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section7mfuYou can find the story below the cut.
It was getting dark as he strolled through the streets of Bari in southern Italy. He was in the north of the city, in an area known as Barivecchia, and was on his way to hand-off exceptionally sensitive information. It was in the form of a microfilm, which was secreted in his breast pocket. The narrow alleyways of Barivecchia were beautiful but, even in the daylight hours they were known as a hive for petty criminals and pickpockets. At night it could be downright dangerous.
Keeping a confident and purposeful stride, he entered the alley which would lead him to his destination. It was quite busy, and none of the people ahead of him looked particularly friendly. Giving off an air of being a dangerous man to tangle with, he pushed on.
Several people glared at him, every prostitute offered him their services, and at least five people barged into him. It was difficult to tell if it was deliberate or accidental. He suspected the latter. Reaching the exit from the alley, two minutes later, he felt relieved at having gotten through without any real trouble. A soon as he was far enough away, he surreptitiously checked for the microfilm.
It had gone.
He double-checked the pocket and triple-checked it, before searching the rest of his pockets. The search proved fruitless. The microfilm had vanished. He stared forlornly towards the alley he’d just come through. He could go back in, but he didn’t stand a chance of finding whoever had taken it.
At the other end of the alley, Illya Kuryakin pulled out his pen-like communicator and assembled it.
“Open Channel D. Napoleon?”
“Did you get it?” Came the voice of Napoleon Solo.
“Of course I did,” Illya answered, in a tone which suggested he had been unlikely to fail. “Hopefully, we will soon interrupt several of Thrush’s Mediterranean operations.”
Illya tucked the communicator away and allowed himself a slight smile. He had learned to pick pockets at a very young age, as a necessity for survival. He would never have imagined that the skill would save more than his own life.
.
It was getting dark as he strolled through the streets of Bari in southern Italy. He was in the north of the city, in an area known as Barivecchia, and was on his way to hand-off exceptionally sensitive information. It was in the form of a microfilm, which was secreted in his breast pocket. The narrow alleyways of Barivecchia were beautiful but, even in the daylight hours they were known as a hive for petty criminals and pickpockets. At night it could be downright dangerous.
Keeping a confident and purposeful stride, he entered the alley which would lead him to his destination. It was quite busy, and none of the people ahead of him looked particularly friendly. Giving off an air of being a dangerous man to tangle with, he pushed on.
Several people glared at him, every prostitute offered him their services, and at least five people barged into him. It was difficult to tell if it was deliberate or accidental. He suspected the latter. Reaching the exit from the alley, two minutes later, he felt relieved at having gotten through without any real trouble. A soon as he was far enough away, he surreptitiously checked for the microfilm.
It had gone.
He double-checked the pocket and triple-checked it, before searching the rest of his pockets. The search proved fruitless. The microfilm had vanished. He stared forlornly towards the alley he’d just come through. He could go back in, but he didn’t stand a chance of finding whoever had taken it.
At the other end of the alley, Illya Kuryakin pulled out his pen-like communicator and assembled it.
“Open Channel D. Napoleon?”
“Did you get it?” Came the voice of Napoleon Solo.
“Of course I did,” Illya answered, in a tone which suggested he had been unlikely to fail. “Hopefully, we will soon interrupt several of Thrush’s Mediterranean operations.”
Illya tucked the communicator away and allowed himself a slight smile. He had learned to pick pockets at a very young age, as a necessity for survival. He would never have imagined that the skill would save more than his own life.
.
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