Writer's Choice - The Boxing Affair

[glennagirl.livejournal.com]

The Boxing Affair is one that was published as part of Kuryakin Files #32.  I'm posting it on ff.net, but it's taking a long time for them to get it live.  Here is the first part, chapters 1-4.  As an aside to a particular within the story: by most accounts, David McCallum was somewhere between 5'7" and 5'8".  Based on his appearance I've put his weight at around 145 pounds.  I think that's fairly accurate.
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The Boxing Affair
chapter 1

"What are you reading today, Illya? Perhaps a new scientific journal or something a little less interesting than day old bread".

Napoleon Solo loved to kid his partner, hoping each time to propel the solemn blond from his boring books and journals and into something more amenable to his own gregarious pursuits. He was not someone who lacked the intellectual capacity to appreciate the erudite subject matter his friend favored, only the desire to consume it.

Illya Kuryakin looked up from the magazine in front of him, removed his dark lensed glasses and raised one eyebrow; it was an obvious sign of disapproval and condescension.

"As it happens, I am reading an article on the upcoming Pan American Games, to be held in Sao Paolo, Brazil. It appears that we, you and I, will be going there".

That sounded better. It was nice and warm down in Brazil, instead of cold and drizzly as it was in New York at present.

"Well, that is wonderful, isn't Illya. And, pray tell, what are the details, my Russian friend?"

Illya shook his head, trying to remember why it was he actually liked this irritating American. Oh, best friend and partner…saved my life a few times…

"I do not, as yet, know the details. I only know that it is on our agenda for April. We seem to be getting this news well in advance of actually going there, and for that I have no explanation".

The American CEA of UNCLE Northwest was not unhappy to find out his future included a trip to Brazil. It was a matter of some curiosity, however, that they were being informed of it now, three months in advance. That bit of information led him to believe there was some type of preparation involved.

There was a whoosh of air as the pneumatic doors parted and the chief of UNCLE Northwest, number 1 of section 1, strode purposefully through them, allowing only the briefest glance at his two top agents. Alexander Waverly had more responsibility than a man should need to endure, and yet his demeanor never changed, nor did his affect ever betray whatever stress or anxiety might be hiding behind it. It was a stone wall that greeted his people on a daily basis, and the strength of that wall gave them confidence in the jobs they performed.

These two were no exceptions to that. If a young Russian had not seen the determination and focus in the face of his new employer, he might never have been able to grasp the true meaning of his role within the United Network Command for Law and Enforcement. The resoluteness of the UNCLE chief held him together when the early days threatened to cast him on the rocks of suspicion and, sometimes, open hostility. It was to the young man's credit that he had overcome those obstacles and become, not a recluse or Ice Prince, as some liked to still remark, but a respected and well liked member of the New York office.

Napoleon Solo didn't need someone to bolster his confidence or his ego. Here was a man fully invested in his own self worth. It wasn't something that sprang up out of a self-centered personality; he was just a natural optimist and, because of that, he rightly assumed his place as a leader of men. His quick ascension through the ranks of the command had engendered admiration instead of envy, friends instead of enemies.

The two men, as a team, had a string of successes already that belied the idea that things should take more time. In just a couple of years together, they were the top team, and the top men in this New York organization.

"Gentlemen, I assume you have already perused the information in front of you, and are aware of your upcoming travels".

The old man looked up from his own reports and met the eyes of both Kuryakin and Solo, his expectations rewarded with their matching assent.

"I suppose, now, that you wish to know the reason for this trip, and so I shall tell you…'

He looked over at the blond, momentarily reminded of the young man who had come to him five years previously; skin and bones and looking like a teenager rather than an adult who had gained degrees from both Cambridge and the Sorbonne. He still looked ten years younger than his age should have demanded. It made him only slightly wistful for his own youth.

"Mr. Kuryakin, what do you weigh?"

"Sir? My weight… around 145 pounds, sir".

Waverly shook his head.

"No, Mr. Kuryakin, I doubt it. What do you weigh without your clothing and shoes?"

Now Napoleon looked sideways at his partner. He doubted there was a man in the organization who couldn't best Illya in the weight department; height, either, for that matter.

"I believe I weigh around 138 pounds, sir".

Now the chief nodded his head, indicating that he had known all along what the correct answer should be. He most likely had a medical report in front of him.

"Yes, Mr. Kuryakin. That is what your last check up indicated. Do you think you can find a way to gain five pounds?"

Now Illya looked less confident than he had a few minutes before. Was this a problem, him not weighing more? What, he wondered, was at stake.

"Sir, I don't try to stay this…thin. I believe I eat a substantial amount of food… I…"

"Quite so, Mr. Kuryakin. I am not concerned, as a rule, with your lean body weight. It is a matter of this assignment in Brazil. We need your weight to be firmly at 140 pounds or more, but not exceeding 147 pounds. Do you think you can manage that? Perhaps one of our nutritionists can assist you in… bulking up a bit. Mr. Solo may even have some suggestions".

Both agents thought they saw a slight smirk on their boss's face at that remark. Napoleon was not amused.

"Sir, if I may ask… why does Illya need to gain weight?"

Illya wanted to know as well, but was still mulling over how he might do it. He had spent his entire life being thin and smaller of stature. He didn't think he could remember ever being as tall as the men around him; he always found himself looking up. It might have created his need to be efficient in the various forms of self-defense. He rarely left reasons for others to doubt his abilities.

"Mr. Kuryakin…"

Illya looked up and prepared to hear the forthcoming explanation.

"your file indicates you have some experience in the ring… with boxing. Your next mission will depend on that skill coming to the fore".

Napoleon lacked words for expressing his surprise. Illya was deadly in a fight, but he had never considered him a boxer. He had now images of two men, sweaty and bleeding, dodging and dancing as punches were landed and someone ended up unconscious on the floor as the crowd cheered on the victor. He shook himself to close down the thought that the man left standing was not his partner.

Illya spoke up, his voice low and his eyes steadied on Waverly. This was not something he had any confidence in, and his record certainly didn't recommend him to this as a cover.

"Sir, I did do some boxing in the navy… the Soviet navy…'

Waverly was nodding his head. Of course he knew which navy.

"It was not a remarkable experience for me. It must show that…sir".

"Mr. Kuryakin, the point here is that you do have experience, and you are in the same weight class as the individual we wish to contact. It has been determined that the most effective and covert method is to have someone who can compete with him. He will be at the Pan American games in Sao Paolo, Brazil this April. He is a welterweight, which is the class you must be prepared to enter. In order for that to happen, you will need to gain some weight, young man. Your training will begin on Monday morning.

Mr. Solo, you will also be training, but due to your larger…ahmmm…your weight is not appropriate. It is also difficult to imagine you taking on this role. I believe you will agree with me".

As much as Napoleon hated to think he was limited, Waverly was right about his lack of suitability for this role; he wasn't the man to take on the persona of a boxer.

"What, exactly, will be my role here, Mr. Waverly?"

If he were also going into training, there was a reason for it.

"You, Mr. Solo, will be cast in the role of Mr. Kuryakin's trainer. That means you will need to know, first hand, what he knows. So, you will train as he trains, learn the business of amateur boxing, and you will ensure that he gains the weight necessary to get him into the welterweight class. Hopefully additional muscle weight will contribute to this as well, but he must eat and he must gain weight. Do you understand?"

"Yes sir".

Both men replied in chorus.

Chapter 2

Behind a row of bars and second hand shops, across an alleyway littered with bottles and trash, and a few homeless men, a doorway was crowned with the illustrious signage, King's Gym. Once you stepped inside, the world of the alley and the people in it became a distant memory. If you were in King's, your life was now in the ring that stood in the center. Locker rooms and benches lined opposite walls, and a bevy of shapely punching bags were hanging at the end of the open room, just waiting to take the punishment for which they were created.

This place smelled of testosterone and anguish, mixed with pangs of regret at lost opportunities or desultory dreams. Only a few ever succeeded in this violent sport, so there was a deserved sense of astonishment at the number of young men who tried. To Illya and Napoleon, the contrast between these faux warriors and their own real life encounters was enough to give them pause at the sight of these combatants, pummeling one another in grueling workouts, the bruises and broken noses outnumbering the men who bore them.

"So, you boxed in the navy, eh Illya?"

The blond didn't respond, merely closed his eyes against the recurring vision of his own failed attempts to best larger and seemingly stronger opponents. He had been young and even thinner than now. Some of the men he had faced in the ring were twice his size…he felt certain that was not an exaggeration.

"Hey, are okay with this?"

Illya only nodded, his eyes focused on the square of activity that occupied the room.

Napoleon felt as though going into this together was an advantage. His role as a trainer would mean they didn't have to break contact with each other, a definite plus. Illya posing as a welterweight boxer in an amateur event was, he had to admit, a great cover for this affair.

The man they were to contact in Sao Paolo was competing on the team from British Guiana. He had been working undercover for the past year, trying to infiltrate a group they were certain was Thrush; the object of that criminal element was not fully defined, but seemed to concentrate around a covert mining operation that had discovered a new vein of gold, something thought long ago exhausted. If Thrush had their eye on gold mining in that country, then a coup of some sort wouldn't be far off. The information they collected from the boxing competitor/agent would be their first real key to how UNCLE should proceed.

Illya would be competing, as a personal favor to Mr. Waverly, as a member of the Canadian team. One of their own had been found using copious amounts of illegal drugs and dismissed, leaving a spot for the UNCLE agent to assume. The fact that most of the team was from British Columbia would help the Russian to merge in, citing his home as Montreal. It wasn't safe to pose him as a Russian defector, so he became an ex-patriot Frenchman, thereby explaining his accent and it's non-Canadian timbre.

Napoleon would be able to make use of his Quebecoise French, a particular irritation to his more fluent European partner, but a perfect element of this affair.

Illya was the first to spot their contact at the gym; Burt Infield was a veteran of the ring, and the owner of King's Gym. He had spent his life in boxing, both as a competitor and now benefactor to the various boys and men who aspired to the limelight in this precarious and, sometimes dangerous sport. Alexander Waverly had befriended Burt during a particularly hazardous event while he was in Germany with a group of boxers doing exhibitions across Europe. The details had been put away with other secrets that both men kept locked in their past, but the friendship had endured between the two unlikely chums. It could not be said of Alexander Waverly that he held anyone at arm's length because of their occupations or aspirations. That he hadn't been able to persuade Infield to join UNCLE had only added to the older man's admiration of him.

The owner of King's had been given a portfolio of the men being sent to him for training in the ring. The one playing the part of the boxer had some experience, but now, looking at him, he felt a sense of near despair at the sight of the small man. Wearing a turtleneck and jeans, he didn't look as though he would last the first round, let alone compete on a world stage among the best athletes in the western hemisphere. Alexander must have his reasons for thinking this guy could do the job, but they weren't apparent to him…yet.

"Mr. Infield? I am Illya Kuryakin, and this is my partner, Napoleon Solo. We are…"

"Yeah, I know why you're here…Illya. Let's get down to business, okay. You aren't exactly what I was expecting…'

Napoleon cut his eyes discreetly to gauge his partner's response to that. This guy didn't know who he had here, appearances aside.

"Go and get changed. We're gonna start you off in the ring, so grab some sweats and let's see what you're made of".

Illya shrugged imperceptibly and headed for the locker room. He was used to this, had expected it. How much of his life had been consumed with proving himself to disbelieving opponents? A resolve to overcome his own doubts and those of this Ingram fellow surged from that place within him that always supplied the fuel for his frequent need for fire.

Stepping up into that ring had a déjà vu effect on the blond. Napoleon, on the other hand, seized the experience as another chapter in his always open book. He and Illya had spent more hours than he could count grappling and wrestling on the mats at headquarters. Their ability to gain and regain control of their matches had held more than one spectator spellbound as they wound around one another, looking for an opening and, oftentimes, drawing blood with their no holds barred encounters.

The boxing ring was a new addition to this story. Even though the partnership was only a couple of years on, these two knew each other better than most in the organization. Their ability to communicate without verbalizing their intentions baffled some, but saved them a lot of time and confusion when in the field. Their success rate proved it to be true, and the senior agent had little doubt that this one would be no exception. He welcomed the opportunity to show what he had, even if the Russian was slated to be the star of this show. What good was a boxer without a great trainer? Napoleon reckoned he could be great at this, just like any role he took on. It was his lot in life to excel.

"So, you two have any experience in the ring…besides your navy gig?"

Infield nodded in Illya's direction at that, still doubting that the smaller man had enough power to knock down a dummy. What the heck was Alexander thinking when he signed this guy up?

"No, Mr….'

"Uh uh…it's Burt".

Napoleon nodded, a smile hiding behind his relaxed posture. He knew what the man was thinking.

"Ok, Burt. I haven't boxed previously. Perhaps one of your guys could demonstrate with my partner…you know, sort of show me how it works".

Burt Infield like this guy. Napoleon, though…what a name. But, hey, at least the guy was honest and willing to take some instruction. The blond looked like he had a bad attitude. Maybe it was a good idea to take him down a notch…

"Hey, Sanchez…Carlos…over here!"

A young Latino sauntered over, his muscled chest and arms an immediate notice of how fit he was. He climbed easily up into the ring, eyeing Illya the entire time, relishing the idea of putting the guy down. These types who came in to test the waters against the real fighters…he had no time for that. Well, time enough to knock him around some.

Infield motioned towards the other man in the ring.

"This here is Illya. He has some experience, but he's needing a brush up course…a few pointers. You know what I mean?"

He jerked his head to the blond, winking as he did so, letting the younger man know he had his permission to go at it full throttle. He respected Alexander Waverly, and he wouldn't want to insult him or his men. But, this little guy needed to know what he would be up against down in Brazil. Chances were, he was gonna get his brains scrambled but good.

Both men had on the gear; mouthpieces were in and gloves shielded their hands. Head gear would soften the blows, should they come.

Illya kept his eyes on Carlos, expressionless and cold. If nothing else, he was confident he could win in that arena. He was poised for the first punch, but willed his body into the dance, remembering the routine and the feel of his feet moving swiftly and rhythmically around his opponent.

As both men circled, their plans were forming. Illya noted a slackness in the left arm, as though the man might have been injured previously. It was slight, but he was trained to notice the small things. Not willing to wait now for the other man to strike, Illya feinted to his own left, then struck a blow that landed with a thud on Carlos' left cheek. It had been quick, but the other man retaliated with a hard smack to Illya's midsection.

He nearly doubled over, but reclaimed his posture in time to receive a second hit, this time to his right ear. He shook it off, dancing away and around, never stopping to acknowledge the dizziness that accompanied the punch.

Burt was watching the footwork, impressed that the Russian kept going. Carlos was centering in on something and struck quickly, but Illya had anticipated it and blocked it, landing his own solid blow to the man's solar plexis, catching his chin as he doubled slightly to appease the catch in his breathing.

Illya was fast, and his strength, while not readily evident to these two, was more than enough to knock Sanchez back on his heels with a resounding left hook, leaving an opening to deliver the final punch. The faltering opponent went down hard, not a knock out, but as he touched the canvas beneath them, Napoleon was grinning widely enough to signal Burt that the blond was a ringer. He shook his head, calling to Sanchez to lay off, the bout was over.

Illya removed his gloves and leaned over to help the young man up from his prone position. While it was never a pleasant thing to be the one on the bottom of a match, Carlos had a new respect for the blond; he'd beaten him fair and square. This guy had some punch for little guy.

"Hey, you need a sparring partner? I'd be happy to step in for that role".

Illya smiled, just barely, and nodded his head toward Burt.

"I believe that will be up to him, but thank you for the offer".

Burt and Napoleon approached the ring, accepting the gear as it was passed to them. This would be the first of many such encounters as the two UNCLE agents prepared for their mission at the Pan Am Games. Illya hoped they would all be this easy, if it could be called that. He didn't think it possible, however.

While Napoleon learned the role of trainer, talking and, no doubt meeting beautiful women who liked to hang around the ring, it would be Kuryakin's head that was pounded, his body enduring the physical punishment.

All in all, it sounded like business as usual.

Chapter 3

The pungent environment announced the presence of men who thrived on endorphins and manufactured pheromones like Hershey made chocolate. And there were others who were on the prowl. Napoleon Solo wasn't in the ring today, and he didn't need a boxing ring to prove his appeal. Still, the background didin't hurt. He was attired in black trousers, an uncharacteristic dark blue turtleneck and a jacket made from a small houndstooth check woven of wool and cashmere. His shoes were black leather loafers, handcrafted in italy, and his after shave was a custom blend. He was playing a part, and as always, doing it very well.

"Well, you see Annette, I like to think of boxing as an art form that has no subtlety. It is raw and brutal, like the men who inhabit it."

Napoleon nodded to the men in the ring as he continued his narrative on the virtues and rugged appeal of the sport. His partner was in the ring with Carlos Sanchez, the young man he had not so politely hammered during his first visit to King's Gym.

They were in the fifth week now, heading at a gallop towards the April appointment with the Pan Am Games in Sao Paolo, Brazil. Illya had benefited greatly from all of these workouts, and his physique was beginning to show the effects of strength training and vigorous workouts both here and at the UNCLE gym. The man was single minded, that was for sure. Napoleon knew that the lovely creature next to him had not failed to notice the muscles that flexed beneath the sweaty skin, the tension in the blond's body as he moved around the ring like a cat waiting to pounce. Yeah, he was certain that she had noticed.

"So, Napoleon, do you box?"

He raised an eyebrow and whispered something in her ear, causing a blush to spread from her décolletage up to her hairline. She giggled demurely and reminded him to not be late picking her up for dinner. Just as Illya had predicted to himself, Napoleon was using his bouts in the ring to gain new conquests on the other side of the ropes.

'All of this work, and all I have to show for it is a few more muscles and a tired body. Napoleon is getting his workouts after dark.' The Russian mused to himself as he moved around the ring. No matter, the mission was the thing. And afterwards…he could think of a few things that would serve as a reward.

Burt Infield had doubted Alexander's man when he'd first seen the guy. Welterweights were smaller, compact, but generally built of muscle. Illya hadn't appeared to fit that description, and his surprise at the man's performance had been genuine. His appreciation for what he was able to do was also real. When the little guy knocked down Carlos Sanchez, he got the man's attention.

The gym wasn't full today. Usually there was a crowd hanging around, including women like the one Solo was chatting up. He was having trouble keeping up with the women who paraded by, and had to admit Napoleon was drawing them in like flies to honey. Or, maybe they were here to see the blond. The guy had a little fan club going, judging by the number of females that had suddenly developed an appreciation for boxing. These two were somethin' else.

Mr. Waverly had continued to reassure his two agents that things in Brazil were going as planned. Their contact, another UNCLE agent who was imbedded with the team from British Guiana, had continued to report in on the gold mining operation that was being underwritten by Thrush. Since the athletics were amateur, no one thought anything about the man needing to work for a living, and his profession, currently, was as a surveyor, although no one asked for whom he worked. They were keeping tabs on the countryside, the mines and the people who were traversing in and out. Whatever new vein had been hit, Thrush was keeping a low profile while they carted out loads of refuse and, UNCLE was certain, gold.

None of this should have concerned the Games, or boxers. However, what had clued the venerable head of UNCLE to the venue in Brazil was a communiqué that had been intercepted in which a reference was made to the April meet in Sao Paolo. That Waverly had been able to secure a spot for Kuryakin, courtesy of his contacts on the Canadian team, was enough to convince the old man that going in as a competitor would be the safest and most effective method of observation and, hopefully, circumvention of whatever Thrush was planning.

All of the information available was in the reports that Solo and Kuryakin reviewed whenever they were at headquarters. When they weren't at HQ, most of their time was spent at King's. Illya boxed, Napoleon took notes and stepped in occasionally, taking pointers and learning the techniques he would need to keep his fighter in good shape. And he flirted with the women who came to see the boxers, whose money helped support some of them and, most assuredly, to get to know the handsome guy with the big brown eyes and his cute blond boxing doll.

Dancing in the ring, sidestepping Carlos…Illya could process the information in their man's report while he worked on his technique. Speed and agility, agility and speed. Those were the two most important aspects of this sport, and he reasoned with himself that he could master both of those. Strength was a given; he was deceptively strong compared to people's first impressions of him. However, even he was beginning to appreciate the benefits of the workouts he was getting, and Napoleon had lost a few pounds from his sweaty encounters. It was the movement that did it.

Illya, on the other hand, was still trying to gain weight. He had managed to gain only two pounds; he was three pounds shy of the weight requirement, and a few pounds past that would be better. Mr. Waverly made him go into medical every time he stepped through Del Floria's, and no matter how much he consumed, it was just burning up with his intense physical activity. He figured he'd have to start eating more pasta, and find someone to make him pierogis.

Feint to the right, upper cut and back away…dancing and…Napoleon was flirting again…

The momentary lapse in Illya's concentration as he spied his partner's antics with the shapely blonde, cost him the attention he needed to avoid Carlos' punch. A right hook caught the Russian on his left jaw, and the impact sent him flailing backwards, bouncing off of the ropes and onto the canvas; his ear was ringing and the thought occurred to him that he might be knocked out.

Napoleon disengaged himself from Annette's lips when he saw Illya flying backwards into the ropes and then down. He'd been knocked down before, but this had a look about it that signaled the agent to get back to business.

Illya wasn't moving.

Chapter 4

Napoleon managed to get free of Annette and bounded up into the ring. Illya was knocked out, no question about it. He and Carlos had been sparring without any headgear on, and that punch had put the Russian out, decisively.

Burt was already at his side, and Carlos hovered over them both. He liked Illya, and didn't think his punch had been that hard. The guy must have a glass jaw to go down like that.

"Illya…c'mon man, shake it off. Illya!"

Slowly the blue eyes began to open, cautiously at first and then determined to see his way up from the canvas and back into the land of the living. Napoleon had joined the other two men in helping the blond up, and now he took it upon himself to be the one to examine his friend. His fingers grasped Illya's chin, turning his face first one way and then the other, demanding a look into eyes that were still tempted to see double.

"Hey, buddy, are you gonna be okay?"

Illya stumbled slightly as he tried to extricate himself from the three sets of hands that kept holding on to him. Of course he was fine…just fine…

"Whoa…hold on. You're still a little groggy, I think".

It was Napoleon. Did Napoleon knock him out? No, that was Carlos…they were sparring and…

"Ouch. Be careful, that's my jaw you're squeezing."

Scowling wasn't all that effective at ridding himself of the prodding. It was like being in Medical.

"Illya, you went down really hard. We just need to make certain that you're all right. You're a very valuable commodity at present."

Illya scowled a little less vehemently, understanding the meaning of his friend's words, and still unsure why he had gone down so easily. It was one punch, and he was used to being punched and brutalized. Carlos hadn't delivered anything more than the standard Thrush goon.

"Hey man, I didn't think I hit you that hard."

Carlos liked Illya, although sometimes the man scared him. Like now. When he looked out of those sharp blue eyes, he figured some people would just back down and not even bother to throw a punch. But he sure did go down easy.

The grey corridors looked even less animated than normal today. As Illya and Napoleon strode purposefully towards Mr. Waverly's office, they were each contemplating possible scenarios that might develop in light of this new dilemma.

They passed through the steel doors and took their seats at the round table, then exchanged looks that betrayed the confidence of one and the amusement of the other. Illya had no doubt the assignment would remain intact, and Napoleon wasn't quite done exploring the various methods of antagonizing his partner about his being prone to a knockout.

"Ahhemm…'

Alexander Waverly called the meeting to order.

Hands were searching for a match as his mouth compressed around the pipe stem.

"Gentlemen, I understand that we are confronted with…hmm…a new element to our intrigue. Mr. Kuryakin, are we better informed as to your frequent visits to medical?"

Napoleon rolled his eyes heavenward at that, while Illya remained stoic and steely eyed. There had been quite enough of this, and he intended to put a stop to it…now.

"Sir, I believe this is an exaggeration of the situation. I was knocked out, but this happens. I hardly consider it the result of a 'glass jaw', or anything else that Mr. Solo is intent upon. I do not quite understand the attention that this is receiving, sir, and…"

"Yes, quite so, Mr. Kuryakin. I agree with you, as does Dr. Wallace, that it is, indeed, a misnomer. That is not the reason you are here."

Now both agents were attentive as they waited to hear the reason their boss had called them in. If Illya was not at risk, then why….?

"No, the reason you are here, both of you, is that the assignment has changed. Our man in British Guiana has been found…'

He let a sigh escape before continuing…

"quite dead, I'm afraid. It seems that Thrush were aware of his presence, after all, and decided to put an end to the intrusion. Now, it seems, we have no need of the games, but rather a great urgency to stop whatever is going on before it can reach Sao Paolo."

Waverly looked up to encounter the intense scrutiny of his two top agents. Kuryakin had a bruise on his jaw that looked painful atop the slight swelling. His partner was predictably well groomed and without any sign of recent encounters in a boxing ring. The old man sighed again, involuntarily. It seemed always inevitable that it should be thus.

Napoleon spoke first, his curiosity about this development on par with a certain relief regarding it. He was glad to spare Illya the task and pain of competing; especially with the recent knockout.

"Sir, what exactly will our assignment be, then? Are we to take up where agent…'

He paused, realizing he'd never known the man's name.

"Agent David Peters. He was fine man, a good agent. A little careless, perhaps, in thinking he wouldn't be discovered. I had not deemed it necessary for you to know his identity. The less known the better…you understand."

The lighting in the room seemed inadequate, suddenly, and the lack of color an assault on Napoleon's senses. Another man dead. Another victory for Thrush to relish…for the time being.

"So then, sir, do we leave immediately? And, what exactly is our assignment?"

Illya looked sideways at his friend, understanding the numbing pain of losing one of their own. The possibility always remained that it might be one of them…

He stopped himself from going any farther on that conjecture. They were alive and capable, and the next thing they needed to do was shut down this Thrush operation. It wouldn't bring back Agent Peters, but it would satisfy some of the need for retribution…again.

Waverly took up his pipe, letting his fingers find their comfort with its familiar feel, his senses calming at the touch. Another man gone, two more on the way. These two, the pair he shouldn't favor, but who couldn't be denied a special place in the old man's affections. One of them would take his place, hopefully, and the other… Well, some things were kept closer than others.

"Gentlemen, you will take the UNCLE jet this evening. The files, photographs and all of Agent Peters' reports will be onboard. The flight time should be sufficient for your perusal and education concerning this affair. You must stop this gold mining operation, or at the very least remove Thrush. We now know that there is a quantum physicist on site, something to which you, Mr. Kuryakin, must pay special attention. You may yet need to get in a boxing ring, only it may be a box of an entirely different orientation."

At that, Illya furrowed his brow and resisted any urge to ask questions. The reports would give him the information he needed, and by the manner of their superior's fluttering hand, it appeared that they were dismissed.

He would need to find his answers on board the jet tonight.

Comments

[glennagirl.livejournal.com]

Thank you so much. It's always great to get a response on a story, especially such a nice one ;) this is one of my personal favorites, probably because it was such a painstaking effort to get it done. I appreciate that you enjoyed it to the fullest.