section7mfu | Song Story - Timing Is Everything

Spring had surely sprung, at least that’s what Napoleon Solo thought. The trees were that vibrant shade of green indicative of the new season, and the chirping of birds ...

Plop!

“Stupid birds, I’m going to...” He stopped the tirade before it began in earnest. Nothing, not even a little bird dropping on his new suit, straight from the last tailor he visited before leaving London... No, not even this would ruin his appreciation of spring.

Napoleon reached for his handkerchief, figuring he could gently wipe away at least some of the unwelcome substance. His thoughts segued into random questions about the strange sensation it must produce for a bird to be flying and then... Instant gratification.

The animal kingdom was best kept at a distance.

As the American agent entered the little tailor’s shop that served as the front of house, so to speak, for the United Network Command for Law and Enforcement, his mood was slightly better than it should be, considering the bird incident. It was spring, after all, his favorite season. Napoleon Solo was nothing if not forgiving, even little shi... uh, birds, ahem, deserved a little slack in the retribution department. He slipped out of his jacket, explained the mishap and handed it to Denny, today’s tailor.

Before Solo could enter the dressing cubicle and pull the lever that would usher him into the reception area of headquarters, his partner entered the shop. As he passed by the pressing machine it hissed out an inordinate amount of hot steam, drawn towards him by the draft from the door no doubt.

“Ouch! I think I’m burned. What is wrong with your press?” Illya had a red spot on the side of his face and left ear. Napoleon, who had backed out of the dressing room to wait for his friend was now reaching out to touch the afflicted skin.

“No, do not touch it. It hurts, I need some ice.” The agent behind the offending press looked dumbfounded. Nothing like that had ever happened before.

“Illya, I think you better get upstairs to Medical. That could get infected, it looks pretty bad.” Napoleon was also a little dumbfounded by the mishap. Someone would need to take a look at the press and make some corrections. Couldn’t have agents getting scalded every time they walked through the door.

Illya agreed, joining his partner in the booth as Napoleon turned the handle and waited for the door to open. Nothing happened. Illya reached up and gave it a try. Still nothing.

“How very peculiar. The steam press is malfunctioning and now the door to headquarters won’t open for us.” The blond was withdrawing his gun from the shoulder holster, something mirrored by Napoleon.

The two agents stepped back into the shop once more, this time with their eyes scanning every inch of the walls, ceiling and floor. Illya got down on this hands and knees and looked beneath the press, the counter... every piece of hardware was inspected. Napoleon went outside and checked the door and windows, the steps leading down to the shop and every surface surrounding it.

Across the street a surveillance team from THRUSH watched from the window of the little shoe repair shop. Since that last botched attempt to infiltrate UNCLE headquarters, various personnel had been trying to come up with the right way to breach the seemingly invulnerable. The two men whose idea it had been to booby-trap the press and remove a screw from the secret lever had been congratulating themselves since they arrived at this spot. They knew it would take awhile for everything to come together, for the heat to reach the perfect temperature and the screw to finally disengage itself from the apparatus that served as the doorknob to UNCLE HQ. What they hadn’t counted on was it all coming together around UNCLE’s two top agents, Solo and Kuryakin.

“Sal, look at Solo. He’s searching for a clue.” Henry Thomson gave himself credit for sending the agent on a hunting expedition, but was interrupted when Kuryakin appeared.

“Whoa, would ya look at that. The Russian’s got himself a first class burn; sorta clashes with that blond hair, dontcha think?” Sal Brundi was laughing himself silly at the sight of the two agents scrambling for answers to his and Henry’s ingenious plan.

As they two THRUSH sat in the window and gloated between themselves at their accomplishment, Napoleon spotted the feathered foe and was reminded of his soiled suit jacket.

“Illya, I think we have an audience, but don’t look their way just yet. I don’t know how they got in...” Illya did.

“Easy enough to pretend to be a customer and then, while one distracts our man, the second THRUSH installs this.’’ He held up device that looked vaguely like something that might alter the press’s temperature.

From across the street Sal spotted the mechanism in Kuryakin’s hand.

“Okay, we need to get outa here fast. C’mon Henry, let’s see if there’s a back door.”

In the time it took Sal and Henry to realize they weren’t going out any back door, Napoleon and Illya had run across the street and entered the cobler’s place of business. How it hadn’t occurred to the saboteurs that a shoe repair and tailor’s shop made a perfect pair would be the subject of discussion and endless jokes later on.

“Why, hello there. May we help you?” Napoleon was smooth as cream as he greeted the sorry conspirators. Illya made no effort to look friendly. His face was burning and he anticipated possible scarring in a worst case scenario. There was a trace of vanity in the man after all.

“We... uh, no. I mean, why would we need ... um..” Sal was speechless as Henry stuttered his way into custody.

Later that day, as Napoleon and Illya met up for lunch in the commissary, each of them was still thinking about the series of events that had let up to their leisurely acquisition of the two THRUSH agents. Solo was indulging in one of the rare occasions when the food was particularly appetizing; in this case a swiss steak entree´with baked potato and green beans. Illya, on the other hand, had lost his appetite for anything other than cold, crisp salads.

“It’s been a strange day, starting with that rude little bird that splattered on my new suit.” Illya started to smile at that but the tender flesh on his cheek and ear reminded him that smiling hurt.

“I would tend to agree with you. If you hadn’t dropped off your jacket to be cleaned...” Napoleon nodded after his lips closed in on a bite of tender steak.

“And if you had come in a moment before or after that press exhaled...” The blond head nodded in agreement, wincing at the cost of being in the right place at the wrong time.

“I expect our security to be examined once again with new protocols and procedures set in place. What did the doctor say about your burns?” Napoleon was not unaware of the potentially damaging effects of steam on flesh.

“He said there should be no scarring or infection. It looks worse than it is, apparently, although it does hurt.” Since smiling was not something he did on a regular basis, the Russian agent would not be greatly inconvenienced by his injury. It was ample provocation for the women in Headquarters to coddle him, however.

“All in a day’s work then, eh tovarish.”

The two friends raised their respective glasses in a toast to a job well done, even if it was based on mishaps and bad timing.