The Twelve Days, Day 11 for the 12 Days of Christmas

[glennagirl.livejournal.com]

Day 11

It wasn’t enough to just have a nice evening in Montreal with nothing more important to do than enjoy dinner, and perhaps dance with one of the attractive women in the club Napoleon insisted on going into.

The club. That was the problem. Going into the club had been a mistake, and once again two women had made themselves available to the UNCLE agents, and been successful in drugging their drinks before either man caught on.

Now, in another dark room and with matching headaches, UNCLE’s finest were feeling less than fine.

“How stupid are we, Napoleon? How many times are we going to let these Thrush … ces femmes indésirables. I wish I could hit someone…hard.”

Napoleon flinched slightly, his memory serving up an image of him pursuing the women in spite of Illya’s protests.

“Well, just don’t hit me. I feel bad enough as it is. What the heck did they put in our drinks, anyway?”

Illya laid his head back against the wall, his eyelids unwilling to open all the way. He wished fervently to be away from here, without a headache and definitely out of Montreal.

“I have no idea. Whatever it was they gave me enough for both of us.’

Somewhere down an unseen corridor there was noise. Apparently there were other people in this building. As long as no one came in to haul one or both of them away to some typical Thrush brutality, Illya thought he could tolerate this just long enough to plan an escape
.
He did open his eyes, and was not entirely disappointed at what he saw.

“Napoleon, do you see that thing over there… that… over there.”

Illya was pointing, and Napoleon lined up his vision with the extended finger. It was a bagpipe, sort of.

“What are you going to do with a bagpipe? Don’t tell me you know how to play one.”

Illya made a face and rolled his eyes. How typical of Napoleon to not grasp the obvious. Oh, well maybe not exactly obvious.

“That old bagpipe has a blowpipe, and if one of us still has something left for an incendiary, we can make ourselves a little fire and lure some imbecilic Thrush guard into our trap.’

Now Napoleon was rolling his eyes.

“I can’t believe we’re back inside of a Thrush cell, trying to blow our way out. Again.’’

Both men took a deep breath. They also began doing an inventory of their supplies. Remarkably, Napoleon had all of his buttons. Not so remarkable was the sad fact that they weren’t explosive.

Illya was checking the hem in his trousers. The thread was a spark-igniting filament that could start a small fire under the right conditions. All he needed to do was to utilize the raw materials in this room to start the flame, and use the pipe to blow it into a real blaze.

“Napoleon, let’s dismantle that bagpipe. We can create a diversion big enough to attract some attention, get the drop on a guard and make our escape.”

The two set about the job of taking the bagpipe apart. The blowpipe was extracted from the bag itself, leaving the drones and chanter still attached to the bag, which was made of some type of animal skin. Illya put the remains of the bagpipe on the floor next to their cell door, and piled some of the trash that Napoleon had gathered up as kindling for a fire. He ignited his filament that was taken from his trouser hem, and started blowing onto it through the scavenged blowpipe.

Napoleon broke up a wobbly chair, as quietly as possible, and placed the pieces on top of the Illya’s struggling fire. It took about fifteen minutes, but eventually they had a blaze going that they could only hope would pique someone’s interest. Worse case scenario and they would do a repeat of their escape in Nova Scotia, and break down the door with some of the ratty furniture in the room.

Just like on television, the two agents managed to knock out the guard who came rushing in, grabbed his gun and made their getaway with all of the panache one would expect from two brave dare devils. They even managed to steal the Jaguar the two women had been driving the night before; something they decided would make a good present for Agent Lambert.

That, ironically, was Illya’s idea.

~~~~~:

When at last Illya Kuryakin and Napoleon Solo walked into the New York offices of UNCLE, it was late at night. They had stayed a little longer in Montreal than either would have liked, and catching a plane out was complicated by a storm that had held up flights for over three hours.

Sitting now in their office, the final page of the report was sliding out of Illya’s typewriter; the two of them were tired, cranky and hungry enough to raid a vending machine and call it dinner.

“Illya, next time I see two gorgeous women and we are anywhere near Canada, just shoot me instead of them. That way they might just walk away.”

That made Illya laugh, partly because there were times when he was actually tempted to do something like that; with a sleep dart, of course.

“You know, finding that bagpipe made things a little easier than it would have been otherwise. I believe it speeded things up a bit.”

That made Napoleon look up from the report he was scanning. Illya typed, he scanned. It seemed to work for them.

“You know, that really was something. Who has bagpipes hanging around in a Thrush cell?”

“They weren’t exactly hanging. Cast aside on the floor… no pipers piping on those ever again. Pity, actually.”

Napoleon remembered asking Illya if he played.

“So, you never answered me. Do you play bagpipes? You were rather knowledgeable about them.”

Illya pushed away from his desk, he was done for the night.

“Let’s go get something to eat, Napoleon. How about a pizza from Luigi’s? That sounds good to me.”

That did sound good. If they hurried out of headquarters they could just make it before the kitchen shut down for the night. They were moving quickly, anxious to get going.

“Okay then, let’s go. What kind, because there won’t be time to quibble about it when we get there, we’re just going to make it as it is. You know, they close at…

“Eleven.”

Down the grey corridors and nearing reception…

“Right, and do you want…’

They said goodnight to Renee, the girl in reception…

“Peppers. And hot…

They waived a goodnight to Del Floria…

“Piping.”

It was good to be home.

~~~~~:

Comments

[svetlanacat4.livejournal.com]

He he he... "Ces femmes indésirables... I wish I could hit someone…hard"
Poor Napoleon!
And now, I wonder whether Illya plays bagpipe...

[glennagirl.livejournal.com]

Oh my, you're quoting back my line in French ;) Merci!