"The Rio Affair Chapter 3" for PicFic Tuesday

[mrua7.livejournal.com]

Chapter 1 Chapter 2


 The prompt:

Throwing themselves to the ground in hopes it would the juggernaut of a vehicle would miss them.

Instead the driver slammed on the brakes, screeching to a stop.

“Aqui Senhors!” It was the taxi driver, waving his arm for them to get into the car.

The agents scrambled inside and just as Illya closed the rear door closed behind them, they heard the unmistakable sound of motorbikes quickly coming from towards them

Kuryakin barked in Portuguese at the driver, telling him to step on it.

“Where to?”

“Anywhere, but we must get away from those motorbikes!”

The driver peeled away, weaving around pedestrians who yelled at him, shaking their fists.

The bikers were relentless, staying right with him but when the taxi reached a more open street he suddenly pinned the steering wheel, skidding to a ridiculously fast about face.

Their pursuers were caught completely off guard, and trying to make the turns themselves; they were thrown to the ground; their bikes toppling down, sliding across the road.

The taxi took off, leaving them in a cloud of smoke as tires burned rubber; disappearing down the street and out of view.

Fifteen minutes passed and still there were no signs of the bikes. They had indeed lost them.

“That was exciting Senhors, though I much prefer an easier fare.

So now where may I take you? Keep in mind the chase will cost you

extra,” the driver smiled, seemingly unfazed by the chase.

Illya gave him the address of the hotel, and Napoleon as promised handed the man a generous tip for his trouble.

“Where can we get hold of him again should we need his services?” Solo asked. He liked the feisty driver’s ability to think fast in a dangerous situation, a talent they would most likely need again.

Illya translated, discovering the driver’s name was João Brandao, and he was more than willing to help...for a price.  Still he seemed an honest man, just one looking to make some extra money.

The driver handed them a card with a telephone number jotted down on it.

“Tell whoever answers you are looking for João and they will know how to contact me. Sadly I do not have a telephone of my own.”

After Illya finished translating, Napoleon ventured to use his limited knowledge of Portuguese.

“Meu nome é Napoleão e ele é Illya,” he introduced himself and his partner.

“O-kay, Napoleão...Eel-ya. I be here you call,” the man spoke in broken English.” Good?”

“Sim bom...yes good.” Napoleon replied.

The agents watched as João drove off; they finally turned and heading into the lobby of their hotel.

“So tovarisch, weren’t you proud of me trying to speak Portuguese?”

“It was a valiant effort my friend, but let us call it a work in progress. However, that being said; I need to talk to you about your off the cuff choice of cover names. Really Napoleon...Igor? Do I resemble a hunchbacked assistant to a mad scientist?”

Solo flashed him a sheepish look, “Hey at least I didn’t call you...well, never mind.”

“What?”

“Himey.”

“And where did you come up with that name?”

Solo grinned,”I heard it on a new TV show...a spy spoof as I recall.”

Kuryakin simply shook his head. “My friend, at times I simply do not understand the workings of your mind, nor your humor.”

“Honestly partner mine, neither do I,” Napoleon snorted.

“Speaking of names,” Illya said. “Our host had a rather interesting one. Maahes is the name of a minor Egyptian god whose mother was Bastet, the cat goddess. The god Maahes is represented by a lion-headed man.”

“Ah that explains the number of felines as well as what looked like a cat shrine in his office.”

“Precisely what I thought,” Illya ran his fingers through his hair. “Now his surname, Zuberi, means ‘the destroyer.’ So it seems he was destined by birth to be on the side of evil.”

“Interesting analysis chum,” Napoleon said as they headed to the elevator, taking it up to Solo’s room and there Napoleon contacted headquarters in New York.

“Mr. Solo are you and Mr. Kuryakin all right?” Alexander Waverly answered with surprising concern hinted at in his tone. "I over heard the confrontation with Zuberi. We were trying to track your location but your communicator signal was lost.”

“Yes sir we’re fine. We’re back at our hotel and were able to lose our tail. I managed to convince Mr. Maahes Zuberi that we were from the T.H.R.U.S.H. Council. The good new is we able did get a brief written synopsis from him regarding his operation.”

Illya interrupted, holding up the paper he had just scanned.

“Sorry sir, looking it over; it tells me nothing more than what I’d already told you. There is no indication of the timetable for this particular plan or if they have even been successful with developing the organisms.”

Waverly harumphed his disappointment. “So I’m presuming there was bad news as well?”

“Yes sir, we were recognized by Leticia Machado when we were leaving, and there was a firefight, and hence the tails.”

“I was concerned about you running into that mad woman. Still, gentlemen there’s nothing to it but to go back to that samba school and retrieve the notebook. It will give our scientists a leg up on developing some sort of counter agent to stop the process if Zuberi has indeed succeeded in creating these mutant...what were they again?




“Extremophiles sir,” Illya answered.

“Yes these organisms must not be allowed to multiply. Oil is one of the most necessary of commodities around the modern world and must not fall under the control of T.H.R.U.S.H. Get that notebook and get it fast. I will expect to hear from you upon the successful completion of your mission. Waverly Out.”

Napoleon laid his communicator down on his private bar, grabbing an open bottle of scotch and pouring himself a shot.

“Drink tovarisch?”

Illya waved it off, as he sat down on the sofa; lost in thought. His earlier mindset on drinking himself into a stupor had been completely erased now that they were back in action; though he was still not happy about being in Brazil.

Napoleon downed the drink before he began to pace, trying to come up with one of his brilliant plans.

He stopped, pointing his index finger upwards, about to say something but then shook his head.

“No plan?” Illya finally asked.

“Not one that you’ll like.”

“That is usually the case when it involves me and your plans,” Illya stretched out, laying down now.

“Well if we color your hair and get a pair of brown contact lenses you could infiltrate the school as someone who wants to learn their dance moves. Carnival is far from over and I’m sure the samba schools need backups. They have to do more than one parade right? The fact that you’re fluent in Portuguese makes you the only choice to infiltrate the school. Once inside you can do your cat burglar thing.”

Illya sat up, pondering the plan. “It could work,” he said with a shrug of his shoulders. “I am familiar with many latin dance moves.”

“Exactly,” Napoleon smiled.

“And what is it you will be doing my friend?”

“I’ll be outside waiting to give you backup if you need it.”

“See if you spoke Portuguese this would have been much easier to manage.”

“Okay, chastisement noted. You can start my lessons when we get back to New York.”

The next day the needed hair dye and contact lenses were located. Once the transformation took place, Illya dressed himself in a snug fitting pair of dungarees and a tight black tee shirt. He rolled up the sleeves, tucking a pack of local brand cigarettes in one of them.

He stood in the middle of Napoleon’s hotel room, striking a pose and looking very much like a local.

“I gotta say IK, you look like a pretty hot street hustler, but are you going to be able to swivel your hips in those pants? They look awfully snug.”

“All the better to make people take notice of me as I dance,” Illya demonstrated a samba step with ease. “Sexy enough my friend? You are the expert in such matters.”

Solo grinned, letting out a whistle.

“Well look at you partner mine,” amazed at his usually shy Russian’s transformation. “If those moves of yours and your tight derriere don’t get you in, I don’t know what will... you know they may ask you to wear one of those skimpy costumes.”

“My friend, I intend to not let it get that far and I should be long gone with the notebook before there is any sort of dress rehearsal.”

“Hey buddy boy, from your mouth to God’s ears.”

“That is such a odd saying. What does God have to do with it?”

Little did Kuryakin know that there would definitely be a deity involved, just not the one Napoleon referred to.

João arrived on time the next morning not recognizing Illya at all, until he spoke to him.

“It is a good disguise Senhor Eel-ya. You going to join the samba school, yes?"'

"I am."

“E você o Senhor Napoleão, o que você vai fazer?” João asked.

Solo, hearing his name, waited for the translation.

“He wants to know what you will be doing?” Illya said.

Napoleon chuckled.” Oh fine, just go ahead and tell him, and ask him if there’s anything else?”

“Napoleon will be waiting in the vicinity of the school should I need help and if you could remain close by in case we need another quick get away, that would be most helpful.”

Napoleon reached into his wallet, pulling out the bills to pay the man.

“Não, você me pagar quando tudo estiver pronto. Sim?” João waved him off.

Illya smiled. “He says pay him when we are done.”

Solo offered his hand to the driver, thanking him.

As the taxi drove slowly into the neighborhood, Illya made one last adjustment to his disguise, and that was adding a pencil thin dark moustache and goatee.  His face might still be recognizable without it.

They were dropped off a block away, with Napoleon dressed in more local style clothing, leaning against the wall of adega eatery, a mom and pop sort of restaurant.  He lit a cigarette, and simply made himself blend in as he watched Illya saunter down the street until he disappeared through the doors of the school.

.

Inside there were others gathered, more women than men, dressed in shorts skirts to show off their ‘assets’ as well as off the shoulder peasant blouses to give a tantalizing peek at their cleavage.

Kuryakin was amongst equals when it came to the men, as only one or two were taller than him and the others. His clothing however, did call attention to his physique.

A woman carrying a clipboard walked among them all, stopping and looking everyone up and down, noting the ones that caught her eye.

She stopped in front of Illya, her mouth hanging open.

“Perfeito. Você vai fazer muito bem como nosso deus sobre o flutuador_Perfect. You will do nicely as our god on the float, but first I must see you dance.”

She turned to a group of drummers standing off to the side, snapping her fingers.

One of them turned to a record player set up on a nearby table. Placing a microphone in front of a small speaker. The hall was suddenly filled with the music of the samba, to which the drummers added their beat.

“Dança para mim agora,” the woman told Illya to dance for her.

Illya began his steps, moving his hips seductively, all the while looking the woman in the eyes.

“Magnífico! Bom Deus, o homem que você é muito sexy_magnificent! Good God man, you are very sexy! Go through that door, and they will set you up with your costume. Then we will work on learning your steps.  They must be perfect as you will be the figure of the god reigning over your kingdom.”

“What god is is that Madame?” He asked.

“For our pyramid float, we honor the Egyptians and the god Osiris.”

“Chyort,” Illya cursed to himself in Russian.

The last time was costumed as the god Osiris, he was nearly mummified.*  He tried telling himself no such thing would happen here;this was play acting and an easy in and out operation, nothing to be nervous about.

He went off in the direction of the wardrobe department, but instead headed through the same door he and Napoleon had entered last time. There were so many people about that no one noticed him doing so.

Kuryakin moved down the stairs with a purpose; knowing where he was going this time and that was to the lab. He had to assume the notebook would have been returned there, if it was that would make his task all the more easier.

No one was in the room and the book was right there in plain sight. He grabbed it and turned to leave until something caught his attention.

It was a jar filled with a clear liquid but in it was what looked like blobs of crude oil. Next to the jar was a small rod he recognized as a magnet.

Illya picked it up, but in doing so it came close to the surface of the glass, and he watched as the black blobs moved as if they were alive.  The magnet was affecting them.

“Hmmm, ferrofluid? Odd that this should be here.” It was a liquid that became strongly magnetized in the presence of a magnetic field.

Ferrofluid was invented by NASA for use with a liquid rocket fuel that could be drawn toward a pump inlet in a weightless environment by applying a magnetic field.

“Perhaps they are using the ferrofluid to control the distribution of the extremophiles? That would make sense, if they somehow found a way to bind the microorganisms to the colloidal liquids made of ferrimagnetic particles. Perhaps suspended in a carrier fluid of an organic solvent or water.”

It was a brilliant plan to manipulate the mutant extremophile organisms, if that was indeed the case.

Illya grabbed the jar, taking it along with the notebook, and heading upstairs, he shoved it behind a loose panel in the wall just inside the alcove by the door. He pushed a trash can in front of it to keep it hidden.

He quickly pulled his communicator. “Channel F,” he whispered. “Napoleon, getting out with the book and a sample I grabbed will not be as easy as I first thought.” He revealed where he’d hidden things and quickly closed the communicator.

Still no one paid attention to him; they were all busy learning their steps to the blaring music. It wasn’t until he stepped into view that the woman who had been choosing the dancers shrieked at him.

“I told you to go to wardrobe! Where were you?” She demanded.

“Umm, I needed to go to the bathroom.”

“Well...get moving then,” she shoved him to the wardrobe door, making sure he made it inside.

Once there Illya was quickly fitted for his Egyptian garb; a golden kilt-like shendyt wrapped around his waist, a turquoise and white beaded collar was fastened around his neck, leaving him barechested.  They put gold arm and wrist bands on him and placed atop his head, the double crown of the Egyptian kings; symbolizing the Red Crown of Lower Egypt and the White Crown of Upper Egypt. It represented the joining of the two lands, and the pharaoh's control over them.

The last time such a crown was placed on Illya’s head, bad things happened, and he again hoped no such thing would occur this time.

He was handed the crook and the flail of the pharaoh and told to hold them crossed in front of his chest. Kuryakin was escorted to the practice floor; climbing up a flight of stairs leading up to a stage that had been erected to represent the float. He was told it would be a golden pyramid.

Illya was beginning to regret calling too much attention to himself. It was going to make it difficult for him to now retrieve the notebook and jar since he was stuck in the spotlight. There would be no sneaking away from this role. That made him sigh.

Napoleon would have to get them from the hiding place, and after Illya returned from the parade...where ever that was, he would meet up with his partner, hopefully with his hide still intact.

"Bozhe moy, "he muttered in Russian. This was turning out to be some vacation..."

* The see the Pyramids along the Nile Affair

To be continuted...

Comments

[mrua7.livejournal.com]

In my UNCLE world IK doesn't own a TV set, so hence him not getting the television reference. If you recall in "The Cherry Blossom Affair" Illya didn't recognize the character of Dr. Kildare, so chances are he would have no clue about a more obscure character like the robot Himey on 'Get Smart."

The 'different deity' comment was just to contrast against Solo's remark and to hint at what was to come. It didn't mean a new Egyptian deity if that's what you were thinking. Illya dressing up as 'Osiris' again was the deity I was referring to.

Thanks so much for the compliment about "Pyramids." I hope this story lives up to your expectations.

Thanks for commenting too! "D