Best Laid Plans for the Mood-Y Challenge: Calculating

[glennagirl.livejournal.com]

There was a sense of foreboding that greeted the two UNCLE agents.

“I have a bad feeling about this, Illya.” Napoleon Solo was not a man given to irrational fears, but he was aware of something that niggled at the back of his scull like a spider crawling beneath his hair.

“If I were a superstitious man I would agree with you.  I am trying to overlook the same apprehension that you are expressing, my friend.’ Illya looked at his partner with an expression that spoke of his own trepidation.

“Shall we?”

Solo nodded.  There was no getting out of it now.  They crossed the length of the empty corridor with their eyes on the light coming from beneath double doors.

 “Okay, going in…”


8 Hours Earlier…

“I told you it isn’t a big deal. We didn’t do anything outside the realm of our jobs.  Really, we don’t require any kind of recognition for it.”

Napoleon was attempting to dissuade a well-intentioned Section III from spreading the idea of a party for the two top agents in the Northwest Region.  A recent raid on a significant THRUSH satrapy had yielded perhaps the largest cache of intelligence and technology in the history of the long standing conflict between UNCLE and the Hierarchy.

“But Mr. Solo, UNCLE owes so much to the job you and Mr. Kuryakin did out there in New Mexico.  Why, this sets THRUSH back years, and we have you to thank for it.”

It had been a calculated risk, going in like that without back up.  Illya was certain that he could plant a series of explosions in the time it took Napoleon to gather the files and take pictures.  The operation in the mountains of northern New Mexico had seemed daunting at first, but when examined more closely, it truly was something that a two man team could accomplish.  Perhaps not just any team, but Solo and Kuryakin felt certain they had it in hand.

“Look Evan, as much as I appreciate the thought behind this idea, it would be inappropriate to single out two agents as being more valuable than the others.  Let’s just call it a success and move on, okay?”  It was the enthusiasm of a new recruit vs. the wisdom of experience.

Evan Peabody nodded in acquiescence to his superior’s wishes.  It wouldn’t do to counter Solo’s recommendation on this.  A resigned ‘Yes sir’ and he was off to his own duties as a sideman for the team of Dancer and Slate.  Napoleon watched him go, smiling as he considered the good intentions of the young man.  How many years had it been since he was the new guy, standing in awe of his superiors?

Illya was coming down the hall and watched the end of that conversation, wondering what was being discussed.  His grey suit and pale hair caused him to almost blend into the gunmetal grey walls, something that made his approach have an element of stealth.

“Hello Napoleon.”  The American jumped, he hadn’t seen his partner approaching.

“You do that on purpose, don’t you.  I like it better when you wear that maroon jacket, at least I can see you coming.”  Kuryakin stopped and looked at his friend, surprised and slightly amused at the reaction to his arrival.

“You were engrossed in your thoughts perhaps.  By the way, what did Peabody want?  He’s not still on that party idea is he?”  Illya had heard rumors of a celebratory event to commemorate their last mission.  He did not approve, nor would he attend willingly should it actually happen.

Napoleon’s expression told the Russian all he needed to know.  His sigh echoed his friend’s own feelings about it; it was their job to destroy THRUSH and didn’t merit a party.

“Why must people insist on such things?  It isn’t as though THRUSH is thoroughly dismantled by this.  Every victory is only a small part of the larger effort, and not worthy of all this attention.”

Napoleon was thinking, trying to remember any other time when the Command had actually endorsed celebrating a successful mission. He couldn’t recall any.  Well, his would not be the first.  People were already talking about his future, the possibility that he would replace Mr. Waverly when the time came.  It was too calculating on his part, some conjectured, to embrace that role, and it made them suspicious of his every move.  Some had even criticized him for the mission assignments, as though he might hold some agents back while his own career rocketed upwards.

“Let’s just keep a low profile on this one, Illya.  If anyone else suggests this party idea we can agree to be opposed to it, for the sake of equanimity.  We may be at the top of the rung, so to speak, but that doesn’t make us different from the other agents.  We’re a team, and that makes us all equal.”  It sounded good so far as rhetoric went.

“You are the CEA however, and as such you do have responsibilities and privileges beyond those of the rest of us.  What is this really about?”  Illya knew his friend was aware of the comparisons, had diligently attempted to maintain balance among the field operatives. Even the arrival of their first female agent, April Dancer, had tested his abilities in that regard.  Did he give her special treatment?  Was she allowed to bypass certain standards because she was a woman?

“Do you think that I assign missions fairly?  Sometimes I second guess myself, wondering if I favor April and Mark because…’’  He stopped. There was no favoritism; he knew that for a fact.

“You’ve answered your own question I see.” Illya recognized the ‘aha’ in his partner’s expression.

“Are you hungry?  I’m ready for lunch and I don’t think I want to eat in the commissary.”  Illya nodded, he was always ready for a good meal.

“Luigi’s then?  I believe today’s special is lasagna with meatballs.”  That was all it took to send UNCLE’s top agents on one of their most important missions: lunch.

The meal was a success; both for the delicious lasagna and the time spent decompressing further from the mission.  It had been two days, but the harrowing circumstances and split second timing had taken its toll.  No matter how many times or how well trained these men were, the adrenaline coursing through their systems had an effect from which they routinely ‘came down’, gradually if all went well.

As the two stepped back out onto the sidewalk in front of Luigi’s, a big black sedan passed by.  Inside was someone who very much wanted to speak with Solo and Kuryakin.  He had four of his own men coming in to flank the UNCLE agents; surprise was his weapon, and it worked well as sleep darts were sent into the unwitting targets.

Four pairs of hands caught the slumping figures as the back door of the sedan opened to accommodate them being thrown in.  Comfort was not the goal here, simply speed and efficiency.

“Go, let’s get out of here!”  Instructions to the driver resulted in tires squealing as the big sedan peeled away from the curb and into the fast moving traffic.

Hands tied behind their backs.
Dull throbbing in their heads.
Bulging eyes protruding from a round face that suggests a corpulent mass beneath it.

Napoleon awoke from the drug induced sleep with a headache and a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach.  No reprieve from these jokers, and the one facing him now was one of the worst of the lot.

“Good afternoon Mr. Solo. I see you have recovered before your Russian partner.  I assume he is still particularly sensitive to our formulas.’  The eyes reminded Napoleon of an actor he remembered seeing in a horror movie, but his mind wasn’t clear enough to recall the name.

“What do you want Hector?  I’m not aware of anything in my docket that involves you, so why the kidnapping?”  Why indeed.  And why wasn’t Illya waking up?

“It seems you are not glad to see me then, Napoleon Solo.  Did you really think that you could do what you did in New Mexico and there would be no reprisals?  You don’t understand THRUSH at all, not really.”  There was a hiss in his speech, and a hazy recollection that the man sometimes used snakes to accomplish his wickedness.

“Oh, you mean that little job involving the White Sands Satrapy?  Well, you can hardly blame us for wanting that one out of the way, can you?  And you’re telling me that THRUSH actually wants some kind of retribution for it?  You’re all getting rather sensitive, aren’t you?”  Napoleon would try and bluff his way through this, but in truth he was a little bit scared of this man.  Hector Heartstone was a diabolical and cruel man, whose methods of torture included hanging a man upside down over a pit of vipers.  One UNCLE agent had not survived it, and Napoleon would willingly take out Heartstone if the opportunity presented itself.  At the moment however, he seemed to have the advantage.

“I can see you calculating your chances, Napoleon.  They aren’t good, I assure you.  Even your Slavic sidekick has the good sense to stay unconscious.  No, this time…”

A door opened and a guard dressed in typical THRUSH gear entered.  He stepped over a pile of books in order to reach Hector, tried to remain upright when he almost tripped over a smaller stack next to the big man’s chair.  He managed to finally hand over an envelope that was opened by Hector’s pudgy fingers, his anticipation of something important fueling a sort of frenzy to get to the contents.

“Ah, this is what I’ve been waiting for.  The orders from Central, Napoleon; the ones that dictate your fate.”  A smile erupted onto the face of Hector Heartstone just as a sinking feeling corrupted the well of optimism that fueled Napoleon’s life.

“Don’t count on it, Hector.  Many have tried…”  Another guard who had entered and stationed himself between the UNCLE agents took that as a cue to backhand the ill-mannered Solo.  At that exact moment Illya’s hands flew free from their bonds and he tackled the guard, catching Heartstone and the guard in the book stacks by surprise as well.  Napoleon launched himself towards the fellow who was already off balance, causing him to fall into another pile of books and knocking himself out on the stone floor beneath them.

Illya finished the guard and turned to see Hector reaching for a gun on his desk.  The Russian dove onto it, sliding across its length and grabbing the gun first.  Hector then reached towards a red button, something sure to bring reinforcements.  Illya shot him, bringing the melee to an irrevocable end.

“He’s dead?”  Napoleon was relieved and wary.  Shooting a man was always a last option, but he trusted Illya to have used his best judgment in the heat of battle.

“He is.  Where is that communication he received?”  Napoleon smiled at that.

“So, you weren’t asleep after all, eh.  Sneaky Russian.”  And glad of it, Napoleon realized that deception had most probably saved their lives.

“Over there, in that blue envelope.”  What did Illya have in mind, he wondered.  The blond head bent down over the paper he held, seemingly digesting all of the information as though it were more than the threat of their transfer to Central.

“There’s going to be an attack on Headquarters.  What time is it?”  Both of their watches had been confiscated, and now they searched for some sort of timepiece to give them the information they sought.

“Here, he’s wearing a pocket watch.”  Illya lifted it from beneath the big man’s coat.  “Six o’clock.  We have an hour to get back to Headquarters and find a bomb.”  The two shot each other significant looks and then made a rush for the door.  If there were more guards, the way out might get tricky.

As it happened, the only other guards in this location were easily subdued by the superior skills of Solo and Kuryakin.  The last man, left conscious for the purpose of extracting information, gladly gave them the location they were in as a forty minute drive into the city.

“Where is the car?  Are the keys in it?”  A trembling finger pointed in a direction that sent Illya on his way to their transportation.  Napoleon assured the man he wasn’t going to kill him and then gave him a karate chop in a spot guaranteed to produce a killer headache in the morning.

Outside the door Illya had the car waiting for the drive back to Headquarters. He’d have to imitate a racecar driver to get there in time, so that’s exactly what he did.

The communiqué from Central said that a bomb had been planted in the commissary, beneath one of the tables near the big double doors.  At seven o’clock in the evening, the day shift had already gone home.  The evening shift would be engaged in their nightly duties, so hopefully Napoleon and Illya could get to the bomb without difficulty.

As they passed through Del Floria’s each man checked his weapon, somehow unsure of the state of things within.  If THRUSH had managed to plant a bomb then someone here at HQ was a traitor to the Command.  Whoever it was hadn’t calculated the cost of betraying UNCLE.

There was a sense of foreboding that greeted the two UNCLE agents.

“I have a bad feeling about this, Illya.” Napoleon Solo was not a man given to irrational fears, but he was aware of something that niggled at the back of his scull like a spider crawling beneath his hair.

“If I were a superstitious man I would agree with you.  I am trying to overlook the same apprehension that you are expressing, my friend.’ Illya looked at his partner with an expression that spoke of his own trepidation. 

“Shall we?”

Solo nodded.  There was no getting out of it now.  They crossed the length of the empty corridor with their eyes on the light coming from beneath double doors.

“Okay, going in…”

Illya took the left side as Napoleon braced himself on the right.  One the count of three…

While Solo and Kuryakin were being held captive, Evan Peabody had convinced April to join his campaign for a celebration.  With Miss Dancer on his side it was a matter of relying on her enthusiastic invitations to the other employees to join in on a congratulatory celebration for their top operatives.

How it was determined that they would return by seven o’clock was a matter of serendipity, but as they approached each of them wondered at the lights on in the commissary at this time of the evening.

An explosion of greetings met the two agents.  April stood in front of the little group of well wishers, her auburn hair glistening beneath the lights.

“Hail the conquering heroes!  Hip hip, hooray! Hip…”  Napoleon put his hand on her mouth in an effort to stop the rest of it.  Illya looked around at the friendly faces that were now starring in puzzlement at the turn of events.

“Look everyone, we’ve intercepted a communiqué from THRUSH Central; they’ve planted a bomb here in the commissary and I need all of you out of here.”  An audible gasp came from the group; they had expected a party, not a bomb.

Illya was watching everyone as Napoleon made the announcement.  One person didn’t look surprised, and suddenly the scene in front of him made perfect sense.

“Evan, can you lend me a hand here?”  He motioned to the table nearest the door, indicating that Evan should help him move it. Instead of obliging, the young man bolted for the door in an effort to escape what he knew was close at hand.  In a room full of people that included Section II agents, the scene was quickly deciphered; two agents grabbed Evan as he attempted to escape his own cataclysm.

“Not so fast there, Evan.  Why don’t you tell us exactly where you placed the bomb.  Unless, of course, you want to die here when it explodes.”  It didn’t take much convincing, and the man who would have been responsible for the deaths of all of these people quickly and agreeably told everything he knew.

Illya disassembled the bomb’s housing and transferred it to the bomb disposal unit.  With only minutes to spare, the subterranean explosion was observed and reported; no injuries, one traitor in custody.

April and her partner Mark Slate were talking with Napoleon when Illya returned from the bomb disposal operation.  He caught the tail end of her remarks as he re-entered the commissary.

“… can’t believe that calculating traitor.  He must have really been proud of himself for getting me to help him plan this.  Oh my, I would have been responsible for it … people would have died…”  Her voice trailed off as she truly understood the ramifications for what had happened and how her involvement had made it possible.

“Hey gorgeous, we saved the day didn’t we?  We’ll always have your back, and what you thought you were doing was a good deed for your friends.  Just take it and learn.  When Illya and I want a party, we’ll let you know.  Okay?”  Napoleon kissed his pretty agent on the cheek, an irresistible impulse that caught Illya’s eye, but was not mimicked.

“So, I take it we are finished for the night?”  The Russian was tired, the effects of the THRUSH drug still creating a headache that he had yet to master.  The answer he heard was not his partner, however.

“Mr. Kuryakin, Mr. Solo… it seems you have achieved yet another great save, as it were.  I will expect a report on my desk … day after tomorrow.  I’ll let Mr. Donovan do the interrogation of Mr. Peabody; you and Mr. uh… Kuryakin… take a day off.’ It was a rare appearance down here in this room, and he turned quickly on his heels as the announcement was completed.  When he reached the doors he paused…

“And do try to stay out of trouble, will you.”

“Yes sir” They replied in unison.

Napoleon turned to his partner, each of them glad for a few more hours of rest.  The past two weeks had been arduous for sure.

“Are you hungry?  I seem to have worked up an appetite.”

Illya smiled.  He was almost always hungry.

“Changs sound good to you?  I think today’s special is General Tzao’s Chicken with egg rolls and brocolli stir fry.”  Illya was impressed.

“How do you always know the special of the day?”

“Better question: How did you know it was Evan?”

Illya canted his head to one side, not thoughtful but effective for a preamble to his answer.

“It was his idea to have the gathering in the commissary.  Rather a coincidence, don’t you think?  He calculated the probability that April would help him in spite of our objections, thus making her party to the mayhem.”  It was a lot of conjecturing in a short amount of time.

“I have a menu for each restaurant.  They list the specials.”  The quizzical look he received was reward enough for the disclosure.

“Clever American.”

“Let’s blow this joint.”  Illya had to laugh at that, in spite of the dark humor.

“Leave a little something for the masses, shall we.”

Dinner, the company of a good friend and a day off.

If it was calculated to make them feel better, it worked.

Comments

[carabele.livejournal.com]

Really liked this! It has everything that made a good episode on the series: the guys doing their job (incredibly of course), a nasty villain, a conspiracy inside U.N.C.L.E. that was thwarted, and those special little elements of friendship and banter between the partners that showcase their personalities so well.

How like Napoleon to have a menu on hand for each nearby restaurant, knowing Illya's affection for good food. [laugh]

[glennagirl.livejournal.com]

Thanks, I'm glad you like it. It's very nice to know it reads like an episode.