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section7mfuName: QUENCHING THE CANDLE?
Genre: GEN
Warnings: Mild Language
Length: approx 10,400 words
Oddly for me this one turned out to be very much an Illya story.
Posted in two parts due to length, but hey I did keep it reasonable! ;)
Author’s Note: This story takes place a few weeks after Napoleon has been promoted to Chief of Enforcement for U.N.C.L.E. North America. At this point in time Illya is not yet his partner, but the two men do share a friendship, albeit it one still in the early stages of development.
~~~~~~~~~~~~
QUENCHING THE CANDLE?
by LaH
Autumn 1963
“That movie had a rather unbelievable premise,” commented Illya Kuryakin as he and his coworker and superior, Napoleon Solo, the newly-appointed CEA of U.N.C.L.E. North America, exited the movie theatre.
The theatre was one of those in lower Manhattan that operated on the “art house” concept of showing older releases. The current series of motion pictures being run at the playhouse was a retrospective on the career-to-date of actress Kim Novak. The film the two men had just viewed was thus a “revival” of the 1958 cinematic production of BELL, BOOK AND CANDLE starring said lovely lady with leading man Jimmy Stewart.
“So I take it you didn’t like the movie?” questioned Solo. He was still trying to figure out much about this Russian colleague who he had befriended. Thus any hint, however offhandedly mentioned, that might facilitate such understanding was not an opportunity to be squandered.
“I wouldn’t say that exactly,” clarified Illya. “The acting was very good. And Miss Novak is certainly a compelling beauty well worth watching on the silver screen.”
“Indeed,” Napoleon wholeheartedly agreed.
“However,” Illya stated his caveat, “I found the concept of an underground klatch of witches existing in modern New York and focusing their powers on attempts to forward their sex lives—”
“Sex is a powerful motivator, tovarisch,” interrupted Napoleon.
Kuryakin couldn’t help smirking at that. He and the American were still learning about each other; nonetheless he was well aware of Solo’s own somewhat prodigious sexual appetite. Or perhaps it was more an insatiable craving for the trappings of romance that so routinely surrounded sexual adventures in the West. Honestly, Illya wasn’t positive on that score.
“There are no modern-day witches,” stated Illya with unshakeable certainty. “They disappeared with humanity’s mental grasp and emotional acceptance of the various explainable natural forces in the universe. There are today wiccans of course,” he conceded. “But Wicca is no more than another form of religious belief, one centering on those explainable natural forces and classifying them under the deific authority of a duotheistic paradigm representing male and female aspects.”
“You’re just chock-full of Marxist common sense, aren’t you?” teased Napoleon with an impish grin.
Such a remark from anyone else might have affronted the Russian. However Kuryakin had quickly come to terms with Solo’s good-natured ribbing. It was never cruel or condescending or contemptuous. It was just Napoleon being Napoleon: mischievous but always respectful and empathetic, tongue-in-cheek but always optimistic and forward-thinking.
Illya smirked again. “So tell me then, Napoleon, do you believe that in this day and age there are confirmable witches in New York? Or Moscow? Or Paris? Or London? Or anywhere else in the civilized world?”
“Well no,” admitted Napoleon. “Not exactly,” he then hedged.
“Not exactly?” repeated Illya in a questioning tone and with definite surprise.
Now it was Napoleon who shrugged. “Guess it’s my Catholic upbringing. Of course I don’t believe there are individuals who can work magic with spells and potions and the like. But I do believe there are individuals who themselves genuinely believe they can do such things, and that belief in and of itself can sometimes lead to…” Napoleon hesitated.
“Lead to what?” prompted an intrigued Illya.
“Chaos. All those explainable natural forces of the universe you so casually mention being tilted out-of-whack.”
“I don’t see how,” persisted the stubborn Russian. “There’s no science to support any such notion.”
“The human mind,” forwarded Napoleon thoughtfully, “is an extremely potent force in and of itself. We comprehend so very little of its power. We really don’t have a clue what the mind is capable of creating or altering or destroying. We just don’t know, and there’s the rub. Because a defiant mind permitted to go wildly on its own tangent path can wreak havoc we don’t expect and can’t even tag within the realm of our current logic. Because that logic itself is limited, Illya. And that’s the plain truth.”
Illya studied the other man for a long moment. Finally he pronounced without reservation, “I don’t deny the legitimacy of any of that, Napoleon. Still am I unequivocally convinced there is in this world no such being as a manifest witch.”
Meanwhile…
“I understand congratulations are in order,” the Thrush captain of the local Manhattan satrapy grudgingly admitted to the woman who sat in the chair opposite his desk. “You indeed managed, as you promised, to get yourself hired into the secretarial pool of U.N.C.L.E.’s North American headquarters.”
The woman seated in that chair – a very petite and freshly pretty brunette – smiled wryly at him. “You sound more disappointed than enthused,” she noted ironically.
“That’s because I’m not at all sure you can be trusted,” the captain stated frankly. “Background security checks at U.N.C.L.E. are thorough. So how you avoided them tagging you as suspicious, I have to wonder.”
“You forget—” began the woman.
“Yes, I know,” interrupted the Thrush with harsh abruptness. “You can bend people and circumstances to your will. You are a witch.”
The wry smile returned to haunt the woman’s lips. “And you still don’t believe that.”
“I am a sensible man of the modern world,” declared the captain bluntly. “So no, I still don’t believe that and I never will. But my belief or disbelief is of no consequence. As long as you can perform as Thrush wishes.”
“And what is it that Thrush wishes?” queried the woman straight to the point. “Now that the initial hurdle is past?”
The captain smartly slid a standard 3½x5 black-and-white headshot across his desk toward the woman. She took it in hand and idly examined it. “Handsome man,” was her immediate comment.
“I suppose,” the captain dismissed that observation. “Napoleon Solo: the newly appointed head of Section II, Operations and Enforcement, for U.N.C.L.E. here in North America.”
“Rather young to hold a post of such authority, no?”
“Yes, but he’s touted as a tactical and counterintelligence wunderkind, and it seems Waverly might have big plans for his future.”
“Alexander Waverly? The Command Continental Chief to whom the other four in supposedly similar positions willingly give precedence?”
“Yes, the big man himself. Founder of the organization, first among equals in the upper management circle, etc., etc., etc.”
“And this man,” the woman furthered, lightly tapping the photograph with one burgundy lacquered fingernail, “is his protégé?”
“So it would seem. We’ve dealt with Solo the past eight years as an enforcement agent. He’s clever, an often unorthodox strategist, self-confident with the bravura of all do-gooders. Fearless of course and he can be ruthless, but he does have a compassionate heart that can trip him up now and again.”
“Apparently not often enough to have done him any real hurt,” surmised the woman.
“Why do you say that?” demanded the captain.
“Because he’s alive and a rising star in U.N.C.L.E. Thrush hasn’t yet managed to kill him or take him down in any other way.”
“True enough,” reluctantly conceded the stanch adherent of the Hierarchy.
“So what do you want of me with regard to this man?” the woman finally asked the most pertinent question. “I’ve already told your masters that my powers do not extend to paranormal deaths or permanent vanishings. And I absolutely will not put myself in a position to be arrested and imprisoned for committing murder.’
The captain waved his hand dismissively. “What we want from you is simple: just be the means of providing a little internal conflict for Solo. A few manipulated doubts, a few avoidable missteps…”
“And he is a wunderkind no longer,” acknowledged the woman.
“And his star stops rising,” concluded the Thrush.
“Thrush does not want this man someday at the helm of U.N.C.L.E.,” decided the woman.
“Thrush does not want to deal with this man in any greater capacity than necessary.”
“You would see him demoted from his status as the head of Section II?”
The captain shrugged. “Whatever can be achieved to shoot down his rising star is to our benefit.”
“Then such is my mission,” accepted the woman gamely as she lifted her handbag from its resting place on the floor beside her chair. Opening the purse, she slipped the picture inside its confines and then closed the handbag with an audible snap.
One Week Later…
Walking down one of the many gunmetal gray corridors of U.N.C.L.E. HQ in Manhattan, his eyes scanning through the contents of a file on a newly discovered Thrush satrapy in the hinterlands of Connecticut, Napoleon Solo unexpectedly encountered a compact object directly in his path. That “object”: a petite young woman carrying a heavy armload of such files.
“Ooofff!” exclaimed the woman in a reactive huff of breath as the folders made abrupt contact with her middle and then tumbled from her arms.
“So sorry, miss!” apologized Napoleon as he bent to help the woman retrieve the upset contents of the portfolios now scattered in every which direction across the gunmetal gray floor.
“Perhaps you should keep your eyes focused on what lies ahead of you,” she chastised mildly.
Stack of refilled folders now tucked in the crook of one arm, Napoleon stood upright and looked for the first time upon the being of the sudden “obstacle” he had encountered on his way to his office. She was extremely small of person, a brown-haired doll of a female with assets that fit her petite structure but were nonetheless very femininely pleasing.
“I usually do,” stated Napoleon with one of his most brilliant smiles, “and definitely when the scenery is well worth the noticing.”
She beamed rather than blushed, and something about that reaction registered in Solo’s mind as downright intriguing.
“I’ll forgive you since you compliment so prettily. Talia Barne,” she introduced herself. “That’s Barne: singular. Not Barnes: plural. Folks are always making that mistake.”
Napoleon laughed lightly. “Pleased to meet you, Miss Barne,” he emphasized her proper surname. “Napoleon Solo,” he then returned the introduction.
“Oh, I know who you are, Mr. Solo. The other secretaries in the pool gossip about you ad infinitum.”
Oddly, it was Napoleon who now found himself blushing. “You won’t hold that against me, will you?” he queried a bit sheepishly.
Talia laughed: a melodious sound if ever there was one. Something inside Napoleon unconsciously attuned itself to the rhythm of that laugh.
“Oh, I should think not,” she assured him. “In fact I rather like a man who knows what he wants and isn’t afraid to go after it.”
Again Napoleon found himself blushing, an unusual phenomenon indeed. “You make me sound rather… greedy with regard to my admittedly liberal dating habits.”
“A liberality of nature that gives pleasure to many,” teased the woman with amiable good grace.
Solo smiled at her again, taking in with his gaze the unique color of her eyes. Some would undoubtedly call them simply brown. Yet there was a distinctive undertone to the common hue, reddish-purple like the finest burgundy wine. Her hair had similar highlights that caught the ambient light and reflected it about her face in a warm magenta glow.
“You are new here, I take it?” Napoleon at last posed the obvious question.
Talia nodded. “Recently hired into the secretarial pool.”
“U.N.C.L.E. is keeping you remarkably busy by the look of it,” observed Napoleon as he gauged the heft of the pile of folders he held.
She laughed that tonal tapestry of a laugh again, its varied notes weaving skillfully into the warp and weft of Solo’s psyche.
“The necessary accouterments of my temporary assignment,” Talia informed him readily, “as where there is authority, there is also burden.
“Seems you are assigned to someone of import then.”
“You might say that.”
“Do let me make amends for my clumsiness in knocking these from your lovely arms by conveying them wherever you need.”
“Very gallant of you, Mr. Solo.”
“Napoleon, please.”
“Then I must be Talia.”
“Yes, you must,” Napoleon readily agreed. “So in what place of authority is this burden to be deposited?” he inquired regarding the folders.
Talia pointed to the closed door of an office nearby… his office. Napoleon blinked and Talia grinned impishly at his dumbfounded reaction.
“I am the temporary replacement for your regular secretary,” she revealed at last.
“Something wrong with Mitzi then?” inquired Napoleon with true concern. He liked Mitzi and worked well with her.
{Note: Mitzi was a character introduced as Solo’s assistant in the MFU TV series episode THE ARABIAN AFFAIR.}
“She broke an ankle skiing this weekend. She’ll be out at least six weeks recovering.”
“Poor girl,” commiserated Napoleon. “I should send her some flowers along with my sincere get-well wishes.”
“Yes, you should,” agreed Talia. “However, until she is back on her feet – literally – you have me to boss around. Now mind you treat me gently.”
Those burgundy-illuminated brown eyes of hers were bright with mischief, and Solo found himself instinctively responding to the playful promise in those eyes.
“Like a princess in a fairytale,” pledged Napoleon, placing his free hand over his heart.
Talia focused her arresting eyes directly on his. “Will I get a happily ever after then?” she queried in a manner that left Napoleon wondering if the request was intended as no more than rhetorical jest.
A Few Days Afterwards…
“I am somewhat surprised by this, Mr. Solo,” Mr. Waverly chastised his new CEA with uncomfortable bluntness, “and most definitely disappointed.”
“I understand, sir, and I assure you it won’t happen again,” apologized the definitely discomfited Napoleon.
“It was sloppy background checking,” persisted the Continental Chief. “That is not something I have ever seen from you before, and certainly U.N.C.L.E. cannot afford to see it again from one in your position.”
“Again, sir, I do apologize and pledge to be more vigilant in future.”
“I have taken a forceful stand in promoting you at this time to Chief of Enforcement for Northwest, Mr. Solo. Most of my colleagues, though all see the potential in you for the future in such a post, thought and still think you at present too young to handle so much authority. There is no doubt in anyone’s mind that you are a crackerjack field agent. However, the head of Section II for the Command’s main branch needs to be more than that. You need to have a firm handle on ongoing operations, you need to take the lead in strategizing, you need—”
“I do realize that, sir,” Napoleon interrupted his superior, perhaps unwisely. But his frustration was getting the better of his discretion as he just didn’t know what further Mr. Waverly wanted from him. “I made a mistake,” he stated without adornment. “What more can I do other than freely admit to it and make a concerted effort to ensure it is never repeated in the future?”
Waverly’s tone softened just a fraction as he noted, “I want you to understand, young man, it isn’t that you made a mistake that concerns me. I don’t expect you to be superhuman. It is the nature of the mistake that I find disturbing.”
Napoleon bit his lip. There was no acceptable comment he could make to that plainspoken assessment.
“Many see you as needlessly reckless, Mr. Solo. I know, however, that isn’t the case. I know what you do is based on proper research into the situation at hand, as well as reliance on your natural instincts. I’ll grant your research isn’t always the ‘this steps rationally into that’ type of logic. You can extrapolate effect from cause in unexpectedly accurate leaps and bounds. That is an extraordinary gift, young man, one that few possess and one that I, as an administrator in this organization, value highly.”
“And I do most sincerely thank you for that, sir,” softly acknowledged an unusually embarrassed Napoleon.
Waverly nodded shortly. “See to it you do not betray my confidence in you again. You are dismissed, Mr. Solo.”
Napoleon left his chief’s office feeling largely dispirited. He did freely own to the error that had cost U.N.C.L.E. success in a very long-gestating sting operation. He would never try to excuse his apparent inattention to very important details of the setup because of a series of unfortunate external circumstances. Yet, if the full truth was disclosed, such circumstances had indeed played into this particular situation.
When Solo entered his own office, he was none too happy to find Illya waiting there for him. He just wasn’t in the mood to deal with anyone, even a friendly someone.
“I’m not much for chatting right now, Illya,” he attempted to dismiss his friend as he seated himself in the chair behind his desk.
“It’s true then? Waverly gave you a thorough verbal drubbing?”
Solo gazed at Kuryakin with sudden wariness. Eyes narrowing he demanded, “So, is it all over U.N.C.L.E. HQ that the Old Man dressed down his new CEA for the Lyle screw-up like he was a half-assed greenstick?”
Illya shook his head. “Waverly’s assistant is very experienced at ensuring what happens privately in the ‘inner sanctum’ never becomes ready chatter for the gossip pool. No, I heard it rather exclusively from that saucy little baggage who is filling in for Mitzi.”
Napoleon quirked an eyebrow in the other man’s direction. The reaction was both a non-verbal request for further explanation, as well as surprise at the Russian’s description of Talia as “‘that saucy little baggage”. Never before had Solo heard Kuryakin refer to any of the Command’s female personnel in such dismissive language.
“I stumbled upon her in here bawling her eyes out,” clarified Illya straight-to-the-point, “and blubbering how her carelessness had gotten you into bad trouble with the higher-ups. So what happened exactly?”
Napoleon shrugged. “All perfectly innocent. She didn’t get some reports filed as quickly as she should have.”
Now it was Kuryakin who quirked an eyebrow at Solo.
“One of those reports happened to be the latest intelligence on the full extent of Lyle’s personnel chain. Our operatives thus went into the sting with outdated information.”
“And?” prompted Illya.
Napoleon wearily scrubbed a hand across his face before answering. “It was a major fiasco: a half-dozen agents wounded – two critically, no retrieval of any of the data we needed, and the loss of our sole informant into Lyle’s network.”
“Yancey Kilredge?” the Russian sought confirmation on the outcome with regard to the informant.
“Dead. Shot through the head by one of Lyle’s people who we hadn’t tracked as being in the inner circle.”
“Hadn’t tracked?” Illya pressed for clarification.
“In the outdated reports. That inevitable shooter, a female, was uncovered by Section IV personnel during routine business transaction checking. Her identity was in the report I didn’t get prior to dispatching the enforcement team on the final mission regarding the Lyle syndicate. Yancey apparently got too cozy with her and we never got the chance to warn him to back off the relationship.”
Kuryakin’s only response was a low whistle.
“I assume you advised Mr. Waverly about your temporary assistant’s incompetence?” the Russian asked after his initial flabbergasted reaction.
“Why would I do that?” hedged Solo.
“Because the fault wasn’t entirely yours.”
“Yes, it was, Illya. I knew Talia was new and I should have double-checked that she understood the necessity of timeliness on specific case filings.”
“Wait,” Illya put up one hand in protest. “When exactly did you become a trainer for those in administrative positions within this organization? That’s the job of Carla Drosten’s second-line people in Personnel. A temp assigned to the CEA should be thoroughly vetted in procedural issues, and even provided a quick refresher course before the actual assignment.”
“Illya, what would you have me do? Play tattle-tale on a young woman who got understandably flustered in her new job? I’m not built that way.”
“Napoleon, you are not your brother’s – or in this particular instance – your secretary’s keeper. Every individual has a level of accountability within this organization. I can make allowances that this Miss Barnes—”
“Barne,” interjected Napoleon immediately.
“What?” countered a bewildered Illya.
“Her last name is Barne, not Barnes. It was something she emphasized to me right off as she said most made the mistake of adding the s to the end of her surname.”
“Maybe you should have emphasized to her right off the burden of responsibility you carry as Chief Enforcement Agent and how it has a trickledown effect with regard to your assistant’s specific duties.”
“You’re a hard man, Illya Kuryakin.
“I’m a pragmatist,” corrected Illya bluntly. “Something your penchant for rescuing damsels in distress is not permitting you even slightly to be in this instance.”
“Just let it go, Illya,” suggested the emotionally embattled Solo. The rational part of him was mentally insisting that he indeed should speak to Waverly about Talia. But the compassionate part of him remained staunchly resistant to the idea. “It’s over and done,” he therefore finalized as he let compassion win out. “The Old Man has chewed me out royally, and I’ll be sure to ask Talia about the existence of any unfiled reports next time. I’m also sure not immediately filing key reports on active cases is a mistake Talia won’t be making again either. Lesson learned for both me and my secretary.”
Though he was less than satisfied with his friend’s determination on this score, Illya accepted that it just wasn’t his place to protest further. With regard to the said Miss Barne however, Kuryakin had to mentally concede an insidiously growing dislike of her, even on the bare-bones evidence of very short acquaintance.
Admittedly she didn’t make that same mistake, but in the days that followed Talia definitely made more than her fair share of other avoidable miscues. Fortunately it turned out none of these actually proved costly to any other ongoing U.N.C.L.E. operations, but all unquestionably proved costly to Solo’s standing with the Continental Chiefs. Waverly remained adamant regarding the readiness of his chosen CEA for the pressure and responsibility that came with that elevated position. More and more, however, the Old Man was being forced to defend that stance to his colleagues, and that definitely made him short of patience with said CEA.
For his part, Napoleon seemed to be relying heavily on his temporary secretary’s presumed competence, something of which Miss Barne had not shown any tangible indication. He continued to take the sole heat for any blunders, which irritated his friend Illya no end. The silken thread of gallantry could only be expected to stretch so far in the Russian’s opinion, and Napoleon’s pull in that direction had, to his way of thinking, already extended the strand well beyond the breaking point.
The two men continually clashed on this particular, arguments ensuing more often than not. So much so, that Napoleon in the end simply refused to discuss Miss Barne, one way or the other, with Kuryakin. That refusal only served to further exasperate Illya as he began to suspect his friend’s career was being purposely sabotaged by the manipulative Miss Barne of the burgundy-brown eyes.
Taking matters into his own hands, Illya decided to discreetly inquire about Talia Barne within other sections of the Command. His first stop was the supervisor of the secretarial pool.
“She’s a corker, that one,” noted Lois McKenna in her distinct Irish blas.
“A corker?” queried Illya uncertainly.
“Yes, you know. A smooth operator who always manages to get people on her side.”
“Why do you think that is?”
Lois shrugged. “Diabhal fhios agam! She’s pretty in that petite gamin sort of style, but not outrageously good-looking. She’s sharp enough with regard to making her own way in the world, but not extraordinarily brainy. But she is at least one thing in triplicate for sure: ambitious, ambitious, ambitious.”
{Translation: Damned if I know!}
“I take it not in a good way?”
Again Lois shrugged. “Exploits too many shortcuts to get where she wants from my perspective. Take her temporary assignment with Mr. Solo. She certainly wasn’t my first choice: too new to the Command. But she lobbied hard for the place.”
“And quite successfully it would seem,” noted Illya disapprovingly.
That prompted still another shrug from Lois. “Miss Drosten said to give her a chance.”
“Carla Drosten? Head of Section VI, Security and Personnel?”
{Note: Carla Drosten was a character introduced in the MFU TV series episode THE WAVERLY RING AFFAIR}
Now Lois chuckled. “Only Miss Drosten I know of in this organization. She stated that as Miss Barne was fully vetted with regard to security and her resume showed quite good secretarial skills, no reason she shouldn’t receive the assignment, even being a new employee at U.N.C.L.E., as the assignment was indeed only temporary.”
“Still, Mr. Solo, is the CEA of Northwest and—”
Putting up the index finger of her right hand as she interrupted, Lois stated straight-to-the-point, “Tá tú ag preacháil leis an gcór, Mr. Kuryakin. But one thing I’ve learned over my years here is you don’t argue with your superiors over niggling concerns. You save the arguing for important issues. Mr. Solo needed a temporary assistant assigned to him; Talia Barne is a vetted member of the secretarial pool here in HQ; her appointment to the position was endorsed by a higher-up; so Talia Barne got the assignment. Case closed.”
{Translation: You’re preaching to the choir}
“Indeed,” summarized Illya tersely.
“Seems Mr. Solo trusts her, from what I hear.”
“Indeed,” repeated Kuryakin even more tersely.
...continued in Part 2...
Genre: GEN
Warnings: Mild Language
Length: approx 10,400 words
Oddly for me this one turned out to be very much an Illya story.
Posted in two parts due to length, but hey I did keep it reasonable! ;)
Author’s Note: This story takes place a few weeks after Napoleon has been promoted to Chief of Enforcement for U.N.C.L.E. North America. At this point in time Illya is not yet his partner, but the two men do share a friendship, albeit it one still in the early stages of development.
The belief in a supernatural source of evil is not necessary; men alone are quite capable of every wickedness.
~~~ Joseph Conrad
by LaH
Autumn 1963
“That movie had a rather unbelievable premise,” commented Illya Kuryakin as he and his coworker and superior, Napoleon Solo, the newly-appointed CEA of U.N.C.L.E. North America, exited the movie theatre.
The theatre was one of those in lower Manhattan that operated on the “art house” concept of showing older releases. The current series of motion pictures being run at the playhouse was a retrospective on the career-to-date of actress Kim Novak. The film the two men had just viewed was thus a “revival” of the 1958 cinematic production of BELL, BOOK AND CANDLE starring said lovely lady with leading man Jimmy Stewart.
“So I take it you didn’t like the movie?” questioned Solo. He was still trying to figure out much about this Russian colleague who he had befriended. Thus any hint, however offhandedly mentioned, that might facilitate such understanding was not an opportunity to be squandered.
“I wouldn’t say that exactly,” clarified Illya. “The acting was very good. And Miss Novak is certainly a compelling beauty well worth watching on the silver screen.”
“Indeed,” Napoleon wholeheartedly agreed.
“However,” Illya stated his caveat, “I found the concept of an underground klatch of witches existing in modern New York and focusing their powers on attempts to forward their sex lives—”
“Sex is a powerful motivator, tovarisch,” interrupted Napoleon.
Kuryakin couldn’t help smirking at that. He and the American were still learning about each other; nonetheless he was well aware of Solo’s own somewhat prodigious sexual appetite. Or perhaps it was more an insatiable craving for the trappings of romance that so routinely surrounded sexual adventures in the West. Honestly, Illya wasn’t positive on that score.
“There are no modern-day witches,” stated Illya with unshakeable certainty. “They disappeared with humanity’s mental grasp and emotional acceptance of the various explainable natural forces in the universe. There are today wiccans of course,” he conceded. “But Wicca is no more than another form of religious belief, one centering on those explainable natural forces and classifying them under the deific authority of a duotheistic paradigm representing male and female aspects.”
“You’re just chock-full of Marxist common sense, aren’t you?” teased Napoleon with an impish grin.
Such a remark from anyone else might have affronted the Russian. However Kuryakin had quickly come to terms with Solo’s good-natured ribbing. It was never cruel or condescending or contemptuous. It was just Napoleon being Napoleon: mischievous but always respectful and empathetic, tongue-in-cheek but always optimistic and forward-thinking.
Illya smirked again. “So tell me then, Napoleon, do you believe that in this day and age there are confirmable witches in New York? Or Moscow? Or Paris? Or London? Or anywhere else in the civilized world?”
“Well no,” admitted Napoleon. “Not exactly,” he then hedged.
“Not exactly?” repeated Illya in a questioning tone and with definite surprise.
Now it was Napoleon who shrugged. “Guess it’s my Catholic upbringing. Of course I don’t believe there are individuals who can work magic with spells and potions and the like. But I do believe there are individuals who themselves genuinely believe they can do such things, and that belief in and of itself can sometimes lead to…” Napoleon hesitated.
“Lead to what?” prompted an intrigued Illya.
“Chaos. All those explainable natural forces of the universe you so casually mention being tilted out-of-whack.”
“I don’t see how,” persisted the stubborn Russian. “There’s no science to support any such notion.”
“The human mind,” forwarded Napoleon thoughtfully, “is an extremely potent force in and of itself. We comprehend so very little of its power. We really don’t have a clue what the mind is capable of creating or altering or destroying. We just don’t know, and there’s the rub. Because a defiant mind permitted to go wildly on its own tangent path can wreak havoc we don’t expect and can’t even tag within the realm of our current logic. Because that logic itself is limited, Illya. And that’s the plain truth.”
Illya studied the other man for a long moment. Finally he pronounced without reservation, “I don’t deny the legitimacy of any of that, Napoleon. Still am I unequivocally convinced there is in this world no such being as a manifest witch.”
Meanwhile…
“I understand congratulations are in order,” the Thrush captain of the local Manhattan satrapy grudgingly admitted to the woman who sat in the chair opposite his desk. “You indeed managed, as you promised, to get yourself hired into the secretarial pool of U.N.C.L.E.’s North American headquarters.”
The woman seated in that chair – a very petite and freshly pretty brunette – smiled wryly at him. “You sound more disappointed than enthused,” she noted ironically.
“That’s because I’m not at all sure you can be trusted,” the captain stated frankly. “Background security checks at U.N.C.L.E. are thorough. So how you avoided them tagging you as suspicious, I have to wonder.”
“You forget—” began the woman.
“Yes, I know,” interrupted the Thrush with harsh abruptness. “You can bend people and circumstances to your will. You are a witch.”
The wry smile returned to haunt the woman’s lips. “And you still don’t believe that.”
“I am a sensible man of the modern world,” declared the captain bluntly. “So no, I still don’t believe that and I never will. But my belief or disbelief is of no consequence. As long as you can perform as Thrush wishes.”
“And what is it that Thrush wishes?” queried the woman straight to the point. “Now that the initial hurdle is past?”
The captain smartly slid a standard 3½x5 black-and-white headshot across his desk toward the woman. She took it in hand and idly examined it. “Handsome man,” was her immediate comment.
“I suppose,” the captain dismissed that observation. “Napoleon Solo: the newly appointed head of Section II, Operations and Enforcement, for U.N.C.L.E. here in North America.”
“Rather young to hold a post of such authority, no?”
“Yes, but he’s touted as a tactical and counterintelligence wunderkind, and it seems Waverly might have big plans for his future.”
“Alexander Waverly? The Command Continental Chief to whom the other four in supposedly similar positions willingly give precedence?”
“Yes, the big man himself. Founder of the organization, first among equals in the upper management circle, etc., etc., etc.”
“And this man,” the woman furthered, lightly tapping the photograph with one burgundy lacquered fingernail, “is his protégé?”
“So it would seem. We’ve dealt with Solo the past eight years as an enforcement agent. He’s clever, an often unorthodox strategist, self-confident with the bravura of all do-gooders. Fearless of course and he can be ruthless, but he does have a compassionate heart that can trip him up now and again.”
“Apparently not often enough to have done him any real hurt,” surmised the woman.
“Why do you say that?” demanded the captain.
“Because he’s alive and a rising star in U.N.C.L.E. Thrush hasn’t yet managed to kill him or take him down in any other way.”
“True enough,” reluctantly conceded the stanch adherent of the Hierarchy.
“So what do you want of me with regard to this man?” the woman finally asked the most pertinent question. “I’ve already told your masters that my powers do not extend to paranormal deaths or permanent vanishings. And I absolutely will not put myself in a position to be arrested and imprisoned for committing murder.’
The captain waved his hand dismissively. “What we want from you is simple: just be the means of providing a little internal conflict for Solo. A few manipulated doubts, a few avoidable missteps…”
“And he is a wunderkind no longer,” acknowledged the woman.
“And his star stops rising,” concluded the Thrush.
“Thrush does not want this man someday at the helm of U.N.C.L.E.,” decided the woman.
“Thrush does not want to deal with this man in any greater capacity than necessary.”
“You would see him demoted from his status as the head of Section II?”
The captain shrugged. “Whatever can be achieved to shoot down his rising star is to our benefit.”
“Then such is my mission,” accepted the woman gamely as she lifted her handbag from its resting place on the floor beside her chair. Opening the purse, she slipped the picture inside its confines and then closed the handbag with an audible snap.
One Week Later…
Walking down one of the many gunmetal gray corridors of U.N.C.L.E. HQ in Manhattan, his eyes scanning through the contents of a file on a newly discovered Thrush satrapy in the hinterlands of Connecticut, Napoleon Solo unexpectedly encountered a compact object directly in his path. That “object”: a petite young woman carrying a heavy armload of such files.
“Ooofff!” exclaimed the woman in a reactive huff of breath as the folders made abrupt contact with her middle and then tumbled from her arms.
“So sorry, miss!” apologized Napoleon as he bent to help the woman retrieve the upset contents of the portfolios now scattered in every which direction across the gunmetal gray floor.
“Perhaps you should keep your eyes focused on what lies ahead of you,” she chastised mildly.
Stack of refilled folders now tucked in the crook of one arm, Napoleon stood upright and looked for the first time upon the being of the sudden “obstacle” he had encountered on his way to his office. She was extremely small of person, a brown-haired doll of a female with assets that fit her petite structure but were nonetheless very femininely pleasing.
“I usually do,” stated Napoleon with one of his most brilliant smiles, “and definitely when the scenery is well worth the noticing.”
She beamed rather than blushed, and something about that reaction registered in Solo’s mind as downright intriguing.
“I’ll forgive you since you compliment so prettily. Talia Barne,” she introduced herself. “That’s Barne: singular. Not Barnes: plural. Folks are always making that mistake.”
Napoleon laughed lightly. “Pleased to meet you, Miss Barne,” he emphasized her proper surname. “Napoleon Solo,” he then returned the introduction.
“Oh, I know who you are, Mr. Solo. The other secretaries in the pool gossip about you ad infinitum.”
Oddly, it was Napoleon who now found himself blushing. “You won’t hold that against me, will you?” he queried a bit sheepishly.
Talia laughed: a melodious sound if ever there was one. Something inside Napoleon unconsciously attuned itself to the rhythm of that laugh.
“Oh, I should think not,” she assured him. “In fact I rather like a man who knows what he wants and isn’t afraid to go after it.”
Again Napoleon found himself blushing, an unusual phenomenon indeed. “You make me sound rather… greedy with regard to my admittedly liberal dating habits.”
“A liberality of nature that gives pleasure to many,” teased the woman with amiable good grace.
Solo smiled at her again, taking in with his gaze the unique color of her eyes. Some would undoubtedly call them simply brown. Yet there was a distinctive undertone to the common hue, reddish-purple like the finest burgundy wine. Her hair had similar highlights that caught the ambient light and reflected it about her face in a warm magenta glow.
“You are new here, I take it?” Napoleon at last posed the obvious question.
Talia nodded. “Recently hired into the secretarial pool.”
“U.N.C.L.E. is keeping you remarkably busy by the look of it,” observed Napoleon as he gauged the heft of the pile of folders he held.
She laughed that tonal tapestry of a laugh again, its varied notes weaving skillfully into the warp and weft of Solo’s psyche.
“The necessary accouterments of my temporary assignment,” Talia informed him readily, “as where there is authority, there is also burden.
“Seems you are assigned to someone of import then.”
“You might say that.”
“Do let me make amends for my clumsiness in knocking these from your lovely arms by conveying them wherever you need.”
“Very gallant of you, Mr. Solo.”
“Napoleon, please.”
“Then I must be Talia.”
“Yes, you must,” Napoleon readily agreed. “So in what place of authority is this burden to be deposited?” he inquired regarding the folders.
Talia pointed to the closed door of an office nearby… his office. Napoleon blinked and Talia grinned impishly at his dumbfounded reaction.
“I am the temporary replacement for your regular secretary,” she revealed at last.
“Something wrong with Mitzi then?” inquired Napoleon with true concern. He liked Mitzi and worked well with her.
{Note: Mitzi was a character introduced as Solo’s assistant in the MFU TV series episode THE ARABIAN AFFAIR.}
“She broke an ankle skiing this weekend. She’ll be out at least six weeks recovering.”
“Poor girl,” commiserated Napoleon. “I should send her some flowers along with my sincere get-well wishes.”
“Yes, you should,” agreed Talia. “However, until she is back on her feet – literally – you have me to boss around. Now mind you treat me gently.”
Those burgundy-illuminated brown eyes of hers were bright with mischief, and Solo found himself instinctively responding to the playful promise in those eyes.
“Like a princess in a fairytale,” pledged Napoleon, placing his free hand over his heart.
Talia focused her arresting eyes directly on his. “Will I get a happily ever after then?” she queried in a manner that left Napoleon wondering if the request was intended as no more than rhetorical jest.
A Few Days Afterwards…
“I am somewhat surprised by this, Mr. Solo,” Mr. Waverly chastised his new CEA with uncomfortable bluntness, “and most definitely disappointed.”
“I understand, sir, and I assure you it won’t happen again,” apologized the definitely discomfited Napoleon.
“It was sloppy background checking,” persisted the Continental Chief. “That is not something I have ever seen from you before, and certainly U.N.C.L.E. cannot afford to see it again from one in your position.”
“Again, sir, I do apologize and pledge to be more vigilant in future.”
“I have taken a forceful stand in promoting you at this time to Chief of Enforcement for Northwest, Mr. Solo. Most of my colleagues, though all see the potential in you for the future in such a post, thought and still think you at present too young to handle so much authority. There is no doubt in anyone’s mind that you are a crackerjack field agent. However, the head of Section II for the Command’s main branch needs to be more than that. You need to have a firm handle on ongoing operations, you need to take the lead in strategizing, you need—”
“I do realize that, sir,” Napoleon interrupted his superior, perhaps unwisely. But his frustration was getting the better of his discretion as he just didn’t know what further Mr. Waverly wanted from him. “I made a mistake,” he stated without adornment. “What more can I do other than freely admit to it and make a concerted effort to ensure it is never repeated in the future?”
Waverly’s tone softened just a fraction as he noted, “I want you to understand, young man, it isn’t that you made a mistake that concerns me. I don’t expect you to be superhuman. It is the nature of the mistake that I find disturbing.”
Napoleon bit his lip. There was no acceptable comment he could make to that plainspoken assessment.
“Many see you as needlessly reckless, Mr. Solo. I know, however, that isn’t the case. I know what you do is based on proper research into the situation at hand, as well as reliance on your natural instincts. I’ll grant your research isn’t always the ‘this steps rationally into that’ type of logic. You can extrapolate effect from cause in unexpectedly accurate leaps and bounds. That is an extraordinary gift, young man, one that few possess and one that I, as an administrator in this organization, value highly.”
“And I do most sincerely thank you for that, sir,” softly acknowledged an unusually embarrassed Napoleon.
Waverly nodded shortly. “See to it you do not betray my confidence in you again. You are dismissed, Mr. Solo.”
Napoleon left his chief’s office feeling largely dispirited. He did freely own to the error that had cost U.N.C.L.E. success in a very long-gestating sting operation. He would never try to excuse his apparent inattention to very important details of the setup because of a series of unfortunate external circumstances. Yet, if the full truth was disclosed, such circumstances had indeed played into this particular situation.
When Solo entered his own office, he was none too happy to find Illya waiting there for him. He just wasn’t in the mood to deal with anyone, even a friendly someone.
“I’m not much for chatting right now, Illya,” he attempted to dismiss his friend as he seated himself in the chair behind his desk.
“It’s true then? Waverly gave you a thorough verbal drubbing?”
Solo gazed at Kuryakin with sudden wariness. Eyes narrowing he demanded, “So, is it all over U.N.C.L.E. HQ that the Old Man dressed down his new CEA for the Lyle screw-up like he was a half-assed greenstick?”
Illya shook his head. “Waverly’s assistant is very experienced at ensuring what happens privately in the ‘inner sanctum’ never becomes ready chatter for the gossip pool. No, I heard it rather exclusively from that saucy little baggage who is filling in for Mitzi.”
Napoleon quirked an eyebrow in the other man’s direction. The reaction was both a non-verbal request for further explanation, as well as surprise at the Russian’s description of Talia as “‘that saucy little baggage”. Never before had Solo heard Kuryakin refer to any of the Command’s female personnel in such dismissive language.
“I stumbled upon her in here bawling her eyes out,” clarified Illya straight-to-the-point, “and blubbering how her carelessness had gotten you into bad trouble with the higher-ups. So what happened exactly?”
Napoleon shrugged. “All perfectly innocent. She didn’t get some reports filed as quickly as she should have.”
Now it was Kuryakin who quirked an eyebrow at Solo.
“One of those reports happened to be the latest intelligence on the full extent of Lyle’s personnel chain. Our operatives thus went into the sting with outdated information.”
“And?” prompted Illya.
Napoleon wearily scrubbed a hand across his face before answering. “It was a major fiasco: a half-dozen agents wounded – two critically, no retrieval of any of the data we needed, and the loss of our sole informant into Lyle’s network.”
“Yancey Kilredge?” the Russian sought confirmation on the outcome with regard to the informant.
“Dead. Shot through the head by one of Lyle’s people who we hadn’t tracked as being in the inner circle.”
“Hadn’t tracked?” Illya pressed for clarification.
“In the outdated reports. That inevitable shooter, a female, was uncovered by Section IV personnel during routine business transaction checking. Her identity was in the report I didn’t get prior to dispatching the enforcement team on the final mission regarding the Lyle syndicate. Yancey apparently got too cozy with her and we never got the chance to warn him to back off the relationship.”
Kuryakin’s only response was a low whistle.
“I assume you advised Mr. Waverly about your temporary assistant’s incompetence?” the Russian asked after his initial flabbergasted reaction.
“Why would I do that?” hedged Solo.
“Because the fault wasn’t entirely yours.”
“Yes, it was, Illya. I knew Talia was new and I should have double-checked that she understood the necessity of timeliness on specific case filings.”
“Wait,” Illya put up one hand in protest. “When exactly did you become a trainer for those in administrative positions within this organization? That’s the job of Carla Drosten’s second-line people in Personnel. A temp assigned to the CEA should be thoroughly vetted in procedural issues, and even provided a quick refresher course before the actual assignment.”
“Illya, what would you have me do? Play tattle-tale on a young woman who got understandably flustered in her new job? I’m not built that way.”
“Napoleon, you are not your brother’s – or in this particular instance – your secretary’s keeper. Every individual has a level of accountability within this organization. I can make allowances that this Miss Barnes—”
“Barne,” interjected Napoleon immediately.
“What?” countered a bewildered Illya.
“Her last name is Barne, not Barnes. It was something she emphasized to me right off as she said most made the mistake of adding the s to the end of her surname.”
“Maybe you should have emphasized to her right off the burden of responsibility you carry as Chief Enforcement Agent and how it has a trickledown effect with regard to your assistant’s specific duties.”
“You’re a hard man, Illya Kuryakin.
“I’m a pragmatist,” corrected Illya bluntly. “Something your penchant for rescuing damsels in distress is not permitting you even slightly to be in this instance.”
“Just let it go, Illya,” suggested the emotionally embattled Solo. The rational part of him was mentally insisting that he indeed should speak to Waverly about Talia. But the compassionate part of him remained staunchly resistant to the idea. “It’s over and done,” he therefore finalized as he let compassion win out. “The Old Man has chewed me out royally, and I’ll be sure to ask Talia about the existence of any unfiled reports next time. I’m also sure not immediately filing key reports on active cases is a mistake Talia won’t be making again either. Lesson learned for both me and my secretary.”
Though he was less than satisfied with his friend’s determination on this score, Illya accepted that it just wasn’t his place to protest further. With regard to the said Miss Barne however, Kuryakin had to mentally concede an insidiously growing dislike of her, even on the bare-bones evidence of very short acquaintance.
Admittedly she didn’t make that same mistake, but in the days that followed Talia definitely made more than her fair share of other avoidable miscues. Fortunately it turned out none of these actually proved costly to any other ongoing U.N.C.L.E. operations, but all unquestionably proved costly to Solo’s standing with the Continental Chiefs. Waverly remained adamant regarding the readiness of his chosen CEA for the pressure and responsibility that came with that elevated position. More and more, however, the Old Man was being forced to defend that stance to his colleagues, and that definitely made him short of patience with said CEA.
For his part, Napoleon seemed to be relying heavily on his temporary secretary’s presumed competence, something of which Miss Barne had not shown any tangible indication. He continued to take the sole heat for any blunders, which irritated his friend Illya no end. The silken thread of gallantry could only be expected to stretch so far in the Russian’s opinion, and Napoleon’s pull in that direction had, to his way of thinking, already extended the strand well beyond the breaking point.
The two men continually clashed on this particular, arguments ensuing more often than not. So much so, that Napoleon in the end simply refused to discuss Miss Barne, one way or the other, with Kuryakin. That refusal only served to further exasperate Illya as he began to suspect his friend’s career was being purposely sabotaged by the manipulative Miss Barne of the burgundy-brown eyes.
Taking matters into his own hands, Illya decided to discreetly inquire about Talia Barne within other sections of the Command. His first stop was the supervisor of the secretarial pool.
“She’s a corker, that one,” noted Lois McKenna in her distinct Irish blas.
“A corker?” queried Illya uncertainly.
“Yes, you know. A smooth operator who always manages to get people on her side.”
“Why do you think that is?”
Lois shrugged. “Diabhal fhios agam! She’s pretty in that petite gamin sort of style, but not outrageously good-looking. She’s sharp enough with regard to making her own way in the world, but not extraordinarily brainy. But she is at least one thing in triplicate for sure: ambitious, ambitious, ambitious.”
{Translation: Damned if I know!}
“I take it not in a good way?”
Again Lois shrugged. “Exploits too many shortcuts to get where she wants from my perspective. Take her temporary assignment with Mr. Solo. She certainly wasn’t my first choice: too new to the Command. But she lobbied hard for the place.”
“And quite successfully it would seem,” noted Illya disapprovingly.
That prompted still another shrug from Lois. “Miss Drosten said to give her a chance.”
“Carla Drosten? Head of Section VI, Security and Personnel?”
{Note: Carla Drosten was a character introduced in the MFU TV series episode THE WAVERLY RING AFFAIR}
Now Lois chuckled. “Only Miss Drosten I know of in this organization. She stated that as Miss Barne was fully vetted with regard to security and her resume showed quite good secretarial skills, no reason she shouldn’t receive the assignment, even being a new employee at U.N.C.L.E., as the assignment was indeed only temporary.”
“Still, Mr. Solo, is the CEA of Northwest and—”
Putting up the index finger of her right hand as she interrupted, Lois stated straight-to-the-point, “Tá tú ag preacháil leis an gcór, Mr. Kuryakin. But one thing I’ve learned over my years here is you don’t argue with your superiors over niggling concerns. You save the arguing for important issues. Mr. Solo needed a temporary assistant assigned to him; Talia Barne is a vetted member of the secretarial pool here in HQ; her appointment to the position was endorsed by a higher-up; so Talia Barne got the assignment. Case closed.”
{Translation: You’re preaching to the choir}
“Indeed,” summarized Illya tersely.
“Seems Mr. Solo trusts her, from what I hear.”
“Indeed,” repeated Kuryakin even more tersely.
...continued in Part 2...
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Date: 2013-10-20 02:55 pm (UTC)When the British occupied Ireland, they made attempts at learning the Irish language. The native Irish speakers, making fun of them, told them they spoke with a fine brogue....but in actual fact they were meaning that the British spoke as if they had a shoe in their mouth. The British, thinking it was a compliment, used the word to refer to their accent, not knowing they were continuing an insult. Unfortuantely it carried forward here to the US where the term is continued to be misunderstod, simply because people don't know any better.
The actual word for accent is 'blas.'
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Date: 2013-10-20 11:25 pm (UTC)I will correct the brogue reference when I am on my desktop computer later. Right now on my tablet and just too difficult to edit long posts with a virtual keyboard.