QuoteMe: Challenge 4 -- HE CAN HANDLE IT
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section7mfuName: HE CAN HANDLE IT (excerpt from THE STICKING IN MUD AFFAIR)
Genre: GEN
Warnings: Mild Language
Length: approx 6900 words (including an approx 740 word plot-background supplying Author’s Note)
Author’s Note: Since this piece is an excerpt from my long-gestating but still unfinished THE STICKING IN MUD AFFAIR, and since it actually comes from ACT II in the story, let me provide some necessary plot background.
Thrush has opened a science facility in rural New Jersey, but U.N.C.L.E. can’t figure out exactly what is going on there. Napoleon goes in to investigate and is captured, but not before securing a list of assumingly top-level Thrush (all code-named) expected at the site. Solo escapes, but his only venue to freedom is through an underground passage (unbeknownst to him actually a storage tank) filled with mud. He wades neck-deep through the muck and makes his way out of the complex. He then pilots a helicopter back to U.N.C.L.E. HQ in New York. When he arrives he is, of course, covered in mud.
Illya, who greets his partner on the helipad on the roof of HQ, notices something strange about the mud. Despite the time lapse and the heat, it hasn’t dried at all, and it has an odd citrusy smell. In short shrift Napoleon displays the symptoms of severe anaphylaxis, having immense difficulty breathing and breaking out in a rash on any skin directly in contact with the mud.
Solo is rushed to Medical; the mud is examined and of course found to be no ordinary mud. And the list Napoleon secured and managed to hide when taken prisoner reveals the Thrush-elite attendees at an upcoming demonstration of the properties of the mud (or rather MUD, an abbreviation for Microorganism Ubiquity Depredator).
A special multi-sectional briefing is called by Mr. Waverly. The briefing includes several of U.N.C.L.E.’s top scientists, a pair of U.N.C.L.E.’s lead cryptologists (these part of the meeting because of the list), and Solo’s physicians, as well as Illya as representative of Section II (with Napoleon for the moment out-of-commission). At this meeting one of the U.N.C.L.E. scientists reveals:
“This mud is a biochemically engineered compound, the purpose of which is more or less to act as a powerful disinfectant. In our tests in the lab we found it destroyed bacteria much more proficiently that any similarly intended substance currently known. The specifics of our tests also show that the focus of the compound is all forms of cyanobacteria.
“Cyanobacteria provide the first-line basis of the nitrogen cycle. Thus as a species it is essential to the survival of plant-life in general and supports the bottom-most link of the food chain. Not to get too technical about all this, but the simple fact is: destroying cyanobacteria in massive quantities could essentially alter life on earth as we know it.”
As for Napoleon, one physician details:
“Mr. Solo experienced a particularly severe, though somewhat delayed, allergic reaction. We have now isolated the specific substance that caused said reaction. Chlorine to be exact.”
When Illya insists that Napoleon has never had any more than a mild sensitivity to chlorine, the rather disgruntled doctor (annoyed at Illya butting into his clarification to Waverly regarding Solo’s condition) assures the Russian that his partner indeed does now have an extreme sensitivity to chlorine triggered by his exposure to the MUD.
“Though cyanobacteria are the main target of the compound, it nonetheless can adversely affect other forms of bacteria to some extent. In the case of Mr. Solo, the mud ‘disinfected’ his skin to such an extreme degree that the natural PH balance of both the epidermis and underlying dermis was thrown off. The reality that his skin no longer had sufficient numbers of beneficial bacteria to keep reaction to the irritant-in-question in check led to the exacerbation of his mild sensitivity to chlorine, a substance heavily present in the mud, into an intense hypersensitivity.”
What also has to be noted here is that during this briefing Illya’s often abrupt (if well-intended) interruptions of and bold (if knowledgeable) assertions during the scientists', doctors' and cryptologists' reports do not sit well with them, nor with Waverly. Thus the Continental Chief takes it upon himself to publicly dress Illya down during the multi-sectional meeting, something which both stuns and frustrates Kuryakin. Never fear though, Illya gals, that sly old fox Alexander Waverly does indeed have a purpose in doing so, a purpose of course that hasn’t yet been revealed.
And so now on to the excerpt (I know you’re saying “Finally!” [chuckle]), which begins just after Napoleon has been released from Medical and allowed to return home....
~~~~~~~~~~~~
HE CAN HANDLE IT
(excerpt from THE STICKING IN MUD AFFAIR)
by LaH
Midsummer 1969
Napoleon sat glumly at the small dining table in his apartment drinking a cup of what he found to be overly bland coffee. “You usually brew a better cup of joe than this, Illya.”
His partner, also seated before the small table, smirked. “I boiled the water and cooled it, then let the percolator boil it again to make the coffee. Had to be sure I eliminated most if not all of the chlorine content,” he playfully teased the other man.
Napoleon sighed discontentedly. “I feel like a goddamn invalid,” he made the expected complaint.
“Napoleon, I was simply being extra cautious, if a bit purposely facetious. You are, after all, only just out of Medical after that rather nasty bout of shock caused by your chlorine allergy. Generally just the fact that the water is boiled at the time of brewing would be sufficient.”
“If this ‘hypersensitivity’ winds up taking me out of the field,” began Solo, “I swear I’ll…”
“You’ll what?” challenged Illya. “This is not something you can shoot or sweet talk into submission. But you can exercise control over it, as the medical professionals have already explained to you. And, as long as you are willing to do that, it certainly will not take you out of the field.”
“Yes, as long as I carry with me kits with certain crystals and vials of a particular drug along with a couple of syringes.”
“Napoleon, your self-pity is becoming irritating.”
“Well, excuse me, tovarisch,” stated Solo with a definite sarcastic edge to his tone, “for not being pleased as punch at suddenly having developed a physical handicap.”
“Physical handicap?” Illya snickered. “Don’t you think that description rather melodramatic, my friend?”
“We’ve finished the installation of the filtration units in both bathrooms, Mr. Solo,” noted an U.N.C.L.E.-authorized maintenance man as he made his way into the kitchen from the hall bath. “Just the one in here to go and we’ll be done and out from under your feet.”
Napoleon nodded. “Thank you, Fred. You and your assistant really work fast.”
“I’ll check the chlorine concentrations in the resulting tap water once you’ve finished with the last installation,” submitted Illya.
Fred shrugged. “Sure, Mr. Kuryakin, if that will make you feel better about the filtration system being up to par. But you know Mike and I do resultant testing as part of final evaluation after setup. Thus I can state without hesitation that Mr. Solo’s tap water where the units are installed is now completely chlorine free.”
“Illya’s just overly solicitous of my health, like any trusted field partner,” Napoleon gentled the unintended sting of Kuryakin’s stated intention of himself checking the results of the filtration system. “No reflection on your work, Fred, as I’m sure you and Mike did your usual efficient job.”
“Hey, making sure you Section II guys are set up as needed is a pleasure rather than a chore. What you enforcement agents do on a regular basis…” Fred shook his head in awe. “Really something to write home about, you know? Yet you don’t get to so much as hint at any of it even to family and friends, do you? So me, who knows a tiny bit about what others outside U.N.C.L.E. never will, I show my appreciation the only way I know how: by using my own meager skills to the very best of my ability when required to ensure your safety and comfort.”
That brought an honest smile to Napoleon’s lips. “And we Section II guys probably don’t say it often enough, but that is truly appreciated on our part, Fred. Having a home chock-full of this or that specialized equipment could make household living like maneuvering through a constant squall, but you always make sure it’s smooth sailing.”
Fred grinned a bit sheepishly as he reddened in embarrassment at the sincere compliment.
“We’ll take our coffee into the living room, Fred,” Illya said to ease the awkwardness of the moment for the maintenance man, “so you and your assistant can finish up in here undisturbed.”
As he headed toward the couch in the other room, Illya was inwardly marveling at Napoleon’s natural talent for making others feel… important, good at their jobs and worthy of gracious acknowledgment in that regard. It was a social gift he had to admit he did envy his partner.
“Hey Fred, while you’re puttering around under the kitchen sink,” quipped Napoleon as he stood to follow Illya’s lead into the living room, “how about adding a scotch dispenser to the mix?”
“Glenlivet or Talisker?” queried Fred with a smile.
“Hell, there are two taps, so why not both?” responded Napoleon with a little wink before he made his ultimate retreat to the couch, leaving the maintenance worker gleefully chuckling to himself.
“Look at it this way, Napoleon:” Illya gamely took back up the former subject of their conversation, “You now have a legitimate reason to demur from jumping into swimming pools.”
“I never demur from jumping into swimming pools,” protested Napoleon. “Or lakes or rivers or streams or bays or even oceans.” Illya’s response was only a small scoffing noise. “Okay, so I might take an extra moment to… prepare,” admitted Solo uncomfortably.
“Yet you always manage, don’t you?” forwarded Illya. “And you’ll manage now, my friend.”
“This is different, Illya. I can’t overcome this by just taking a deep breath and mentally sublimating my gut instinct. Yet I absolutely will not let this physical weakness become something that critically costs others, particularly you, in the kind of dangerous situations in which we so often find ourselves.”
“Napoleon, I do realize – because that to which you are allergic is not something easily avoided like cat hair or rose blossoms – you have natural doubts about how you will cope in the field. I, however, have no such doubts. I tell you now that I will expect no less of you as a partner than I have in the past, and that I am unequivocally certain I will get no less. I know you: You are determined and resourceful. Those traits will ensure your success in handling this added twist in the make-up of your innate survival sense.”
Napoleon exhaled a long breath. “Thanks, Illya.”
“Not a problem,” Illya assured him readily. “Maybe you could put in a good word for me to Mr. Waverly regarding how capable I am at pep talks.”
Napoleon gave him a lopsided grin. “What’s that remark about?”
Illya sighed. “I don’t want to make an issue of it as it is now over and done. And quite likely it was just… an emotional hypersensitivity on my part to the situation as it unfolded.”
“But?” prompted Napoleon with a raised eyebrow.
Illya glanced at the American. Realizing he had inadvertently let the cat out of the bag, he uneasily accepted he didn’t have much of a choice but to fully identify the ‘animal’ to his partner.
“While you were recovering in Medical,” began Illya with noticeable reluctance, “Waverly held a multi-sectional meeting about what had been discovered regarding the nature of the substance in which you were coated when you returned to HQ, as well as the list you had retrieved from the Thrush facility in New Jersey.”
“And?” pressed Solo, knowing very well that he needed to be persistent in order to get out of the less-than-gregarious Russian exactly what was bothering him.
Illya sighed again. He really shouldn’t have made any mention of his personal dissatisfaction with what had gone on in the Continental Chief’s office a couple of days ago. However, now that he had ventured into the topic, he knew his partner would give him no peace until he spilled forth specifics. “Mr. Waverly was, shall we say, rather less than pleased with my various questions and comments to the other section personnel during the meeting.”
“Were those questions and comments relevant to the discussion?”
“No doubt of that. Still, the Old Man seemed dead-set on letting me know my particular participation in the dialogue at certain points was not appreciated.”
“By him specifically?” Napoleon asked for clarification.
“Well, more I suppose he was focusing attention on the possibility others in the room might not be appreciative of my… forwardness.”
“Ah.”
To Illya, Solo’s single syllable verbal feedback seemed to indicate that his partner understood more of the situation than he did himself. “I did not say nor do anything wrong, Napoleon,” he therefore declared somewhat defensively.
“I’m sure you didn’t, Illya,” Napoleon appeased his friend’s automatic reaction of self-justification. “But can I make an observation and not have you take it as any form of criticism?”
Illya crossed his arms over his chest, a gesture of emotional self-protection Napoleon was sure the man himself didn’t even recognize on any conscious level.
“Go ahead,” the Russian bid the American.
“There are often ways and means of both saying and doing things that may perhaps seem a bit roundabout, but that can achieve better results than more straight-to-the-fore measures. Understand too that Mr. Waverly never does anything idly, so maybe you need to unbiasedly consider why he might have done as he did.”
“But I really have no idea why!” disputed Illya with some heat.
“You’re a smart Russian:” stated Napoleon a bit cryptically, “You’ll figure it out.”
The exchange was cut short at that moment by the two-tone trill of an U.N.C.L.E. communicator. Both agents removed their devices from their suit coats to find it was Solo’s pen doing the persistent signaling.
“Solo here,” Napoleon spoke into the instrument after having quickly assembled it into transmit mode.
“Mr. Solo,” Waverly’s familiar voice sounded through the speaker, “I trust you are fully recovered from your recent medical difficulty?”
“Yes sir,” Napoleon replied.
“Good to hear,” Waverly fulfilled and then dismissed the social pleasantries. “Is Mr. Kuryakin with you?”
“Yes sir,” Illya spoke toward the microphone.
“Excellent. Then I can inform you both at once that I want you in my office as soon as possible. No more than half an hour, gentlemen. Don’t keep me waiting. Waverly out.” And the Old Man was off the line.
“Duty calls, I.K.,” Napoleon cheerfully commented as he disassembled his communicator and stored it back in his inside jacket pocket.
“So much for you getting a day to recuperate at home,” Illya, with a little half-smile, ragged his friend.
“I don’t need any more recuperation time,” Napoleon insisted, and his vocal tone was so sharply adamant that it really gave Illya an unexpectedly unsettling moment of pause.
When Napoleon and Illya entered Waverly’s office some twenty minutes later, the cryptologist Agent Consantitus from Section IV was already seated at the Old Man’s revolving table.
“Mneme,” Napoleon warmly greeted the Greek woman with an equally warm smile.
“Napoleon,” she returned in kind both his warm greeting and smile. “Mr. Kuryakin,” she then more formally acknowledged the presence of the other Section II operative.
“Miss Consantitus,” responded Illya just as formally.
“Do be seated, gentlemen,” Mr. Waverly cut through the polite niceties. “We have had a rather fortunate turn in events that should aid us in pursuing this MUD affair.”
“Oh?” prompted Napoleon easily as he and his partner seated themselves in their usual chairs at their boss’ round-table-like desk.
“Most fortunate indeed, Mr. Solo,” further forwarded Waverly. “A certain Thrush has had his wings, shall we say, clipped, with the result he is now being housed in a cage of our making.”
“Who would this be, sir?” Illya inquired curiously.
“One Dunnock Stiles by name.”
Napoleon glanced toward his partner for confirmation that his own unfamiliarity with the Thrush was shared. After Illya’s subtle head shake granted that assurance, he made mention directly to Waverly, “Not a Thrush I know, sir, at least not by name.”
“Oh, a minor bird in terms of the power structure to be sure. Most of Thrush itself, I would warrant, is unfamiliar with the man. Extremely wealthy and even more extremely reclusive, most consider Dunnock Stiles but a front representing in one pseudonym actual multi-ownership of a massive conglomerate that encompasses many types of businesses. Even we had trouble verifying that the identity belongs to an actual flesh-and-blood human being. Yet flesh-and-blood he is, and his inherited trust owns a chemical plant in the Boston area that has for some years contracted to supply various Thrush labs in the Mid-Atlantic and New England states. Thus…” Mr. Waverly pointedly looked in the cryptologist’s direction.
“He is on the list of invited attendees for the gathering at the MUD facility in New Jersey under code name Snyder Nelson,” gamely supplied Consantitus.
“And we can be sure of this how?” Illya wanted to make absolutely certain.
Mneme bristled slightly, just enough for Napoleon to notice. Thus the American agent stepped adeptly into the conversation. “Yes, Mneme, do explain to me – a man who admits to understanding the hard steel of a gun more readily than an inked stream of symbols – some of that voodoo in which you and the other code sorcerers in Section IV mysteriously indulge with such black-magic flair.”
This gentle wheedling contained an assertion that wasn’t quite true and everyone in the room knew it. Section II agents were expected to have a more-than-working knowledge of cryptology, and that more-than-working knowledge in both Napoleon and Illya extended far beyond the norm of most field operatives. But Solo’s ploy was to cajole the woman in a teasingly charming manner, and thus pet down the mental hackles raised in her by Illya’s perhaps less-than-tactfully worded question.
That methodology worked as the Section IV agent laughed lightly. “No voodoo or black-magic in this case, Napoleon. The Thrush in question came to us with the electronic credentials for entrance into the meeting conveniently imbedded under the skin of his left forearm. It was a rather simple matter for Section V to discover those credentials during routine prisoner screening, and a not much more complicated one for Section IV to subsequently decode them.”
“Organizational efficiency at its finest,” Napoleon declared with a little wink in Consantitus’ direction.
Again Illya found himself wondering how Napoleon could, in essence, ask for the same information for which he himself had previously asked, and yet his partner get an answer minus the territorial “huffs and puffs” that so often accompanied any such answer he himself received. He knew Solo had the “gift of gab” as it were, but the why of how consistently this sort of thing happened was honestly something of a mystery to him.
“And I’m assuming Section IV has come up with a method to duplicate these credentials under the skin of another, that other being an U.N.C.L.E. agent?” Illya queried undeterred.
“That would be simple indeed, Mr. Kuryakin,” conceded Mneme stiffly, “but the actual strategy for using this find is indeed much more complicated.”
Kuryakin raised an eyebrow. “Oh?”
“Yes. You see the credentials for Stiles could be replicated exactly, but that plan could easily backfire if but one of the other attendees at the Thrush conference had personally encountered the man before. No, the best bet is still to use one of the ‘ghost’ personae on that attendee list as the means of infiltration.”
Napoleon, during the last two days of his stay in Medical, had of course been reading the briefing reports on the nature of the cryptogram contained in the list he had retrieved. Thus he was completely up-to-speed regarding Consantitus’ reference to a 'ghost' persona. “You’ll manufacture correct credentials for one of the ghosts?” he therefore hazarded an educated guess.
Mneme nodded.
“And the Ultimate Computer will single out those manufactured credentials in less than the blinking of an eye,” insisted Illya rather categorically.
“Mr. Kuryakin,” Mr. Waverly sternly chided his second-best field agent, “could you at least wait until the whole plan has been vetted before voicing such unconditional objections? Thank you.”
“Ouch!” Napoleon mentally winced for his partner. The Old Man’s outright verbal castigation of Illya came as something of a shock. Usually Waverly would let Kuryakin straightforwardly intersperse his reservations concerning a particular strategy during point-by-point revelation of that strategy, even if those interspersed reservations did make others involved in the discussion squirm a bit. Something was up, but at the moment Solo was at a loss as to just what it might be.
Agent Consantitus continued in an admittedly somewhat smug tone. “In response to Mr. Kuryakin’s unconditionally stated objection: Yes, I agree, the Ultimate Computer would single out those manufactured credentials quite readily if that was the sum total of what was to be done. But let me assure you, Mr. Kuryakin, that such is not the sum total of what we propose.”
“Could you elaborate for us, Mneme?” Napoleon astutely jumped in to ask before Illya could do so and perhaps again insert a burr under the saddle of the cryptologist.
“Certainly, Napoleon. The Ultimate Computer has set up this cryptogram within certain pattern sets. Those pattern sets are the true key, for the machine’s logic needs them as verification of its own elaborate coding. Thus, in order to have the manufactured credentials of a ghost persona appear as valid, the pattern inherent in that part of the cryptogram must be accurately offset.”
“And to do that you take the real credentials of Dunnock Stiles, code-name Snyder Nelson, and duplicate them on the person of an U.N.C.L.E. agent with just enough of a twist for the computer to see an invalidation of the pattern and thus seek for the completion of that set somewhere else,” Napoleon speculated easily.
“I thought you didn’t have the mind of a scientist, Napoleon?” Mneme ribbed the CEA with a playful smirk.
“He has the mind of a chess-player,” gibed Illya a bit sullenly. There was no doubt he was sulking from Waverly having ‘put him in his place’. “You do realize, to offset such a complex pattern, you will need to ensure you choose the proper ghost? One definitely in the same pattern set as Stiles?”
“Of course I and all the cryptologists in Section IV realize that,” granted Consantitus in readily recognizable exasperation.
“Mr. Kuryakin,” Waverly now stated very distinctly, “are you somehow under the delusion that U.N.C.L.E. hires incompetents for any but Section II positions?”
“Ouch!” thought Napoleon once more.
“No sir,” Illya conceded but with some undeniable truculence.
“Then please give more credence to the probability that these crucial caveats have not gone undetected and thus unprepared-for by the pertinent operatives in other sections of this organization.”
“Sir, am I not to make mention of these ‘crucial caveats’ in an attempt to get positive feedback on what exactly has been done to prepare for them?” snapped a now totally frustrated Illya.
“Of course you are to make mention of them in such an attempt!” snapped back Waverly. “Yet you need to do so from the perspective of actually requesting such feedback. Not challenging those clarifications before they are even heard.”
Napoleon placed a steadying hand on Illya’s forearm, subtly reminding him to keep his temper under control. At that action, Illya took a deep breath, crossed his arms over his chest and regained his silence.
“Continue, Miss Consantitus,” Mr. Waverly, discipline restored to his own satisfaction, subsequently advised the cryptologist.
“We have been interpreting the pattern sets and believe there are two possibilities with regard to which ghost could be suitably employed in a bait-and-switch scenario with Stiles’ credentials check. We’re further analyzing those two possibilities to hopefully select the very best fit.”
“Hopefully,” muttered Illya under his breath. Waverly’s glare in Kuryakin’s direction was impossible to misinterpret.
“Correct me if I’m wrong, Mneme, because God knows I truly am no scientist or computer programmer.” Napoleon spoke, both because there was something on which he needed confirmation and to defuse the current situation with regard to his in-full-Russian-snit partner. “But in order for this to work at all, doesn’t the… purposeful mistake in Stiles' credentials have to be discovered rather quickly? Definitely before the ghost’s credentials are even scanned into the computer, right?”
“Absolutely right, Napoleon,” verified Consantitus with a nod.
“Then what you need to impersonate Stiles is a shill.” He ventured and received another nod from Mneme in ready comeback. “I’m guessing that’s me?” queried Solo as he glanced toward Waverly.
Now it was Waverly who nodded. “That’s the general idea, Mr. Solo. In this case, because of your previous capture in that facility, you are known to the security personnel. You’ll use a bit of a disguise of course; we’ll just ensure it’s none too effective.”
“Meanwhile Illya goes in as the ghost, with a much more effective disguise.”
Illya’s mope seemed to fade upon the instant. “Sir, you can’t seriously be considering sending in Napoleon as an overt foil in this situation? Not with that MUD under the compound and his distinctively acquired hypersensitivity to chlorine?”
“I’m not intending to take another swim in the stuff, Illya,” placated Napoleon. “And you said yourself that the doctors are sure I can successfully control the allergy.”
“Under normal circumstances, yes, but around that MUD? We have no clue how near to the substance you’ll be if they imprison you again in those subterranean tunnels. There might be physical or at the very least fume leakage into all the underground rooms. Having to endure the likelihood of torture and drugging at the hands of Thrush once you are captured is risk enough without the added medical threat of you unexpectedly going into anaphylaxis.”
“Mr. Kuryakin,” Mr. Waverly said frankly, “every precaution will be taken to ensure Mr. Solo’s hypersensitivity remains unexacerbated under the circumstances. However, because of his previous capture within that facility – a facility that is employing in key positions Thrush personnel previously unknown to us – it is imperative that he be the one to act as the aforementioned shill.”
“Sir, I know we are all expendable in the line of duty,” persisted Kuryakin, “but this seems to be a purposeful step over that line by the organization.”
“Nonsense, Mr. Kuryakin.”
“I can handle it, tovarisch,” Napoleon persisted in his turn. “I do know how to look after myself.”
“Sometimes I wonder!” disagreed Illya hotly as he rose from his chair. He turned and headed toward the pneumatic door without waiting to be dismissed.
Waverly halted this dramatic action that bordered on insubordination with a firm if unadorned query of “Mr. Kuryakin?”
Gritting his teeth, Illya took a deep breath and turned back to face his superior. “Yes sir?”
“You will work with Miss Consantitus on the final determination of the ghost identify you will assume for the mission. That will be all.”
“Yes sir,” acknowledged the all-but-boiling-over with indignation agent before he turned once more on his heel and rapidly completed his exit.
“Miss Consantitus, you are free to go as well,” Waverly dismissed the cryptologist.
“Yes sir,” she too acknowledged the Old Man’s orders as she rose from her chair and, matching Napoleon’s parting smile with one of her own, exited the office of the Number 1 in Section I as well.
Once it was only the two of them in that office, Solo stated pointblank to Waverly, “You’re being awfully hard on Illya, sir. He was only voicing the questions and considerations that any experienced enforcement agent would voice about this kind of mission, even if he did voice them a bit less… sensitively than either of us would like.”
“I am well aware of that, Mr. Solo.”
“Have you then some enlightenment you can offer me on the particular subject?”
“Not at this time, Mr. Solo.”
Napoleon let out a disappointed little huff of breath. “All right, sir. I’m assuming I’m dismissed as well?”
“For the moment, Mr. Solo.”
Napoleon rose from his own chair and turned toward the pneumatic door, his manner a bit puzzled and far less than content with the Old Man’s evasive reaction to his frank articulation of disquiet at the organizational head’s high-handed treatment of his partner.
“Mr. Solo?” Waverly again used his verbal authority to halt the imminent departure from his private domain of one of his operatives.
Napoleon turned back to face his superior. “Yes sir?”
“You needn’t be so concerned. He can handle it you know.”
Napoleon thrust his hands deep into his trouser pockets as he dejectedly accepted this assertion by his superior with a desultory “Yes sir.” Then he too turned on his heel and left the premises of the Continental Chief’s inner sanctum.
There was but little time before the Thrush confab at the facility in New Jersey was to take place. With only four days to prepare, and one of that precious span of days nearly half-gone, there was no leeway for dawdling. Thus, less than an hour after the meeting with Waverly, Solo had been summoned to Medical to have the slightly altered electronic credentials of one Snyder Nelson embedded under the skin of his inner left forearm. The procedure wasn’t exactly painful, but neither was it particularly pleasant, and the skin in the area of the implant was left reddened and sore to the touch. It would heal in less than 24 hours, but for the moment, as Napoleon returned to his office to once again read through the contents of the mission folder, he wasn’t exactly at his most alert as his attention focused on the physical discomfort he was currently experiencing.
The pneumatic door to his office opened at the nearness of his badge as it always did and, even before it had automatically closed behind him, a hand wrapped around his throat and his body was slammed none-too-gently against the nearby wall.
“What the hell do you mean by agreeing to this?” demanded Illya in a much less-than-friendly tone.
“Dammit Illya, what the hell do you mean by physically accosting me like this?”
Illya’s hand remained at Solo’s throat, keeping him pinned to the wall as he spoke on. “This is an unnecessary risk you are taking.”
“It certainly isn’t unnecessary,” debated Napoleon. “It’s the best way into the Thrush conference on this MUD and you know it.”
“It certainly isn’t the only way,” challenged Illya.
“We don’t have the luxury of time to ponder workable alternatives and you know that too.”
Since his hands were free, there was no doubt Solo could effectively get Kuryakin away from him with a well-placed punch to the gut, but he thought it far better not to do so. Far better to let Illya work through whatever stress was possessing him at the moment, even if that meant enduring a bit more physical discomfort.
“Further exposure to that MUD could very likely kill you!” the cause of that anxiety bubbled out into words from the Russian.
“Exposure to a Thrush bullet could very likely kill me too,” Solo reminded his partner. “Every time we go out on a mission, death is a very real possibility from many sources. And in any case,” he added in a lighter tone as he stretched his neck upward, “Thrush won’t need to do the job themselves if you wrap your hand any tighter around my windpipe.”
“Sorry,” contritely apologized Kuryakin as he eased his fingers from around his partner’s throat. He then went to the leather sofa in the room and plopped down on it dejectedly.
“What is it, Illya?” queried Napoleon with real concern as he idly rubbed along his Adam’s apple. “It isn’t like you to be so… contrary about the requirements of an assignment.”
“I don’t know,” admitted Illya with a small sigh. “I just have a bad feeling about this.”
“Hey, going with a gut instinct is my M.O.,” cheerily teased Napoleon as he sat on the couch beside his friend. “You prefer the logical approach; remember?”
Illya smiled weakly. “Mr. Waverly seems less-than-thrilled at the moment with my logical approach.”
“Illya, don’t let the Old Man’s cunning spymaster routine get you down. You know as well as I do that he is building toward something with these summary rebukes he is giving you.”
“Maybe he wants to send me packing back to the Soviet Union,” suggested Illya only half-in-jest.
“And maybe you should stop being so damn broody,” suggested Napoleon in turn, though perhaps with more than a little edginess in his tone.
“I don’t brood.”
Napoleon snickered in response to that statement. “You do realize that’s like me saying I don’t date?”
Illya turned very determined blue eyes on the face of his partner.
“You do realize, if that MUD kills you, I will ferret out every one of the Thrush in that facility, no matter how high or low in the organization, and personally kill each and every one? No mercy bullets; no capture; no deals.”
Napoleon’s hazel eyes widened in shock. “Whoa, Illya, calm down! I’m not going on a suicide mission! I have every intention of getting out of that facility alive. And I’ll have you on the inside to aid me in doing just that.”
“I can’t stop your allergy from killing you, Napoleon.”
“I’ll handle the allergy, Illya. Like I said in Waverly’s office: I’m not intending to take another swim in that MUD. I’m perfectly aware I can’t do anything so cavalier under the current circumstances. I’m getting a double dose of antihistamine shots before we leave for the mission. And Section VIII is going to conceal thiosulphate crystals in fake moles and scars on my body, in case I have need of those to de-chlorinate water to drink while I’m imprisoned.”
“And epinephrine?”
“I can’t hide vials of epinephrine or syringes any place that Thrush won’t search when I’m taken prisoner, tovarisch. But that is only a worst case scenario need anyway.”
“I’ll take those with me.”
“Illya—” Napoleon began to object.
“I’ll say I’m allergic to bee stings,” asserted Illya with resolute plausibility. “I’m going in as a fictional persona; thus I can make up a convenient background. If Thrush tests the vials, they will just find they contain the epinephrine I tell them they do; so no reason for the birdies to suspect anything.”
“All right, Illya,” acquiesced the CEA, “if that will put you more at ease.”
“Don’t condescend to me, Napoleon,” Illya noted with sharpness in his voice. “I’m simply taking the logical approach you insist is my M.O.,” he added in a much more playful tone.
Sensing the slackening of his Number 2’s unusual underlying tension with regard to the mission, Solo smiled. “Hey, together we’ll flush all the MUDdy slime right into the sewers, tovarisch.”
Illya rolled his eyes at Napoleon’s silly metaphor, all the while intent on a design that would allow him to keep right on hearing those misbegotten figures of speech from the lips of his partner once this particular mission was complete.
“Let’s run the pattern series through the computer again,” forwarded Illya uncompromisingly.
“Mr. Kuryakin,” responded a rather irritated and definitely exhausted Mneme Consantitus, “we have verified the resultant sequence a dozen times since we decided it was the proper setup over six hours ago. And that was only after it took us some twelve hours to arrive at the sequence in the first place. Frankly I think it is time we accepted what we have is the best fit.”
“Miss Consantitus, must I remind you that the fate of world could well rest on this sequence truly being ‘the best fit’, as you call it? And as well that we are deliberately relinquishing an enforcement agent into enemy hands in order to utilize this access scenario into the Thrush summit at the MUD facility? We owe it to that agent, as well as to humanity as a whole, to be as sure as scientifically possible on the probable success of this course of action.”
Illya would never admit to the cryptologist, or indeed to anyone at all, how worried he was about Napoleon’s purposeful placement into Thrush captivity as part of the tactical approach for getting inside the MUD confab. Yet that worry was a continual knot in his stomach now as the hours crept closer to the inevitability. There was really no telling what Thrush might decide to do with Solo once they had him in custody, though it actually played into U.N.C.L.E.’s favor that Napoleon was who he was. It was highly unlikely that those at Central would consent to an immediate death sentence for an U.N.C.L.E. operative of Solo’s status and reputation. Being North American CEA and likely successor to Waverly’s position, as well as a longtime thorn in Thrush’s side, made it much more likely the members of the supra-nation’s Supreme Council would want Napoleon simply held at the MUD facility until they could transport him someplace where he would be most thoroughly questioned and his capture giddily lorded over by the top echelon of the Hierarchy.
U.N.C.L.E.’s (and Illya’s) intention was to have Solo well out of enemy clutches before he was so transported of course. Assuming everything ran to plan. But then again when had the scope of any mission ever run entirely to plan? And Illya was only too viscerally aware of that obdurate conundrum.
“You need not stay any longer, Miss Consantitus,” Illya more than hinted in a rather clipped and definitely icy voice. “I can run the pattern progression a final time by myself.”
Mneme Consantitus was so infuriated by Illya Kuryakin’s overbearing attitude, she wanted to scream. He acted like no one other than himself was concerned about the results of the affair or the safety of Napoleon Solo. She too worked for U.N.C.L.E. and wholeheartedly believed in the ideals of the organization. She too wanted to outmaneuver Thrush in this latest world-threatening and power-grabbing endeavor. And she too liked Solo and considered him a friend; thus would she never want to see the man hung out to dry in order to accomplish any mission goal.
“The primary responsibility for the pattern progression is mine, not yours, Mr. Kuryakin. Thus, if there is a need to run the series yet again, I will handle that need.”
“Indeed, Miss Consantitus,” spoke Mr. Waverly, having quite unusually entered the precincts of the computer lab and caught Mneme’s last assertion in the process.
“Good evening, Mr. Waverly,” the cryptologist acknowledged the unexpected presence of the Continental Chief within the working domain of Section IV.
“Sir,” Illya equally acknowledged his superior’s presence, if in a bit terser vocal tone.
“I take it, Miss Consantitus, that you are fully satisfied that the pattern sequence in question is up to snuff?”
“Yes sir,” Mneme didn’t hesitate to forward. “It’s been checked and sextuple-checked and, within the framework of what we can determine of the Ultimate Computer’s setup of the positive-versus-negative cipher models, this sequence offers the best chance of success in the forced reconfiguration of the credentials for a distinct ghost persona.”
Waverly nodded; then turned his gaze toward his Section II operative. “And I take it that you are not yet fully satisfied as to this specific pattern being the one necessary to force such a reconfiguration, Mr. Kuryakin?”
“I just want to absolutely ensure we are not missing anything, sir.”
Again Waverly nodded. “And have you reason to believe we might be missing something in particular?” he then demanded in no uncertain terms of the enforcement agent.
Illya flushed slightly. He didn’t really have any logical reason to suspect such a thing. He just had a gut feeling.
“No sir,” he reluctantly admitted.
“Then I suggest, Mr. Kuryakin, that you trust in the expertise of Miss Consantitus in this matter and get on with actually setting up the details of the ghost persona you intend to use in the undercover operation. All that ghost currently has is an alias that should be accepted by Thrush. You need to make the man come across as real with a believable background.”
“Yes sir,” Illya accepted his boss’ decision, as well as the sting of the implied reproof at his own dogged assiduousness in continuing to doubt the cryptologist’s experienced conclusion on the subject of the actual pattern progression.
Yet accepted or not, that reproof bothered Illya. He just couldn’t put his finger on the why of Waverly’s current curt manner toward him. And he also couldn’t help the somewhat self-pitying contemplation that the Old Man would likely have judged a simple ‘gut instinct’ as plausible reason for Napoleon to prolong the testing process on the pattern progression.
Such thoughts gained him nothing but personal chagrin, however, and he had an assignment to tackle. A very difficult assignment where the life of his field partner and best friend could well rest on there being no missteps in the mission as it had been “blueprinted” by the definitive architect of all things U.N.C.L.E.: Alexander Waverly.
—The End—
(at least of the excerpt…)
Genre: GEN
Warnings: Mild Language
Length: approx 6900 words (including an approx 740 word plot-background supplying Author’s Note)
Author’s Note: Since this piece is an excerpt from my long-gestating but still unfinished THE STICKING IN MUD AFFAIR, and since it actually comes from ACT II in the story, let me provide some necessary plot background.
Thrush has opened a science facility in rural New Jersey, but U.N.C.L.E. can’t figure out exactly what is going on there. Napoleon goes in to investigate and is captured, but not before securing a list of assumingly top-level Thrush (all code-named) expected at the site. Solo escapes, but his only venue to freedom is through an underground passage (unbeknownst to him actually a storage tank) filled with mud. He wades neck-deep through the muck and makes his way out of the complex. He then pilots a helicopter back to U.N.C.L.E. HQ in New York. When he arrives he is, of course, covered in mud.
Illya, who greets his partner on the helipad on the roof of HQ, notices something strange about the mud. Despite the time lapse and the heat, it hasn’t dried at all, and it has an odd citrusy smell. In short shrift Napoleon displays the symptoms of severe anaphylaxis, having immense difficulty breathing and breaking out in a rash on any skin directly in contact with the mud.
Solo is rushed to Medical; the mud is examined and of course found to be no ordinary mud. And the list Napoleon secured and managed to hide when taken prisoner reveals the Thrush-elite attendees at an upcoming demonstration of the properties of the mud (or rather MUD, an abbreviation for Microorganism Ubiquity Depredator).
A special multi-sectional briefing is called by Mr. Waverly. The briefing includes several of U.N.C.L.E.’s top scientists, a pair of U.N.C.L.E.’s lead cryptologists (these part of the meeting because of the list), and Solo’s physicians, as well as Illya as representative of Section II (with Napoleon for the moment out-of-commission). At this meeting one of the U.N.C.L.E. scientists reveals:
“This mud is a biochemically engineered compound, the purpose of which is more or less to act as a powerful disinfectant. In our tests in the lab we found it destroyed bacteria much more proficiently that any similarly intended substance currently known. The specifics of our tests also show that the focus of the compound is all forms of cyanobacteria.
“Cyanobacteria provide the first-line basis of the nitrogen cycle. Thus as a species it is essential to the survival of plant-life in general and supports the bottom-most link of the food chain. Not to get too technical about all this, but the simple fact is: destroying cyanobacteria in massive quantities could essentially alter life on earth as we know it.”
As for Napoleon, one physician details:
“Mr. Solo experienced a particularly severe, though somewhat delayed, allergic reaction. We have now isolated the specific substance that caused said reaction. Chlorine to be exact.”
When Illya insists that Napoleon has never had any more than a mild sensitivity to chlorine, the rather disgruntled doctor (annoyed at Illya butting into his clarification to Waverly regarding Solo’s condition) assures the Russian that his partner indeed does now have an extreme sensitivity to chlorine triggered by his exposure to the MUD.
“Though cyanobacteria are the main target of the compound, it nonetheless can adversely affect other forms of bacteria to some extent. In the case of Mr. Solo, the mud ‘disinfected’ his skin to such an extreme degree that the natural PH balance of both the epidermis and underlying dermis was thrown off. The reality that his skin no longer had sufficient numbers of beneficial bacteria to keep reaction to the irritant-in-question in check led to the exacerbation of his mild sensitivity to chlorine, a substance heavily present in the mud, into an intense hypersensitivity.”
What also has to be noted here is that during this briefing Illya’s often abrupt (if well-intended) interruptions of and bold (if knowledgeable) assertions during the scientists', doctors' and cryptologists' reports do not sit well with them, nor with Waverly. Thus the Continental Chief takes it upon himself to publicly dress Illya down during the multi-sectional meeting, something which both stuns and frustrates Kuryakin. Never fear though, Illya gals, that sly old fox Alexander Waverly does indeed have a purpose in doing so, a purpose of course that hasn’t yet been revealed.
And so now on to the excerpt (I know you’re saying “Finally!” [chuckle]), which begins just after Napoleon has been released from Medical and allowed to return home....
Charm is the quality in others that makes us more satisfied with ourselves.
~~~ Henri Frederic Amiel
(excerpt from THE STICKING IN MUD AFFAIR)
by LaH
Midsummer 1969
Napoleon sat glumly at the small dining table in his apartment drinking a cup of what he found to be overly bland coffee. “You usually brew a better cup of joe than this, Illya.”
His partner, also seated before the small table, smirked. “I boiled the water and cooled it, then let the percolator boil it again to make the coffee. Had to be sure I eliminated most if not all of the chlorine content,” he playfully teased the other man.
Napoleon sighed discontentedly. “I feel like a goddamn invalid,” he made the expected complaint.
“Napoleon, I was simply being extra cautious, if a bit purposely facetious. You are, after all, only just out of Medical after that rather nasty bout of shock caused by your chlorine allergy. Generally just the fact that the water is boiled at the time of brewing would be sufficient.”
“If this ‘hypersensitivity’ winds up taking me out of the field,” began Solo, “I swear I’ll…”
“You’ll what?” challenged Illya. “This is not something you can shoot or sweet talk into submission. But you can exercise control over it, as the medical professionals have already explained to you. And, as long as you are willing to do that, it certainly will not take you out of the field.”
“Yes, as long as I carry with me kits with certain crystals and vials of a particular drug along with a couple of syringes.”
“Napoleon, your self-pity is becoming irritating.”
“Well, excuse me, tovarisch,” stated Solo with a definite sarcastic edge to his tone, “for not being pleased as punch at suddenly having developed a physical handicap.”
“Physical handicap?” Illya snickered. “Don’t you think that description rather melodramatic, my friend?”
“We’ve finished the installation of the filtration units in both bathrooms, Mr. Solo,” noted an U.N.C.L.E.-authorized maintenance man as he made his way into the kitchen from the hall bath. “Just the one in here to go and we’ll be done and out from under your feet.”
Napoleon nodded. “Thank you, Fred. You and your assistant really work fast.”
“I’ll check the chlorine concentrations in the resulting tap water once you’ve finished with the last installation,” submitted Illya.
Fred shrugged. “Sure, Mr. Kuryakin, if that will make you feel better about the filtration system being up to par. But you know Mike and I do resultant testing as part of final evaluation after setup. Thus I can state without hesitation that Mr. Solo’s tap water where the units are installed is now completely chlorine free.”
“Illya’s just overly solicitous of my health, like any trusted field partner,” Napoleon gentled the unintended sting of Kuryakin’s stated intention of himself checking the results of the filtration system. “No reflection on your work, Fred, as I’m sure you and Mike did your usual efficient job.”
“Hey, making sure you Section II guys are set up as needed is a pleasure rather than a chore. What you enforcement agents do on a regular basis…” Fred shook his head in awe. “Really something to write home about, you know? Yet you don’t get to so much as hint at any of it even to family and friends, do you? So me, who knows a tiny bit about what others outside U.N.C.L.E. never will, I show my appreciation the only way I know how: by using my own meager skills to the very best of my ability when required to ensure your safety and comfort.”
That brought an honest smile to Napoleon’s lips. “And we Section II guys probably don’t say it often enough, but that is truly appreciated on our part, Fred. Having a home chock-full of this or that specialized equipment could make household living like maneuvering through a constant squall, but you always make sure it’s smooth sailing.”
Fred grinned a bit sheepishly as he reddened in embarrassment at the sincere compliment.
“We’ll take our coffee into the living room, Fred,” Illya said to ease the awkwardness of the moment for the maintenance man, “so you and your assistant can finish up in here undisturbed.”
As he headed toward the couch in the other room, Illya was inwardly marveling at Napoleon’s natural talent for making others feel… important, good at their jobs and worthy of gracious acknowledgment in that regard. It was a social gift he had to admit he did envy his partner.
“Hey Fred, while you’re puttering around under the kitchen sink,” quipped Napoleon as he stood to follow Illya’s lead into the living room, “how about adding a scotch dispenser to the mix?”
“Glenlivet or Talisker?” queried Fred with a smile.
“Hell, there are two taps, so why not both?” responded Napoleon with a little wink before he made his ultimate retreat to the couch, leaving the maintenance worker gleefully chuckling to himself.
“Look at it this way, Napoleon:” Illya gamely took back up the former subject of their conversation, “You now have a legitimate reason to demur from jumping into swimming pools.”
“I never demur from jumping into swimming pools,” protested Napoleon. “Or lakes or rivers or streams or bays or even oceans.” Illya’s response was only a small scoffing noise. “Okay, so I might take an extra moment to… prepare,” admitted Solo uncomfortably.
“Yet you always manage, don’t you?” forwarded Illya. “And you’ll manage now, my friend.”
“This is different, Illya. I can’t overcome this by just taking a deep breath and mentally sublimating my gut instinct. Yet I absolutely will not let this physical weakness become something that critically costs others, particularly you, in the kind of dangerous situations in which we so often find ourselves.”
“Napoleon, I do realize – because that to which you are allergic is not something easily avoided like cat hair or rose blossoms – you have natural doubts about how you will cope in the field. I, however, have no such doubts. I tell you now that I will expect no less of you as a partner than I have in the past, and that I am unequivocally certain I will get no less. I know you: You are determined and resourceful. Those traits will ensure your success in handling this added twist in the make-up of your innate survival sense.”
Napoleon exhaled a long breath. “Thanks, Illya.”
“Not a problem,” Illya assured him readily. “Maybe you could put in a good word for me to Mr. Waverly regarding how capable I am at pep talks.”
Napoleon gave him a lopsided grin. “What’s that remark about?”
Illya sighed. “I don’t want to make an issue of it as it is now over and done. And quite likely it was just… an emotional hypersensitivity on my part to the situation as it unfolded.”
“But?” prompted Napoleon with a raised eyebrow.
Illya glanced at the American. Realizing he had inadvertently let the cat out of the bag, he uneasily accepted he didn’t have much of a choice but to fully identify the ‘animal’ to his partner.
“While you were recovering in Medical,” began Illya with noticeable reluctance, “Waverly held a multi-sectional meeting about what had been discovered regarding the nature of the substance in which you were coated when you returned to HQ, as well as the list you had retrieved from the Thrush facility in New Jersey.”
“And?” pressed Solo, knowing very well that he needed to be persistent in order to get out of the less-than-gregarious Russian exactly what was bothering him.
Illya sighed again. He really shouldn’t have made any mention of his personal dissatisfaction with what had gone on in the Continental Chief’s office a couple of days ago. However, now that he had ventured into the topic, he knew his partner would give him no peace until he spilled forth specifics. “Mr. Waverly was, shall we say, rather less than pleased with my various questions and comments to the other section personnel during the meeting.”
“Were those questions and comments relevant to the discussion?”
“No doubt of that. Still, the Old Man seemed dead-set on letting me know my particular participation in the dialogue at certain points was not appreciated.”
“By him specifically?” Napoleon asked for clarification.
“Well, more I suppose he was focusing attention on the possibility others in the room might not be appreciative of my… forwardness.”
“Ah.”
To Illya, Solo’s single syllable verbal feedback seemed to indicate that his partner understood more of the situation than he did himself. “I did not say nor do anything wrong, Napoleon,” he therefore declared somewhat defensively.
“I’m sure you didn’t, Illya,” Napoleon appeased his friend’s automatic reaction of self-justification. “But can I make an observation and not have you take it as any form of criticism?”
Illya crossed his arms over his chest, a gesture of emotional self-protection Napoleon was sure the man himself didn’t even recognize on any conscious level.
“Go ahead,” the Russian bid the American.
“There are often ways and means of both saying and doing things that may perhaps seem a bit roundabout, but that can achieve better results than more straight-to-the-fore measures. Understand too that Mr. Waverly never does anything idly, so maybe you need to unbiasedly consider why he might have done as he did.”
“But I really have no idea why!” disputed Illya with some heat.
“You’re a smart Russian:” stated Napoleon a bit cryptically, “You’ll figure it out.”
The exchange was cut short at that moment by the two-tone trill of an U.N.C.L.E. communicator. Both agents removed their devices from their suit coats to find it was Solo’s pen doing the persistent signaling.
“Solo here,” Napoleon spoke into the instrument after having quickly assembled it into transmit mode.
“Mr. Solo,” Waverly’s familiar voice sounded through the speaker, “I trust you are fully recovered from your recent medical difficulty?”
“Yes sir,” Napoleon replied.
“Good to hear,” Waverly fulfilled and then dismissed the social pleasantries. “Is Mr. Kuryakin with you?”
“Yes sir,” Illya spoke toward the microphone.
“Excellent. Then I can inform you both at once that I want you in my office as soon as possible. No more than half an hour, gentlemen. Don’t keep me waiting. Waverly out.” And the Old Man was off the line.
“Duty calls, I.K.,” Napoleon cheerfully commented as he disassembled his communicator and stored it back in his inside jacket pocket.
“So much for you getting a day to recuperate at home,” Illya, with a little half-smile, ragged his friend.
“I don’t need any more recuperation time,” Napoleon insisted, and his vocal tone was so sharply adamant that it really gave Illya an unexpectedly unsettling moment of pause.
When Napoleon and Illya entered Waverly’s office some twenty minutes later, the cryptologist Agent Consantitus from Section IV was already seated at the Old Man’s revolving table.
“Mneme,” Napoleon warmly greeted the Greek woman with an equally warm smile.
“Napoleon,” she returned in kind both his warm greeting and smile. “Mr. Kuryakin,” she then more formally acknowledged the presence of the other Section II operative.
“Miss Consantitus,” responded Illya just as formally.
“Do be seated, gentlemen,” Mr. Waverly cut through the polite niceties. “We have had a rather fortunate turn in events that should aid us in pursuing this MUD affair.”
“Oh?” prompted Napoleon easily as he and his partner seated themselves in their usual chairs at their boss’ round-table-like desk.
“Most fortunate indeed, Mr. Solo,” further forwarded Waverly. “A certain Thrush has had his wings, shall we say, clipped, with the result he is now being housed in a cage of our making.”
“Who would this be, sir?” Illya inquired curiously.
“One Dunnock Stiles by name.”
Napoleon glanced toward his partner for confirmation that his own unfamiliarity with the Thrush was shared. After Illya’s subtle head shake granted that assurance, he made mention directly to Waverly, “Not a Thrush I know, sir, at least not by name.”
“Oh, a minor bird in terms of the power structure to be sure. Most of Thrush itself, I would warrant, is unfamiliar with the man. Extremely wealthy and even more extremely reclusive, most consider Dunnock Stiles but a front representing in one pseudonym actual multi-ownership of a massive conglomerate that encompasses many types of businesses. Even we had trouble verifying that the identity belongs to an actual flesh-and-blood human being. Yet flesh-and-blood he is, and his inherited trust owns a chemical plant in the Boston area that has for some years contracted to supply various Thrush labs in the Mid-Atlantic and New England states. Thus…” Mr. Waverly pointedly looked in the cryptologist’s direction.
“He is on the list of invited attendees for the gathering at the MUD facility in New Jersey under code name Snyder Nelson,” gamely supplied Consantitus.
“And we can be sure of this how?” Illya wanted to make absolutely certain.
Mneme bristled slightly, just enough for Napoleon to notice. Thus the American agent stepped adeptly into the conversation. “Yes, Mneme, do explain to me – a man who admits to understanding the hard steel of a gun more readily than an inked stream of symbols – some of that voodoo in which you and the other code sorcerers in Section IV mysteriously indulge with such black-magic flair.”
This gentle wheedling contained an assertion that wasn’t quite true and everyone in the room knew it. Section II agents were expected to have a more-than-working knowledge of cryptology, and that more-than-working knowledge in both Napoleon and Illya extended far beyond the norm of most field operatives. But Solo’s ploy was to cajole the woman in a teasingly charming manner, and thus pet down the mental hackles raised in her by Illya’s perhaps less-than-tactfully worded question.
That methodology worked as the Section IV agent laughed lightly. “No voodoo or black-magic in this case, Napoleon. The Thrush in question came to us with the electronic credentials for entrance into the meeting conveniently imbedded under the skin of his left forearm. It was a rather simple matter for Section V to discover those credentials during routine prisoner screening, and a not much more complicated one for Section IV to subsequently decode them.”
“Organizational efficiency at its finest,” Napoleon declared with a little wink in Consantitus’ direction.
Again Illya found himself wondering how Napoleon could, in essence, ask for the same information for which he himself had previously asked, and yet his partner get an answer minus the territorial “huffs and puffs” that so often accompanied any such answer he himself received. He knew Solo had the “gift of gab” as it were, but the why of how consistently this sort of thing happened was honestly something of a mystery to him.
“And I’m assuming Section IV has come up with a method to duplicate these credentials under the skin of another, that other being an U.N.C.L.E. agent?” Illya queried undeterred.
“That would be simple indeed, Mr. Kuryakin,” conceded Mneme stiffly, “but the actual strategy for using this find is indeed much more complicated.”
Kuryakin raised an eyebrow. “Oh?”
“Yes. You see the credentials for Stiles could be replicated exactly, but that plan could easily backfire if but one of the other attendees at the Thrush conference had personally encountered the man before. No, the best bet is still to use one of the ‘ghost’ personae on that attendee list as the means of infiltration.”
Napoleon, during the last two days of his stay in Medical, had of course been reading the briefing reports on the nature of the cryptogram contained in the list he had retrieved. Thus he was completely up-to-speed regarding Consantitus’ reference to a 'ghost' persona. “You’ll manufacture correct credentials for one of the ghosts?” he therefore hazarded an educated guess.
Mneme nodded.
“And the Ultimate Computer will single out those manufactured credentials in less than the blinking of an eye,” insisted Illya rather categorically.
“Mr. Kuryakin,” Mr. Waverly sternly chided his second-best field agent, “could you at least wait until the whole plan has been vetted before voicing such unconditional objections? Thank you.”
“Ouch!” Napoleon mentally winced for his partner. The Old Man’s outright verbal castigation of Illya came as something of a shock. Usually Waverly would let Kuryakin straightforwardly intersperse his reservations concerning a particular strategy during point-by-point revelation of that strategy, even if those interspersed reservations did make others involved in the discussion squirm a bit. Something was up, but at the moment Solo was at a loss as to just what it might be.
Agent Consantitus continued in an admittedly somewhat smug tone. “In response to Mr. Kuryakin’s unconditionally stated objection: Yes, I agree, the Ultimate Computer would single out those manufactured credentials quite readily if that was the sum total of what was to be done. But let me assure you, Mr. Kuryakin, that such is not the sum total of what we propose.”
“Could you elaborate for us, Mneme?” Napoleon astutely jumped in to ask before Illya could do so and perhaps again insert a burr under the saddle of the cryptologist.
“Certainly, Napoleon. The Ultimate Computer has set up this cryptogram within certain pattern sets. Those pattern sets are the true key, for the machine’s logic needs them as verification of its own elaborate coding. Thus, in order to have the manufactured credentials of a ghost persona appear as valid, the pattern inherent in that part of the cryptogram must be accurately offset.”
“And to do that you take the real credentials of Dunnock Stiles, code-name Snyder Nelson, and duplicate them on the person of an U.N.C.L.E. agent with just enough of a twist for the computer to see an invalidation of the pattern and thus seek for the completion of that set somewhere else,” Napoleon speculated easily.
“I thought you didn’t have the mind of a scientist, Napoleon?” Mneme ribbed the CEA with a playful smirk.
“He has the mind of a chess-player,” gibed Illya a bit sullenly. There was no doubt he was sulking from Waverly having ‘put him in his place’. “You do realize, to offset such a complex pattern, you will need to ensure you choose the proper ghost? One definitely in the same pattern set as Stiles?”
“Of course I and all the cryptologists in Section IV realize that,” granted Consantitus in readily recognizable exasperation.
“Mr. Kuryakin,” Waverly now stated very distinctly, “are you somehow under the delusion that U.N.C.L.E. hires incompetents for any but Section II positions?”
“Ouch!” thought Napoleon once more.
“No sir,” Illya conceded but with some undeniable truculence.
“Then please give more credence to the probability that these crucial caveats have not gone undetected and thus unprepared-for by the pertinent operatives in other sections of this organization.”
“Sir, am I not to make mention of these ‘crucial caveats’ in an attempt to get positive feedback on what exactly has been done to prepare for them?” snapped a now totally frustrated Illya.
“Of course you are to make mention of them in such an attempt!” snapped back Waverly. “Yet you need to do so from the perspective of actually requesting such feedback. Not challenging those clarifications before they are even heard.”
Napoleon placed a steadying hand on Illya’s forearm, subtly reminding him to keep his temper under control. At that action, Illya took a deep breath, crossed his arms over his chest and regained his silence.
“Continue, Miss Consantitus,” Mr. Waverly, discipline restored to his own satisfaction, subsequently advised the cryptologist.
“We have been interpreting the pattern sets and believe there are two possibilities with regard to which ghost could be suitably employed in a bait-and-switch scenario with Stiles’ credentials check. We’re further analyzing those two possibilities to hopefully select the very best fit.”
“Hopefully,” muttered Illya under his breath. Waverly’s glare in Kuryakin’s direction was impossible to misinterpret.
“Correct me if I’m wrong, Mneme, because God knows I truly am no scientist or computer programmer.” Napoleon spoke, both because there was something on which he needed confirmation and to defuse the current situation with regard to his in-full-Russian-snit partner. “But in order for this to work at all, doesn’t the… purposeful mistake in Stiles' credentials have to be discovered rather quickly? Definitely before the ghost’s credentials are even scanned into the computer, right?”
“Absolutely right, Napoleon,” verified Consantitus with a nod.
“Then what you need to impersonate Stiles is a shill.” He ventured and received another nod from Mneme in ready comeback. “I’m guessing that’s me?” queried Solo as he glanced toward Waverly.
Now it was Waverly who nodded. “That’s the general idea, Mr. Solo. In this case, because of your previous capture in that facility, you are known to the security personnel. You’ll use a bit of a disguise of course; we’ll just ensure it’s none too effective.”
“Meanwhile Illya goes in as the ghost, with a much more effective disguise.”
Illya’s mope seemed to fade upon the instant. “Sir, you can’t seriously be considering sending in Napoleon as an overt foil in this situation? Not with that MUD under the compound and his distinctively acquired hypersensitivity to chlorine?”
“I’m not intending to take another swim in the stuff, Illya,” placated Napoleon. “And you said yourself that the doctors are sure I can successfully control the allergy.”
“Under normal circumstances, yes, but around that MUD? We have no clue how near to the substance you’ll be if they imprison you again in those subterranean tunnels. There might be physical or at the very least fume leakage into all the underground rooms. Having to endure the likelihood of torture and drugging at the hands of Thrush once you are captured is risk enough without the added medical threat of you unexpectedly going into anaphylaxis.”
“Mr. Kuryakin,” Mr. Waverly said frankly, “every precaution will be taken to ensure Mr. Solo’s hypersensitivity remains unexacerbated under the circumstances. However, because of his previous capture within that facility – a facility that is employing in key positions Thrush personnel previously unknown to us – it is imperative that he be the one to act as the aforementioned shill.”
“Sir, I know we are all expendable in the line of duty,” persisted Kuryakin, “but this seems to be a purposeful step over that line by the organization.”
“Nonsense, Mr. Kuryakin.”
“I can handle it, tovarisch,” Napoleon persisted in his turn. “I do know how to look after myself.”
“Sometimes I wonder!” disagreed Illya hotly as he rose from his chair. He turned and headed toward the pneumatic door without waiting to be dismissed.
Waverly halted this dramatic action that bordered on insubordination with a firm if unadorned query of “Mr. Kuryakin?”
Gritting his teeth, Illya took a deep breath and turned back to face his superior. “Yes sir?”
“You will work with Miss Consantitus on the final determination of the ghost identify you will assume for the mission. That will be all.”
“Yes sir,” acknowledged the all-but-boiling-over with indignation agent before he turned once more on his heel and rapidly completed his exit.
“Miss Consantitus, you are free to go as well,” Waverly dismissed the cryptologist.
“Yes sir,” she too acknowledged the Old Man’s orders as she rose from her chair and, matching Napoleon’s parting smile with one of her own, exited the office of the Number 1 in Section I as well.
Once it was only the two of them in that office, Solo stated pointblank to Waverly, “You’re being awfully hard on Illya, sir. He was only voicing the questions and considerations that any experienced enforcement agent would voice about this kind of mission, even if he did voice them a bit less… sensitively than either of us would like.”
“I am well aware of that, Mr. Solo.”
“Have you then some enlightenment you can offer me on the particular subject?”
“Not at this time, Mr. Solo.”
Napoleon let out a disappointed little huff of breath. “All right, sir. I’m assuming I’m dismissed as well?”
“For the moment, Mr. Solo.”
Napoleon rose from his own chair and turned toward the pneumatic door, his manner a bit puzzled and far less than content with the Old Man’s evasive reaction to his frank articulation of disquiet at the organizational head’s high-handed treatment of his partner.
“Mr. Solo?” Waverly again used his verbal authority to halt the imminent departure from his private domain of one of his operatives.
Napoleon turned back to face his superior. “Yes sir?”
“You needn’t be so concerned. He can handle it you know.”
Napoleon thrust his hands deep into his trouser pockets as he dejectedly accepted this assertion by his superior with a desultory “Yes sir.” Then he too turned on his heel and left the premises of the Continental Chief’s inner sanctum.
There was but little time before the Thrush confab at the facility in New Jersey was to take place. With only four days to prepare, and one of that precious span of days nearly half-gone, there was no leeway for dawdling. Thus, less than an hour after the meeting with Waverly, Solo had been summoned to Medical to have the slightly altered electronic credentials of one Snyder Nelson embedded under the skin of his inner left forearm. The procedure wasn’t exactly painful, but neither was it particularly pleasant, and the skin in the area of the implant was left reddened and sore to the touch. It would heal in less than 24 hours, but for the moment, as Napoleon returned to his office to once again read through the contents of the mission folder, he wasn’t exactly at his most alert as his attention focused on the physical discomfort he was currently experiencing.
The pneumatic door to his office opened at the nearness of his badge as it always did and, even before it had automatically closed behind him, a hand wrapped around his throat and his body was slammed none-too-gently against the nearby wall.
“What the hell do you mean by agreeing to this?” demanded Illya in a much less-than-friendly tone.
“Dammit Illya, what the hell do you mean by physically accosting me like this?”
Illya’s hand remained at Solo’s throat, keeping him pinned to the wall as he spoke on. “This is an unnecessary risk you are taking.”
“It certainly isn’t unnecessary,” debated Napoleon. “It’s the best way into the Thrush conference on this MUD and you know it.”
“It certainly isn’t the only way,” challenged Illya.
“We don’t have the luxury of time to ponder workable alternatives and you know that too.”
Since his hands were free, there was no doubt Solo could effectively get Kuryakin away from him with a well-placed punch to the gut, but he thought it far better not to do so. Far better to let Illya work through whatever stress was possessing him at the moment, even if that meant enduring a bit more physical discomfort.
“Further exposure to that MUD could very likely kill you!” the cause of that anxiety bubbled out into words from the Russian.
“Exposure to a Thrush bullet could very likely kill me too,” Solo reminded his partner. “Every time we go out on a mission, death is a very real possibility from many sources. And in any case,” he added in a lighter tone as he stretched his neck upward, “Thrush won’t need to do the job themselves if you wrap your hand any tighter around my windpipe.”
“Sorry,” contritely apologized Kuryakin as he eased his fingers from around his partner’s throat. He then went to the leather sofa in the room and plopped down on it dejectedly.
“What is it, Illya?” queried Napoleon with real concern as he idly rubbed along his Adam’s apple. “It isn’t like you to be so… contrary about the requirements of an assignment.”
“I don’t know,” admitted Illya with a small sigh. “I just have a bad feeling about this.”
“Hey, going with a gut instinct is my M.O.,” cheerily teased Napoleon as he sat on the couch beside his friend. “You prefer the logical approach; remember?”
Illya smiled weakly. “Mr. Waverly seems less-than-thrilled at the moment with my logical approach.”
“Illya, don’t let the Old Man’s cunning spymaster routine get you down. You know as well as I do that he is building toward something with these summary rebukes he is giving you.”
“Maybe he wants to send me packing back to the Soviet Union,” suggested Illya only half-in-jest.
“And maybe you should stop being so damn broody,” suggested Napoleon in turn, though perhaps with more than a little edginess in his tone.
“I don’t brood.”
Napoleon snickered in response to that statement. “You do realize that’s like me saying I don’t date?”
Illya turned very determined blue eyes on the face of his partner.
“You do realize, if that MUD kills you, I will ferret out every one of the Thrush in that facility, no matter how high or low in the organization, and personally kill each and every one? No mercy bullets; no capture; no deals.”
Napoleon’s hazel eyes widened in shock. “Whoa, Illya, calm down! I’m not going on a suicide mission! I have every intention of getting out of that facility alive. And I’ll have you on the inside to aid me in doing just that.”
“I can’t stop your allergy from killing you, Napoleon.”
“I’ll handle the allergy, Illya. Like I said in Waverly’s office: I’m not intending to take another swim in that MUD. I’m perfectly aware I can’t do anything so cavalier under the current circumstances. I’m getting a double dose of antihistamine shots before we leave for the mission. And Section VIII is going to conceal thiosulphate crystals in fake moles and scars on my body, in case I have need of those to de-chlorinate water to drink while I’m imprisoned.”
“And epinephrine?”
“I can’t hide vials of epinephrine or syringes any place that Thrush won’t search when I’m taken prisoner, tovarisch. But that is only a worst case scenario need anyway.”
“I’ll take those with me.”
“Illya—” Napoleon began to object.
“I’ll say I’m allergic to bee stings,” asserted Illya with resolute plausibility. “I’m going in as a fictional persona; thus I can make up a convenient background. If Thrush tests the vials, they will just find they contain the epinephrine I tell them they do; so no reason for the birdies to suspect anything.”
“All right, Illya,” acquiesced the CEA, “if that will put you more at ease.”
“Don’t condescend to me, Napoleon,” Illya noted with sharpness in his voice. “I’m simply taking the logical approach you insist is my M.O.,” he added in a much more playful tone.
Sensing the slackening of his Number 2’s unusual underlying tension with regard to the mission, Solo smiled. “Hey, together we’ll flush all the MUDdy slime right into the sewers, tovarisch.”
Illya rolled his eyes at Napoleon’s silly metaphor, all the while intent on a design that would allow him to keep right on hearing those misbegotten figures of speech from the lips of his partner once this particular mission was complete.
“Let’s run the pattern series through the computer again,” forwarded Illya uncompromisingly.
“Mr. Kuryakin,” responded a rather irritated and definitely exhausted Mneme Consantitus, “we have verified the resultant sequence a dozen times since we decided it was the proper setup over six hours ago. And that was only after it took us some twelve hours to arrive at the sequence in the first place. Frankly I think it is time we accepted what we have is the best fit.”
“Miss Consantitus, must I remind you that the fate of world could well rest on this sequence truly being ‘the best fit’, as you call it? And as well that we are deliberately relinquishing an enforcement agent into enemy hands in order to utilize this access scenario into the Thrush summit at the MUD facility? We owe it to that agent, as well as to humanity as a whole, to be as sure as scientifically possible on the probable success of this course of action.”
Illya would never admit to the cryptologist, or indeed to anyone at all, how worried he was about Napoleon’s purposeful placement into Thrush captivity as part of the tactical approach for getting inside the MUD confab. Yet that worry was a continual knot in his stomach now as the hours crept closer to the inevitability. There was really no telling what Thrush might decide to do with Solo once they had him in custody, though it actually played into U.N.C.L.E.’s favor that Napoleon was who he was. It was highly unlikely that those at Central would consent to an immediate death sentence for an U.N.C.L.E. operative of Solo’s status and reputation. Being North American CEA and likely successor to Waverly’s position, as well as a longtime thorn in Thrush’s side, made it much more likely the members of the supra-nation’s Supreme Council would want Napoleon simply held at the MUD facility until they could transport him someplace where he would be most thoroughly questioned and his capture giddily lorded over by the top echelon of the Hierarchy.
U.N.C.L.E.’s (and Illya’s) intention was to have Solo well out of enemy clutches before he was so transported of course. Assuming everything ran to plan. But then again when had the scope of any mission ever run entirely to plan? And Illya was only too viscerally aware of that obdurate conundrum.
“You need not stay any longer, Miss Consantitus,” Illya more than hinted in a rather clipped and definitely icy voice. “I can run the pattern progression a final time by myself.”
Mneme Consantitus was so infuriated by Illya Kuryakin’s overbearing attitude, she wanted to scream. He acted like no one other than himself was concerned about the results of the affair or the safety of Napoleon Solo. She too worked for U.N.C.L.E. and wholeheartedly believed in the ideals of the organization. She too wanted to outmaneuver Thrush in this latest world-threatening and power-grabbing endeavor. And she too liked Solo and considered him a friend; thus would she never want to see the man hung out to dry in order to accomplish any mission goal.
“The primary responsibility for the pattern progression is mine, not yours, Mr. Kuryakin. Thus, if there is a need to run the series yet again, I will handle that need.”
“Indeed, Miss Consantitus,” spoke Mr. Waverly, having quite unusually entered the precincts of the computer lab and caught Mneme’s last assertion in the process.
“Good evening, Mr. Waverly,” the cryptologist acknowledged the unexpected presence of the Continental Chief within the working domain of Section IV.
“Sir,” Illya equally acknowledged his superior’s presence, if in a bit terser vocal tone.
“I take it, Miss Consantitus, that you are fully satisfied that the pattern sequence in question is up to snuff?”
“Yes sir,” Mneme didn’t hesitate to forward. “It’s been checked and sextuple-checked and, within the framework of what we can determine of the Ultimate Computer’s setup of the positive-versus-negative cipher models, this sequence offers the best chance of success in the forced reconfiguration of the credentials for a distinct ghost persona.”
Waverly nodded; then turned his gaze toward his Section II operative. “And I take it that you are not yet fully satisfied as to this specific pattern being the one necessary to force such a reconfiguration, Mr. Kuryakin?”
“I just want to absolutely ensure we are not missing anything, sir.”
Again Waverly nodded. “And have you reason to believe we might be missing something in particular?” he then demanded in no uncertain terms of the enforcement agent.
Illya flushed slightly. He didn’t really have any logical reason to suspect such a thing. He just had a gut feeling.
“No sir,” he reluctantly admitted.
“Then I suggest, Mr. Kuryakin, that you trust in the expertise of Miss Consantitus in this matter and get on with actually setting up the details of the ghost persona you intend to use in the undercover operation. All that ghost currently has is an alias that should be accepted by Thrush. You need to make the man come across as real with a believable background.”
“Yes sir,” Illya accepted his boss’ decision, as well as the sting of the implied reproof at his own dogged assiduousness in continuing to doubt the cryptologist’s experienced conclusion on the subject of the actual pattern progression.
Yet accepted or not, that reproof bothered Illya. He just couldn’t put his finger on the why of Waverly’s current curt manner toward him. And he also couldn’t help the somewhat self-pitying contemplation that the Old Man would likely have judged a simple ‘gut instinct’ as plausible reason for Napoleon to prolong the testing process on the pattern progression.
Such thoughts gained him nothing but personal chagrin, however, and he had an assignment to tackle. A very difficult assignment where the life of his field partner and best friend could well rest on there being no missteps in the mission as it had been “blueprinted” by the definitive architect of all things U.N.C.L.E.: Alexander Waverly.
(at least of the excerpt…)
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Date: 2013-08-18 07:23 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2013-08-18 07:54 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2013-08-18 10:22 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2013-08-18 11:53 pm (UTC)Not yet. It's still a work-in-progress. (Has been for longer than I care to admit.)
When complete though, I will post it to
Frankly, the sexual references in Act III are a bit too risqué for
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Date: 2013-08-18 11:58 pm (UTC)So, after revisting it again to use this snippet for the QuoteME challenge, I am more determined that ever to get it finished at last.
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Date: 2013-08-19 12:01 am (UTC)Hopefully soon. As I noted in my response to Glenna's comment, revisiting this story as I did to post the snippet for the challenge, made me more determined to get it done at last.
Course in the end it will have to be posted to
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Date: 2013-08-19 12:17 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2013-08-19 12:56 am (UTC)