you want to know my statement first."
"Exactly." He waved a hand at the table. "Please sit down and make your report."
Napoleon did as he was bidden and recalled the events of that morning to the best of his knowledge.
Waverly puffed on his pipe thoughtfully. "It appears that this plan has been well conceived and carried out. Do you have any idea what became of the man you hit?"
Solo shook his head. "They must have had provisions in place for exchanging him with the dead girl's body. And they managed to do it in the span of seconds while under a smoke screen."
"The quality of their personnel also seems to be improving, at least in this case. I'm sure we will be able to count on some unpleasantness before the situation is resolved."
Napoleon smiled inwardly. Unpleasantness, indeed! "I'll be sure to keep my statements consistent and within guidelines." The last thing he wanted was to peak the interest of police detectives anxious to solve a high profile murder investigation.
The communication console at Waverly's left warbled. "Yes, Miss McNabb?"
"Mr. Kuryakin and Lt. Haines are returning to the building. They would like Mr. Solo to meet them in interrogation room two."
Waverly answered in the affirmative and looked up at his CEA. "Good luck, Mr. Solo."
Napoleon stood up stiffly and straightened his tie. "Thank you, sir. Illya's a relentless interrogator," he said with joviality.
Act II: " Leave your arachnid relatives at home."
From Del Floria's, Kuryakin followed the police officers to the car where he was relegated to the back seat with Corso. Though he assumed an outward air of composure, he was scrutinizing the men around him, mentally gauging how to comport himself around them.
In the passenger front seat, Commissioner O'Connell motioned to Lt. Haines to wait before starting the car and turned to face the back. "Mr. Kuryakin, both your superior and your partner seem to think this THRUSH is something only your organization, and you in particular, can deal with. I'd appreciate it if you'd explain exactly what this THRUSH is."
"Perhaps, I can give you a frame of reference, sir. Think of THRUSH as you would the Mafia, but where even the mafia has scruples, THRUSH has none. They will use any means available to disrupt, thwart, infiltrate, subvert, kidnap, or subjugate legitimate governments with the ultimate goal of global coup d'etat."
The commissioner stared back at the Russian, frowning. "Sort of like your government?"
Kuryakin narrowed his eyes and cocked his head slightly. "With all due respect, Commissioner, my government is not the only one using propaganda to influence popular opinion. We can all try a little harder to coexist in this world. But if THRUSH ultimately succeeds, we will coexist---as slaves to their will."
"And you have a plan for catching this THRUSH killer."
"I can assure you, that you will have a suspect, and all the evidence you need to convict."
"Obtained legally, of course."
A small smile touched the Russian's lips. "Of course."
The Commissioner nodded. "We understand each other then. Lt. Haines and his detectives will assist you in any way they can."
"And they will have the credit for the capture and arrest. It should be easy to leave our organization out of the limelight."
Johnny Corso spoke from Illya's left side. "It doesn't sound like we're going to have a whole lot to do."
Kuryakin's smile widened as he turned his head.. "All of the credit and none of the work? You couldn't ask for a better assignment, I should think."
"We'll want to question Mr. Solo as soon as possible." Lt. Haines said.
"Of course. Are you free now?"
Corso spoke up. "I can question him."
The Commissioner answered: "No, I want an experienced officer to do that. Lieutenant Haines, Det. Corso can drive me back to HQ. You interrogate Solo."
Three car doors opened simultaneously. Lt. Haines walked around the car to stand beside Illya who regarded him with a nod of his head. Det. Corso got in the driver's side, a small smile on his lips at the prospect of driving the Police Commissioner.
As the car pulled away, Illya looked up at Mike Haines. "Follow me, please." And he began to walk back down the stairs to the little tailor shop.
Napoleon entered interrogation room two to find Lt. Haines sitting in a chair at the table and Illya leaning up against the wall, arms crossed. "I understand I am to be interrogated. By both of you?"
Illya straightened."We can talk later. Lt. Haines has some questions."
Solo sat opposite the detective, but leaned back in his chair, with an air of calm, one leg crossed over the other. "Ask your questions, Lieutenant, and I'll tell you anything you want to know about this incident, except what is classified."
Lt. Haines frowned slightly. "Why do I get the feeling there isn't a lot that isn't classified?"
"The very nature of what we do necessitates that general knowledge of our organization is undesirable," Illya replied from his place at the wall.
"Has anything like this happened before?"
Solo gave the officer an apologetic smile. "Sorry, that's classified."
"I knew you were going to say that," Mike Haines grumbled.
"I think we can say that an incident of this kind has never happened before. At least, in this country." The senior agent retold the series of events leading to the discovery of the identity of the murdered teenager.
"So, it is murder, then," Haines said, hoping to lure Solo to a confession.
"Don't answer that, Napoleon," Illya warned and he took over the task of clarifying the semantics involved. "In the strictest sense, Rachel Morrison was murdered, but Napoleon did not cause her death. She was, undoubtedly, murdered by an operative of THRUSH before she found her way into that alley."
"How do you know this, Mr. Kuryakin? Mr. Solo himself said that you were not present when he fired at the so-called grown adult who turned out to be a teenage girl." The lieutenant looked directly into Solo's eyes. "How is it, you couldn't make that distinction?"
Napoleon leaned forward. "There was no distinction to be made. I know what I shot at."
"And your word is good enough for your superior?"
"The Chief Enforcement Agent's word is good enough," Illya interjected before his partner could respond. "And Mr. Solo is the CEA."
"And you have no doubts."
Solo leaned back once more. "None," he said evenly, but Illya picked up on a tell-tale tightening of his partner's jawline and knew the answer was not totally the truth.
It was time to stop the interview. Illya stood away from the wall and approached the table. "I believe we've covered everything Mr. Solo is able to tell you, lieutenant. If you wish, I can make arrangements for you to be returned to police headquarters. Our medical examiner is currently performing the autopsy with one of your people. We should have results later this afternoon. We also have a team studying the physical evidence from the scene. I can see that copies of both are made available to all the necessary individuals."
Mike Haines stood up. "You never answered the question I asked you, Mr. Kuryakin. How do you know---?"
"I remember the question. I know, because he is my partner. And in this business, that's all you can truly rely on." He went to the door and waited for the New York City police officer to join him. As Lt. Haines passed him, Illya looked back at Solo with a glare that said the interrogation was not over.
The sliding door closed and Napoleon massaged his forehead as a flash of pain shot across his brow, and nausea crept up his throat.
Kuryakin passed the New York City detective to a Section Three agent in the garage to provide transportation back to police headquarters. He was headed towards the elevator to take him back upstairs when the agent on duty handed him a note.
"You got an outside call."
Illya looked at the paper. On it was a local phone number, nothing more. "Thanks, Gordan. Did Heather mention anything regarding the call?"
"Woman's voice. Call back as soon as possible."
The Russian could help but notice the slight smile on the other agent's face. "Do you have something to add, Mr. Roberts?"
The dark-skinned agent caught his breath, secretly glad he couldn't blanch. "Uh, no, not really, Mr. Kuryakin."
It was Illya's turn to smile, and he made it one he knew the other agent would never forget. "What some invent, the rest enlarge," he said quietly, and walked past the desk without a look back. The Section Three agent could only stare after him and wonder.
Illya stopped off at his office to return the mysterious phone call. When the other person answered, he had an almost uncontrollable urge to hang up on the caller.
"What do you want?" he demanded angrily.
A soft female voice replied, "Darling, you are so ill-tempered and impolite."
"I'm afraid you just bring out the best in me, Angelique. I'll rephrase. What could you possibly want?"
"I want you to meet me for dinner tonight at your favorite restaurant."
"Luigi's. Why?
"No, Illya, dear. That's Napoleon's favorite restaurant. I want you to meet me at the Russian Tea Room."
"And why would I do such a ridiculous thing?"
"Because, you would do anything if it helps Napoleon out of his predicament."
"What predicament is that?"
"Obtuse doesn't become you, Illya darling. I expected you to be rancorous but not to the point of refusing a helping hand. Do you think I would debase myself for just anyone?"
"You don't want to know what I think. If I meet you, what are you offering?"
"Information."
"What kind of information?"
"Pertinent information.
"And the nature of this pertinent information?"
"You are positively infuriating! How does Napoleon ever put up with you?"
"I do his paperwork. What must I do in return for this information?"
"We can determine that over dinner tonight. Will you come?"
"You realize, if I agree to meet you and your information is a, useless, or b, a trap, I will most certainly be forced to render c, a bullet between your eyes, and Napoleon's reaction be damned."
"That's the Illya I know and love."
"Now, who's being impolite? What time?"
"Eight o'clock, but I made the reservation for seven because I knew you'd come early. I will be there at seven-thirty. Order us each a vodka martini, would you?"
"Certainly. Please, do me one courtesy."
"Anything for you, Illya dear."
"Leave your arachnid relatives at home." He hung up quickly before she could respond, then, looking down at the phone, he snorted a quiet laugh.
Napoleon looked up as the door to interrogation room two opened and his partner stepped inside. "I thought you got lost," he said subdued.
"I apologize. I had a phone call to return."
"Anything important?"
"An informant has some information to share."
An eyebrow raised. "Anyone I know?"
Illya looked down at him, the expression firm. "No one you should ask about."
Solo leaned back in his chair. "Thought so. So, now it's your turn to interrogate me."
"Talk."
"No, Illya, I saw the look on your face when you left. You're pissed about something, though I can't figure out what in hell it could be."
Kuryakin sat opposite his partner with the same hard expression Solo had seen before. "I was just wondering if the lie came as easily when you were reporting to Mr. Waverly."
"What lie?"
"Don't play games with me, Napoleon. We've known each other too long. You know my tells, just as I know yours. You are beginning to doubt yourself."
Solo sighed in affirmation. "I know what I saw, and what I did, but---" He paused, catching the eyes of the man across the tabletop. His next words reflected the conflict within. "Illya, what if I'm wrong?"
"You cannot be wrong."
"Dammit, Illya, this is my life---!"
"I know," Illya replied quietly. He was concerned that the situation was weighing so heavily on his partner in such a short time. "This is exactly what THRUSH is hoping to accomplish. As evidence in your favor becomes more elusive and it will, it whittles away the confidence you have in yourself. You cannot let this happen, Napoleon. Now, I want you to tell me what happened this morning from the time we split up."
"Just let me sit here for a moment and play it back in my mind."
"Take all the time you need." Illya watched his partner close his eyes and noted the relaxed expression indicating that Napoleon had turned his attention inward.
Neither man moved for several minutes until Solo opened his eyes and began to speak. "When I sent you back to take care of the newcomers, I had not taken my eyes off of the two THURSHes behind those boxes. There was no way they could have made a switch before they used the smoke grenades. I stopped firing when the smoke got too thick, but not before I hit one of them. And that one was an adult male, I'm sure of it. They must have made a switch when the smoke obscured them."
"And the grenades must have been specifically intended for the switch."
"As were the two other men behind us. They knew I'd probably send you back to take care of them, leaving no one to corroborate what I saw and did. I'll bet they also planted evidence to contradict my story. I think you're going to find the autopsy report isn't going to be very helpful to me."
"Surely, THRUSH knows that even if all the evidence points to you, it's not going to bar you from the field. We essentially operate under the umbrella of diplomatic immunity."
"No, but like Mr. Waverly said, it puts UNCLE and me in the spotlight, tarnishing our reputation and it also plants that seed of doubt in my head. They have my dossier; they know how I would react psychologically if I had killed a child."
"As do I, my friend. Which is why you must believe in yourself absolutely. Is there anything else you want to talk about?"
"No, do you need me for anything else?"
"Not for the time being. I was going to check on the evidence report from Section Three, and then see how the autopsy is proceeding."
"I was going to see if Heather wanted to take a long lunch."
One corner of Illya's mouth twitched slightly. "She has always been one of your more staunch supporters. Will you be in-house or will I have to reach you by communicator?"
The dark-haired agent stood up, straightened his tie and headed for the door. He stopped at the doorway, turning towards his fair-haired companion. "Yes and yes."
Act III: "You see that our objectives are quite compatible."
As Illya expected, the ballistics report confirmed that Solo's Special was the weapon that fired the bullet killing Rachel Morrison. Further evidence did nothing to counter the ballistics. Kuryakin shook his head in disbelief as he read the damning information, but in the back of his mind, he had to marvel at the ingenuity of the scheme. It was a struggle for him to not doubt his friend when the report in his hands clearly disproved Solo's story.
"Here's the toxicology report on the victim, Mr. Kuryakin," a very young laboratory technician said, holding out the folder for him to take. "Nothing out of the ordinary."
"Thank you, Miss Southerland," he replied. His eyes were on the folder, not the giver, so he did not see the sad expression on the technician's face. A moment later, he realized that she still stood in front of him and looked up from the report. "Was there something else?"
The technician didn't move or speak. Kuryakin sighed inwardly; Section Two and Three agents had a somewhat intimidating effect on lab personnel. He was no exception, even though he spent more than a little time in the labs himself.
"Please, Miss Southerland---Lisa, my time is somewhat limited at the moment."
Her question came with difficulty. "What's going to happen to Mr. Solo?"
"Mr. Solo is protected by UNCLE's diplomatic immunity. There will be no repercussions irregardless of the findings."
"I saw the ballistics report. It was his gun."
"Yes, it is paradoxicalto say the least. What other tests are being performed?"
"Blood analysis, gunpowder residue, everything we can think of."
Illya gave her an encouraging smile. "I'm sure we'll find the explanation. And you may tell the others in the laboratory that Mr. Solo will be just fine."
His comment seemed to encourage her and she left him with a smile of her own. Illya, however, was not comforted by his own words.
Napoleon and Heather enjoyed a spectacular lunch. The beautiful Section Four operative had thoughtfully arranged to have an order delivered from his favorite restaurant. She set out the food and the wine on a table in the small apartment at headquarters that had been assigned for his use. And now, after the leisurely and truly delicious repast, he was seated in the one truly comfortable chair in the compact premises, an overstuffed armchair covered in soft chenille fabric.
"That was wonderful," Napoleon said appreciatively. "Thank you, Heather."
"Do I get to be classified as wonderful too?" teased Heather as she walked to where he sat in that comfortable chair and settled herself just as comfortably sideways in his lap.
"Always," he pledged her with a sincerely warm smile. Then he leaned his head against the soft plushness of the chair's back. "However, I'm so thoroughly sated, I'm not sure my body will ever be able to stir from this spot."
Heather insinuated one hand between her own hip and his waist, sliding it down to cup his genitals through the cloth barrier of his trousers. "Oh, I think at least one part of your body is quite able to stir. And it doesn't seem in the least sated," she noted as she squeezed him gently.
Napoleon groaned in aural appreciation of her tactile ministrations."Well, that part of my anatomy does tend to have more of an appetite than its upstairs neighbor," he forwarded.
"Ah, then it would be cruel to leave it wanting."
"I heartily agree," enthused Napoleon.
He leaned his head forward once more as she leaned hers down toward his. Their lips met, tenderly at first and then with more unrestrained passion.
"Your kisses are intoxicating," Heather voiced her own appreciation after their mouths had broken contact.
Napoleon smiled one of his mischievous smiles. "It's the wine lingering on my lips."
"A theory worth further investigation," Heather pronounced decidedly as she leaned in for another kiss.
Her mouth against his was open and inviting. He pressed his tongue inside its warm precincts, delighting in the taste of her. Her body melded against his, the obstruction of their clothing both an annoyance and a titillation. She pulled free the already loosened knot of his tie and slid the length of silk down the back of his neck, letting it fall into the cushions of the chair. His hand wandered over her breasts, fingers lightly caressing before he sought out the buttons of her blouse and began to undo them. They rose from the chair seemingly as one being, lips exporing necks and jaws and earlobes as their torsos determinedly denied the need for breathing space.
Standing, they eased away from one another only enough to provide access sufficient for removing the impediments of fabric between them. Napoleon pulled Heather's now fully unbuttoned blouse free from the waistband of her skirt, reveling in the soft rustle of material as it glided down her body and onto the floor. Heather eased Napoleon's suit coat off his shoulders, pushing it further and further down his arms until it too fell to the floor. And then...
Then Napoleon felt and Heather saw the restrictive straps of his empty shoulder holster. It was so much part of him, he had forgotten to remove it when he had surrendered his gun to Lt. Haines. That unsubtle leather reminder knocked them both back into the realm of current hard realities.
Napoleon's jaw tightened and he stood stock-still. His head filled with all the harsh details of the current situation confronting him with regard to the death of an innocent. A true innocent. A child. A death at his hands?
Heather reached up and pulled him hard by the shoulders toward her.
"Napoleon, just for the moment stop thinking and let it go."
"Heather, maybe it would be better---" he began as he eased a bit more distance between their bodies
"No, it wouldn't be better," she interrupted him. "You don't need to be brooding about this, U.N.C.L.E. doesn't need you second-guessing yourself, and I don't need you ignoring me.
"Besides," she finalized as she removed the empty holster from his body and tossed it firmly aside, "that little number never held the gun I'm interested in getting you to fire at this moment."
Napoleon's responding grin was wide and genuine.
"Anyone ever tell you you're quite the sexy little spirit-lifter, Heather?"
"How sexy?" she demanded.
"Very sexy," he assured her as he pulled her once more into a close embrace.
His lips traveled down the front of her throat as his fingers undid the hooks at the back of her bra. Then he pushed the loosened garment down off her breasts with those facile lips, finally taking the small hardness of her right nipple within the warm moistness of his mouth. Heather moaned with pleasure as his tongue swirled around that nipple. With less than steady fingers, she managed to undo the buttons of his shirt, finally freeing it from his belted waistband.
As he pulled her yet closer, her fingers roamed upward under the back of his open shirt. She felt the ridged skin of old scars there, mementos from a whip lashing he had received during a mission years before. And everything in her -- not just her body, but her soul and her mind and her heart too -- wanted this man. Not with any schoolgirl pretense of undying romantic love, but simply because of who he was and how much he had always been willing to give for others, others he didn't even know on any personal level but merely as part of humanity as a whole. And she wanted him because she also knew how much he would yet be asked and yet be willing to give for all those others whose names he would never know.
"Napoleon," she whispered in his ear, "take me to bed."
"With pleasure," he growled softly in return.
Because he too wanted this woman not just with his body, but with everything in him that reminded him life was short and pleasures few. Reminded him that tomorrow might find a bullet lodged in his brain, or a Thrush drug poisoning his blood, or ten thousand pounds of explosive scattering his flesh to the four winds. He wanted her because she was part of that whole of humanity for which he took impossible risks but from which he was isolated in so many ways. And he wanted her because she was beautiful -- beautiful in every aspect of being, not just the physical one -- and beauty was a rare thing to be cherished in a world where he so often viewed abject ugliness very much firsthand.
They maneuvered each other toward the bed in that small apartment, heatedly skinning remaining clothes off each other's body. From then on there was no more talk, only the primal sounds of two beings coming together in mutual desire.
At seven-thirty, Kuryakin sat at a back table of the Russian Tea Room. His was back to the wall and he was positioned where he could see anyone who entered the establishment. As requested, a dry vodka martini occupied the place to his left, while a two-ounce shot glass nestled in his right hand. A small decanter of Stolichnaya in ice was the centerpiece. He saw the platinum-dyed head of his dinner partner and downed his shot in one swallow. Angelique appeared at the table as he was refilling his glass.
"Are you drinking your dinner tonight, Illya dear?" she purred as she slid into the chair behind her martini.
He frowned a little. "I don't plan to stay any longer than necessary."
"You always think the worst of me. Can't two colleagues have a pleasant dinner together?"
"Pleasant is not a word I associate with time spent in your company. What is the information you have?"
"We haven't negotiated the terms of the contract yet, and I would like to enjoy my cocktail before discussing business." She lifted the cone-shaped glass to her lips and sipped, smiling at the quality of the liquors. "Excellent," she cooed. "I must say, Illya, you know your vodka."
He shrugged. "The bartender and I are both from Kiev. He keeps 'the good stuff' for his preferred customers."
She took another sip. "Well, as they say, it pays to know people."
Illya took a pointed, impatient breath. "I'm really not interested in small talk, so could we get to the business at hand? I can't help but feel that the longer I sit here with you, the less likely I am to walk out of here under my own power." And he threw back another shot.
She chuckled softly. "Well, if that happens, it will be due to nothing more than you putting away that Stolichnaya like it was water. A bit extravagant for you, isn't it, or did you just get a raise?"
"I was under the impression that the person doing the inviting pays the tab. You invited me, remember?"
"Oh, you are the little miser! I suppose we'd be eating at the automat if you had invited me."
"Your information is going to cost me dearly enough. Name the price."
" The current satrap here in New York---"
"---Rolland Hawkins--- "
"Yes. He's a despicable little man. And he's the one who set up Napoleon with the Deputy Police Commissioner's daughter."
"If his intention was to remove Napoleon from the field by framing him for murder, he is not very well-informed about the legalities of UNCLE's charter with its member countries. We have a type of diplomatic immunity protecting us in just these kinds of situations. There will be no prosecution."
"Yes, but we both know Napoleon. The longer this goes, the more the evidence stacks against him, the more he'll begin to doubt himself. And the more he doubts himself---well, I'm sure you've thought of all the ramifications."
Kuryakin looked at her and could not bring himself to disagree with her. He was already seeing it. "What are you proposing?"
"There is evidence that your people have overlooked, mis-interpreted or failed to find. Hawkins is too sure of himself and his personnel. Mistakes have been made."
"You must be up for promotion, Angelique. And I'm thinking Hawkins doesn't like you. Eliminating him as satrap would be a benefit to you. There's no other reason why you would make this kind of gesture."
She smiled coyly. "You're forgetting my affection for Napoleon."
"That is only a corollary to your own self-interests."
"I should be offended by that opprobrious remark."
Illya poured another shot, smiling. "Sticks and stones--- " he countered. "So, let me see if I have this straight. You would like to see Hawkins exposed as the responsible party for Rachel Morrison's death, thereby discrediting him by putting THRUSH in the public view. Central will not take kindly to that."
The platinum blonde drained her glasss and smiled. "You do understand, Illya darling! And you see that our objectives are quite compatible."
"Yes," the Russian agent said and downed the last of the Stolichnaya. "That's what scares me. I will take your advice and look a little more thoroughly into the evidence we have. And you may have your superior completely discredited." He stood. "Thank you for the vodka." Without a look back, he strode from the restaurant, leaving Angelique to dine alone and pay the bill.
Kuryakin drove to the site where the firefight had taken place a little over twelve hours earlier. Flashlight in hand, he walked slowly into the alley, looking at the ground for something yet undiscovered. He stood by the boxes that had been cover for Napoleon's targets and scrutinized the pavement. At his right toe was a splattering of blood, consistent with a bleeding bullet wound. He knelt down to examine the droplets. Another scattering of drops appeared about a foot away, but they were different from the ones in front of him.
He stared at the droplets as he puzzled over the significance of their difference. The answer came to him in an epiphany and he smiled widely in the darkness. The drops at his feet were from a stationary source, whereas the ones a foot away were from a moving source. The person Solo hit had been moved from where he was shot, towards the side of the building!
He reached into his jacket pocket for evidence containers and took samples of blood from both areas. With his cigarette case camera, he took pictures of both sample sites. He searched the area behind the boxes carefully looking for more evidence suggestive of what the blood spatter had revealed. At the wall was a half-height locked door complete with patches of dark fingerprint powder. At least, Section Three hadn't passed by this possible evidence site.
In another flash of insight, he quickly gathered up his evidence containers in favor of returning to headquarters. There was one fingerprint that needed to be checked right away, because if his hunch was correct, it would be the first piece of evidence in Napoleon's favor.
Illya rapped on the door to the apartment Napoleon was occupying. "Napoleon?" he spoke to the door, but heard no movement inside. Reluctant to barge in on what might be an embarrassing scenario, he pulled his communicator pen from his pocket. A minute later, he was frowning at it, and in absentia, the person who had failed to answer him. He wondered briefly how many women had paid a call to this door thus far, to "comfort" the man inside. He snorted a quiet chuckle in amusement, closed the communicator and walked back up the hall to the elevators to descend to the labs.
The day shift had already left, leaving a minimal contingent to study the new evidence he had brought in. The lead technician looked up at him from a desk-load of paperwork with a don't-you-dare expression.
Illya was not deterred. Pulling the samples from his pocket, he said matter-of-factly, "I have some additional samples from this morning's shooting."
"I've got a file full of reports on it. Bad luck on Solo's part, huh? Not like him at all."
"He didn't shoot that girl."
"That's not what the evidence says."
"The evidence has been manipulated to make it appear that way. I think if we check the samples I brought in and re-examine some evidence we do have, it will tell us a different story."
"Can't this wait until the morning? You know we don't have a full staff on at night."
"I'm more than willing to offer my assistance."
"Grab a lab coat, Mr. Kuryakin. I'll let Alvarez know that you're on your way."
Alvarez held up the tube containing a sample of blood Illya had collected from the shooting site. "Confirmed, Illya. It's definitely A positive."
"And the autopsy file says Rachel Morrison's blood type is O positive." The Russian agent looked up at his lab partner with a wry smile. "I believe that is what is known in the trade as an inconsistency. Don't you agree?"
The Hispanic technologist grinned toothily. "Absolutamente, señor Kuryakin."
"I have another piece of evidence to check. How are you with fingerprints, Hernando?"
"Ellos son mi especialidad." {Translation: That is my specialty.}
Illya's smile broadened to match his lab partner's. "¡Excelente! Follow me." He led Hernando to the ballistics area, and picked up the THRUSH rifle. "If there's a fingerprint on the trigger, I'm willing to bet that it does not belong to Rachel Morrison, but to the person with type A positive blood. And the man Napoleon shot in the alley this morning."
Illya Kuryakin was a happy man. In his hands, he held the reports of the evidence he had collected earlier, the fingerprint from the trigger of the THRUSH rifle,and a re-examination of the entry wound on victim's body. And those reports confirmed what he already knew: Napoleon Solo had not been the one to shoot Rachel Morrison.
He reached into his inside jacket pocket for his communicator and caught a glimpse of his watch: two o'clock in the morning. He was wide awake, and aching to tell his partner that he need not question his actions any longer. His hesitation was only as long as it took to acknowledge the time. Any interruption would be forgiven by the good news he had to give.
Illya reversed the top of his pen and pulled out the antenna. "Open Channel A. Napoleon, wake up, I've got good news." As before, his answer was silence, and he sighed heavily. This was as good as a do not disturb sign hung on a doorknob. He closed up his communicator and shrugged mentally. It wasn't as if the information couldn't wait. In the meantime, he could go home and get some well-earned sleep himself.
He stopped by his office and laid the reports on his desk where his partner could access them if Napoleon happened to "come in" before he did. The excitement of discovery was beginning to abate making the prospect of several hours of sleep enticing. He passed through the Del Floria exit, which even at this hour was open for business, and bid the tailor a good night. His apartment building was only several blocks away, and a pleasant fifteen minute walk.
Illya heard the click of the THRUSH dart gun and felt the impact of the needle almost at the same time. Someone is trying to be cute, he thought as he pulled the feathered dart from the right side of his buttocks. The light-headedness came quickly, and he knew it was useless to try to fight off those who were about to take him. He was aware of two pair of hands grabbing his arms, but consciousness had fled before he was tossed into a car waiting nearby.
Act IV: "You're right. He is a despicable little man. "
Napoleon was surprised when he tried his and Illya's office door and found it still locked at nine o'clock in the morning. Adding to the mystery, no one else had seen the blond Russian and the Del Floria security logs showed him leaving at 2:00 am., but not returning. A summons from Mr. Waverly suggested that his boss might have some answers.
"Is there any word on Illya?" Solo said as he walked into Waverly's expansive briefing room dominated by a huge, round wooden table that turned easily like a lazy Susan.
Mr. Waverly looked up from an open file folder. "No, Mr. Solo. Mr. Kuryakin seems to have vanished sometime after 2:00 am last night. Undoubtedly, he was taken off-guard, for we have not gotten any signal from either of his tracking devices.
"Obviously, you have not heard from him either."
Napoleon took a deep breath. "Ah, I was engaged in some work of my own in the apartment, and turned off my communicator."
"Yes, Mr. Solo, I am aware of your 'counseling' sessions yesterday. I can assume your morale is well-shored up?"
There was nothing to do but nod. "Yes, sir. The staff is very skilled."
"Indeed." Waverly changed the subject. "What I have here are evidence reports from the work Mr. Kuryakin and Mr. Alvarez did in the lab last night. Their findings have exonerated you from being the one who killed Miss Morrison."
Solo's mouth opened in surprise. "I thought the ballistics report was conclusive."
"The evidence was doctored. Quite ingeniously, too. They substituted the original bullet in the dead girl's body with a spent round from your gun."
"How is that possible?"
Waverly held up the folder. "It's all in here. The blood at the scene did not match the blood type of the victim. Furthermore, the fingerprint lifted from the trigger of the THURSH rifle, was not Miss Morrison's."
"Oh, my God," Solo said half under his breath. "He did it. He really did it." He looked up at his superior. "I need to find out what's happened to Illya, sir."
"By all means, Mr. Solo. And I believe his disappearance is directly linked to this affair. We've already seen that whoever has orchestrated this plan thinks nothing of murdering an innocent. Mr. Kuryakin is, therefore, in grave danger."
The first vestiges of consciousness brought an intense pounding behind his eyes. As he assessed his physical condition, he noted that he lay on a rather uncomfortable mattress, his wrists hand-cuffed to the cot frame above his head. His ankles had received similar treatment. His nose twitched slightly as he caught the scent of a familiar perfume and his head hurt more, though not from the odor. When he opened his eyes, a beautiful platinum-blonde with full red lips atop a curvaceous body filled his field of vision. With a groan in his throat, he shut his eyes against the pain in his head and the source of the perfume. "When are you people going to stop lacing your sleep darts with nitroglycerin?" he moaned at her. "It's bad enough waking up God only knows where, but the headache---?"
Angelique grabbed his chin with her hand and the rest of the complaint died on his lips. "Shut up and listen to me. You're lucky to be alive to have a headache. Rolland wanted to kill you the minute you were brought in, but I managed to convince him that torturing you for information was better for his career and considerably more fun."
"How can I ever thank you enough? Don't you remember what I said about our meeting being a trap?"
"I didn't know he was going to do this! I told you he was a strange man."
"The fact that he doesn't like you is certainly a vote in his favor in my book."
"He's not too fond of you either, Illya dear. All I did was buy you some time."
"Which doesn't explain why you're here sitting on the edge of my cot."
She shifted her weight uncomfortably.
Illya almost laughed out loud in spite of his predicament and his pounding head. "He found out about our little meeting!" he exclaimed. "You've been careless, Angelique. Perhaps, I've misjudged your sentiments towards Napoleon."
"My feelings for Napoleon, whatever they are, are none of your business!"
"If they endanger my partner, they are. Listen, your information was correct. Now, in order to keep my end of the bargain, I'll need to collect any evidence I can against your boss. And your boss. But I won't be able to that unless I can get out of here."
Angelique turned sideways and folded her arms. "Well, don't look at me."
"It's difficult not to," he admitted softly and she looked down at the Russian with surprise. "And if you tell Napoleon I said that, I will put a bullet between your eyes."
"There's talk about you."
"I know there is, it's in my camp, too. And I don't care about idle gossip." He looked up at his bound wrists. "So, if you're interested in getting out of this cage, I think I might have an idea."
"What is it?"
"I can't give you all the details just yet, but the first thing I need you to do is reach inside my mouth for my lock pick."
"You want me to---? I'll do no such thing!"
Kuryakin growled back at her. "Put a lid on your high-class indignation, and do what I asked! Unless you'd rather deal with Hawkins on your own."
"Where in your mouth is it?"
"There's a flap of mucosa on the left side between my gum and teeth." He opened his mouth wide while Angelique peered inside. "I won't bite you, I promise."
"You do and I'll rip out those exquisite blue eyes of yours."
Illya couldn't help but grin faintly, even with a open mouth.
A moment later, Angelique extracted a sliver of metal from the Russian's mouth. She wrinkled her nose with distaste. "Don't you ever brush your teeth?"
"It was no great joy having your fingers in my mouth either. Just hand me the lock pick."
She sat back and smiled at him. "I'd like to savor this moment, if you don't mind. You, so terribly helpless and I, your only salvation."
Angry at being toyed with, Illya pulled hard against the handcuffs on his wrists. "This isn't a time for games! Give me the damned lock pick!"
"Don't you bare those Russian wolf fangs at me, Illya dear. You need me. Now, ask politely, Ilushka, moj neposlushnyj malen'kij mal'chik." {Translation: Illya, my naughty little boy.}
Kuryakin glared at her, while a myriad of MAT adjectives paraded through his mind. Finally, he said through his teeth, "Please, Angelique, would you give me the lock pick?" {Information: MAT is a Russian "art form" of cursing based on five root words, all extremely vulgar.}
She chuckled softly and placed the piece of metal in his hand. "I adore you when you're angry."
"I'm so glad I could provide some entertainment in an uncomfortable situation," he replied tersely while he wiggled the metal into the lock of one of the handcuffs. In less than a minute, he had freed himself and sat up. "Now, would you be so kind as to give me one of your hairpins?"
Her hands automatically went to her hair. "What do you have in mind?"
"I need a slightly different method to open the cell door." He rose from the cot, while redepositing his lock pick and went to the cell door. "It'll be close," he murmured to himself.
"What will be close?" Angelique said extending a hairpin.
Illya took it from her and bent one end into a tiny hook. He pulled two buttons from hs shirt, threaded them onto the hairpin and bent the other end into a similar hook. Then he manipulated the hairpin around the lock bolt and worked the two hooks together, linking them. He straightened, a smile of satisfaction on his face.
Angelique studied the blond agent's apparatus. "How clever. How are you going to detonate it?"
"With my watch. If you would set the cot on end, I believe you will find it an adequate protection against my explosive lock pick. Afterwards, I would highly recommend we take the same path. I would hate to have to kill you because you might alert the entire headquarters. Clear?"
"You do care about me, don't you, Illya, darling?" She cooed at him with a sultry smile.
"More like Napoleon's reaction when I tell him I had to snap your neck. Get behind the cot, please."
For the first time since he first had dealings with Angelique, she didn't have a comment, but merely followed his instructions. He manipulated the detonation mechanism in his watch and faced the wall, covering his head with an arm. The lock exploded, and the shock wave a moment later, slammed Illya against the wall. He fell to his knees, moaning softly though his hands, which cradled his nose.
Angelique stepped out from behind the cot and gloated when she saw her adversary's blood tracking from each nostril. "Too much explosive, Illya dear?"
He grabbed her arm roughly. "It did the job," he hissed back at her, pain evident in his voice. "Let's go before we have company."
For the second time, Angelique followed Illya's order without comment.
"I need to find the storeroom for your internal security logs. Perhaps you have an idea where that might be?"
"Most of the security department is in the sub-basement. I generally have no reason to go there."
"Then, this will be a new and exciting venture for you. To the elevators." They went quickly down the hall and Illya pushed the button. "This is very strange; no alarms, no guards. Is today some kind of company holiday?" No sooner had he spoken, when he heard the footsteps of two men approaching. "You stay here. I'll wait behind the wall over there." He headed towards the other hallway extending perpendicular to the one from which they had come and stopped at the corner . "Remember, play nice. I'd hate to end the beautiful relationship you have with Napoleon."
The pair waited in their respective positions as the footsteps came towards them. Illya waited until they were ready to pass his corner and rammed both of them, knocking them to the floor and landing on top of them. He grabbed the coveralls of the man just under him, ready to plant a bare fist into his temple. Then, he saw the face of his adversary.
"Napoleon!" he sputtered in surprise. The man under Solo, tried to untangle himself and received a pair of fists, one in the temple and one on the jaw from the two UNCLE agents. Illya picked up the rifle from the unconscious man. "I have several questions, all of which will have to wait."
Angelique turned around to face the pair. "Hello, darling."
Napoleon smiled at the THRUSH and then looked at his partner. "I have some questions, too."
"Save it. Right now, we have two objectives: capture Rolland Hawkins and get their security logs. Why don't you and Angelique get the boss and I get the logs. Besides, I believe the lady might be interested in seeing the look on the satrap's face when you barge in on him and arrest him."
The platinum-haired woman walked over to Napoleon. "Indeed she would. There will be time later to talk about how I helped your partner save your delectable ass."
Solo looked over at his friend, eyebrows raised and Illya sighed with mild disgust. "I hate to say it, but she's right."
"Well, that will be an interesting story."
"There won't be any story if we don't get busy. I'll get the logs and meet you upstairs to take out any guards that happen to show up. The security leaves a lot to be desired from what I've seen."
"It's all security cameras," Angelique replied. "Rolland is into technology. He believes people can't be trusted."
Napoleon grasped Angelique's hand. "Well, he's got that part right." The two of them half-ran down the perpendicular hallway to the second bank of elevators.
On the top floor of the THRUSH installation, Rolland Hawkins sat at his desk, oblivious to the approaching danger to himself and the more subtle, but just as lethal, infiltration of his castle below. He was immersed in pleasant thoughts of his rise to THRUSH central with the exposure of UNCLE into the public's eye and the eminent torture of a high-ranking agent from that organization. That pleasantry would commence as soon as the newest formula of truth serum arrived from the THRUSH labs in New Jersey.
A buzz from his intercom brought him, unhappily, out of his reverie. "What!" he growled into the device.
The voice on the other end was crisp. "Sir, your ten-thirty appointment is here."
Rolland glared at his intercom. "I don't have a ten-thirty appointment!"
The female secretary seemed apologetic. "I'm sorry, sir. That appointment was made earlier this morning when you were out of the office. I didn't get a chance to inform you of it."
"Who is it? I don't have time for mundane business today."
"They insist that it's very important and can't wait." Then in sotto voce, she added, "I think they're from THRUSH Central---!"
Rolland involuntarily straighted his slouch. He could not believe that Central had learned of his brilliant plan in so short a time. "By all means, send them in."
The door opened and Rolland Hawkins waited expectantly to be praised for his ingenuity. Instead, a dark-haired man and a recognizable woman with platinum-blonde hair strolled in, each holding a weapon pointed at him.
He stood, enraged. "What is the meaning of this!"
The blood-red lips on the woman turned up in a deadly smile. "This is your resignation, darling."
Dressed in a THRUSH uniform and rifle in hand, Illya stepped out of the elevator and made his way to the archives where he hoped to find the logs that would prove Hawkins' guilt. Barring that, he would take enough of the films that the Photography and Documents division would be able to work up a convincingly incriminating photo-log. His only impediment was a guard at the door. Five minutes later, the guard and the technician inside were tied back-to-back in chairs, with gags in their mouths and a very real fear that their time remaining on the earth was measured in minutes.
Illya took his bundle and headed for the higher floor offices to meet his partner. Again, he was astonished at the lack of guarded areas and those he encountered, he easily talked his way through. If this was the quality of THRUSH, New York, he mused, he could understand Angelique's disgust of the satrap running the place.
He found Rolland's office easily enough and the secretary tied up in the chair behind the desk was a good indicator that Angelique and Napoleon were keeping the boss occupied. It was time to join the party, but first, he decided that he was not going to enter dressed in THRUSH attire. He quickly shed the coveralls, straightened his tie, more for the benefit of the secretary, opened the door. The scene inside almost made him burst out in laughter.
Angelique sat in a chair, legs crossed, holding a small derringer aimed at Rolland, but her expression was one of sheer boredom. Napoleon sat on a corner of the desk, his Special aimed at the satrap, with an expression of annoyed disgust. The THRUSH was the only one animated, and he was pacing like a lawyer giving a summation, rambling on about his situation.
Napoleon straightened when he saw his partner. "What took you so long?"
Illya was staring at the distraught satrap. "It only took me about ten minutes," he replied, then pointed to Rolland. "Has he been like that the whole time?"
"Only since we told him that we were turning him over to the New York City Police for trial for Rachel Morrison's murder. I think he saw the writing on the wall at that point."
"Well, I certainly have the evidence to convict him. He has a very hands-on approach to leadership as evidenced by the film I found. I believe he was making a visual record to convince THRUSH Central of his worthiness for promotion to their ranks."
Illya turned his attention towards Angelique. "You're right. He is a despicable little man."
Her reaction was a noncommittal shrug. "Hence my willingness to offer my services."
"Are we ready to deliver our perpetrator?" Napoleon said as he slipped off the desk. "I have transportation and my gun back, we have the evidence the police and the District Attorney need and Mr. Waverly has sent over the lab reports."
"I think it's an excellent time to depart."
While Illya hand-cuffed Rolland Hawkins' hands behind his back, Napoleon knelt down by the chair occupied by the beautiful lady THRUSH. "Illya and I, are grateful for your assistance in this affair. Sorry to leave you this mess to clean up."
The full red lips smiled. "Think nothing of it, Napoleon dear. I was delighted to help. As for the 'mess', please, don't stress over it for one moment." She stood. "I'll see you safely to the outside."
For once, Angelique was as good as her word. However, she could not resist a barb in Illya's direction. "I thought we worked well together, Illya, mon cher."
The Russian's expression was purposefully blank. "I'm just hoping I don't have night-mares over it," he muttered just loud enough for her to hear.
She looked up at Napoleon. "See how he treats me? You must talk to him about his manners."
A warm smile spread across the handsome agent's lips. "I would, but then I might not have you all to myself."
Angelique echoed the smile. "You know just what to say to me."
Illya's voice cut across their private conversation. "Do you think you could just make a date and flatter each other then? I'm quite anxious to deliver this sorry excuse for a human being and he's getting restless."
Solo chuckled. "My chaperone's barking. Perhaps you might be passing by Luigi's at, say, seven o'clock this evening? We could pick up where we've left off."
Angelique stood on tiptoe and planted a soft kiss on his lips. "Vodka martini. 'Til then, darling."
Napoleon joined his partner just outside the door.
"Sorry, Napoleon," the blond-haired agent said flatly. "Thank you for the dinner invitation, but I have other plans."
Solo snorted a chuckle, took the THRUSH's other arm and led the way to the car.
While Napoleon drove, Illya placed a call to the Police Commissioner to let him know they were delivering Rachel Morrison's murderer. The two UNCLE agents were to be met at the front of the building by Det. Johnny Corso, whom they knew, and Johnny's partner, Det. Jeff Ward.
Just before pulling up to the curb at 240 Centre Street, Police Headquarters, Rolland Hawkins suddenly seemed to become lucid. He stared up at the domed clock tower and laughed.
"What's so funny, Mr. Hawkins?" Napoleon asked from the driver's seat. "This is where you're going to be booked on killing the Deputy Commissioner's daughter."
The THRUSH continued to laugh. "The joke's on you, Solo."
With disgust, Illya opened the rear passenger's door and got out, dragging his prisoner with him. Solo joined him on the sidewalk. "Explain yourself, Hawkins."
"Standard THRUSH procedure. You weren't watching me very closely in the office."
Illya pulled on the THRUSH's arm. "You swallowed a suicide capsule---"
Hawkins grinned. "No trial. No nothing."
"We have your crime on film, you maniacal, sadistic coward. THRUSH still takes the blame."
Illya's scathing retort was interrupted by the two New York detectives.
"This is the perp?" Jeff Ward, a tall, good-looking black man spoke.
"Yes," Solo replied, "but we have for a few minutes. A hallmark of THRUSH policy is that operatives who are caught, are required to self-destruct. Hawkins, here, took a suicide capsule. He'll be dead in a few minutes."
"Great!" Johnny said. "How are we gonna try a dead man?"
"You'll have all the evidence you need to close the case. The family will get closure and you'll get another cadaver for the University Medical School." Solo looked at his partner who was grinning wolfishly at the thought of Hawkins being dissected.
"A fitting end," Illya said with a touch of macabre.
At that moment, a shot rang out. Four men simultaneously reached under their left arms for weapons and ducked. In the same moment, Rolland Hawkins' head exploded in a splattering of blood, bone and brain. The headless corpse then fell to the pavement while the four men straightened, staring in disbelief.
"What the hell just happened?!" Det. Ward sputtered.
"I guess THRUSH wanted to make sure anonymity was preserved," Illya said quietly.
Solo brushed at the bloody tissue on his jacket. "Scratch one cadaver," he said, deadpan.
"What do we do now?" Johnny asked, a queasy expression on his face.
"Call the coroner," Jeff answered. "Process the evidence." He looked up at Solo and Illya. "You don't seem surprised."
Napoleon shrugged slightly. "No, but their lack of decency never fails to amaze me. Give them the films, Illya."
Illya handed Johnny a cloth bag of film cans. "Everything you need is in there."
"This THRUSH just let you take the films?" Det. Ward said.
"They didn't have much of a choice. However, if I could offer some advice. Once you've viewed the films, I suggest you destroy them. If you don't, they will be destroyed, but they won't be the only things destroyed."
"And you guys deal with these people all the time, huh?"
"Unfortunately, yes," Napoleon said soberly.
"Sounds like fun," Det. Corso quipped.
"We also have a high turn-over rate. Stay a cop, detective." Solo looked down at his partner. "Let's go, Illya. I need a shower."
The blond Russian sighed heavily. "Me, too. I always feel that when I get caught in THRUSH fallout."
The UNCLE agents happily passed the responsibility for the corpse over to the detectives and got back into Solo's car.
"Who do you think was the sniper?"
Solo shook his head. "I have my suspicions."
"And you'll be having dinner with one of them tonight. You really like to dance close to the fire."
The handsome dark-haired agent smiled. "It's the only way to dance, my friend."
Epilogue:
Napoleon had a vodka martini waiting for her when she arrived. He dutifully held the chair out for her and planted a kiss on her cheek after she sat.
She sampled her martini and smiled in surprise. "Napoleon, this is the best martini I've ever had in this place."
Solo smiled coyly. "The bartender keeps several bottles of imported Russian vodka for Illya."
"I find it hard to believe that your miserly friend would go to all that trouble and expense."
"Believe it, my dear. If there's one thing our comrade is passionate about, it's his vodka."
"Who would have thought? What else titillates our little Russkie?"
"What's all the interest in my partner all of a sudden?"
"Well, he did have a few surprises up his sleeve. I think I may have been too hard on him."
"He'll be very upset if I tell him you said that. He prefers the relationship to be a mutual loathing society."
"That's a shame."
"Not really. You're the enemy, Angelique and that's all you'll ever be to him."
The beautiful THRUSH leaned forward seductively. "And what am I to you, Napoleon?"
Napoleon Solo smiled and his eyes danced in amusement. "Spice," he said smoothly. "Fire and spice."
---finis---
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