Man from U.N.C.L.E. Section VII

He’d been feeling very down when he’d returned to his little apartment, as an innocent life had been lost during his most recent mission. It happened at the hands of T.H.R.U.S.H. and though not his fault, Illya still felt pain at the loss of someone who was in the wrong place at the wrong time. It was beginning to happen more often, something else he found upsetting.

Though T.H.R.U.S.H. had been upping their game as of late, and in a way it was not surprising as their regard for human life was non-existent.

“10-9-8-7-6-5-4-3-2-1…” the Russian counted out loud as he and his partner
rounded the corner, escaping the impending explosion.

Nothing happened.

They hesitated, waiting a second before peeking around the wall.

“Are you sure you set the timer right?” Solo whispered.

“Excuse me...demolitions expert here,” Kuryakin quipped.

“Yes, but you have set your timers wrong… periodically.”

“One time I make a mistake and you will not let me forget about it.”

Illya looked at his watch as three minutes had passed and still no detonation.
He swore he set the timer correctly…3 minutes exactly.

Both men froze as the cold metal of gun barrels were pressed against their cheeks; they hadn’t heard anyone come up behind them.

“Concerned about this gentlemen?”  A block of C-4 was dangled in front of them by the wire Illya had attached to it.  The detonator was was missing.

“Hmm, could you tell me what the timer was set for?” Illya suddenly asked.

“What?”

“The timer...how long?”

“Oh,” he pulled the device from his pocket, looking at it. “It was set for most likely 7 minutes,” he snickered, “ I stopped it at 4:16. I guess that was too long for you U.N.C.L.E. agent.”

“No, not possible. Napoleon, I swear I did not set it incorrectly. He is lying," Illya insisted with a nod of his head, a signal to his partner to move into action.

They swept aside the guns pointed at them, and came out swinging; disarming the men and taking them down with well-placed karate chops.

Illya retrieved the explosives and its accoutrements, reassembling everything within minutes.

“This is not an ideal spot to set it but it will have to do as I suspect we will have more company very soon.” This time Kuryakin reset the timer for 1 minute, double checking it before planting the device out of sight beneath a small side table standing against the wall.

The U.N.C.L.E. agents dragged the unconscious men down the hall, depositing them near an exit and quickly left the building themselves.

“10-9-8-7-6-5-4-3-2-1,” Illya checked his watch, counting again as he and Napoleon hit the dirt, taking cover in a nearby ditch.

“BOOM!” A tremendous explosion filled the air, forcing the agents to cover their ears.

The building went up in a blaze of glory, sending debris in every direction; the explosion somewhat larger than expected.

“See ...nothing wrong with my timers,” Illya gloated.

“I stand corrected tovarisch. That was a pretty big boom though buddy. Did you plan that too, because if you did and we were still inside the building….well, you get my drift.”

The Russian’s face flushed pink with embarrassment. “Perhaps I did overdo it a bit with the C-4.”

The flight to London was usually tedious on board the U.N.C.L.E private jet. Plenty of time to go over details of their current assignment, eat or sleep but often it ended up being a bit boring trip. The nervous anticipation of landing and going right into action could sometimes take it’s toll as well, tiring the agents out more than necessary beyond the normal jet lag.

Card games, puzzles and other such distractions could only do so much…

Somehow Alexander Waverly decided to authorize in-flight movies, though not always the light hearted films one saw on commercial flights...no Walt Disney or Doctor Doolittle for his agents...no it was deeper movies, or film noir; ones that would elicit discussion and keep their minds active.

It was raining...it seemed to be doing that all the time. Not a driving downpour mind you, more of a soft misting rain. One would think that would be cooling in such a tropical place, but it only added to the oppresive humidity.

Illya Kuryakin was alone.  He’d lost all his U.N.C.L.E. devices and weapons, the most precious of these being his communicator.

He had no way of calling for help and hadn’t eaten in three days. His last meal had been…he couldn’t remember. What was it? Oh yes, roasted snake that he’d managed to beat to death with a stick.

He didn’t have a single peso in his pocket, not that there were many place to buy food here. It was no use begging or stealing as the area...he didn’t even know where it was, was so desperately poor that people lived in ramshakle huts, made of pieced together bits of wood and corrugated metal.

“You have got to be kidding!” Napoleon Solo blurted out as his partner shoved a salt and pepper wig on the American’s head.

“It will be fine,”Illya assured as he readjusted the hair piece.

“I look like great Aunt Maude,” Napoleon continued to protest.

“You do not have a Great Aunt Maude.”

“Well if I did, this is what she’d look like. I can’t do this...I have a reputation to uphold.”

“Oh so you have no problem dressing me up like a woman...if you recall Barcelona."

“Well the circumstances warranted it chum but this…”

“Is the only way we will get out of here alive,”Illya finished the sentence.”If it makes you feel more assured, I will be in drag as well.”

“Oh that makes me feel soooo much better.”

                                         

The tea kettle whistled steadily, calling the Russian’s attention as he slapped some cheese between two slices of bread and tossed it into a frying pan to make a grilled cheese sandwich for himself.

A pot of Campbells chicken noodle soup was heating in a small pot on the next burner over on the stove.

He stopped for a moment, picking up the kettle and pouring the steeping water into a mug containing Ovaltine, and as an afterthought, he pulled a bag of mini-marshmallows from one of the kitchen cabinets, adding some to his hot beverage.

Illya lifted the mug, letting the hot vapors from it waft to his nose, allowing him to sniff it before swallowing a mouthful of his malt-chocolate treat.

He lifted the sandwich when it was ready with a spatula, slicing it in half and scooped a ladleful of the soup into his new white bowl.  His crockery was courtesy of a shopping trip with Napoleon, who had insisted he get rid of his thriftshop dishes and get a matching set from Bamberger’s department store.  Illya had to admit, though they were plain white, he liked them. Somehow they gave him a feeling of permanence, something he had not felt in a very long time, not since he was a child.

A knock on his door, one that Napoleon recognized instantly, made him growl under his breath. He was on the telephone enjoying a conversation with a gorgeous strawberry blonde he's met a few days ago at Penn Station.

They had drinks, flirted a lot, but an intimate little rendezvous with a bed just wasn't possible.

The telephone conversation was getting pretty steamy, bordering on phone sex, when the coded knock interrupted the mood.

"Hold on a minute Stella, there's someone at my door." He put the receiver down on the end table and rose to let his partner in.

Napoleon stared at the blond as he opened the door, noting he did not look very happy, but at the moment, the American's mind was on the woman at the other end of the telephone line.

"Illya, this really isn't a good time," he said, trying not to appear annoyed.

"Sorry, I will leave," Illya mumbled.

It was then Napoleon saw the rather large lump on his partner's head.

The rotating  blades of the Bell helicopter cut the air with a thwup-thwup-thwup-thwup, as Illya Kuryakin, at the controls, kept it hovering above their target site, a field out in the middle of no where in Pennsylvania.

“There it is,” he spoke into the microphone of his headset to his partner.

Napoleon lifted his binoculars to take a closer look at the bizarre pattern etched into the wheat field below them.

“What the heck is it?”

“Your guess is as good as mine my friend.  I had heard of such things when I was stationed in London, but never had the opportunity to see one.

"One what?"

"They are referred to as crop circles and have been noted during the 19th century in Europe, though there are writings much older that seem to mention them as far back as 1686. The most renowned being the "Mowing Devil" case, in which a farmer's field was said to have been visited by a devilish entity that trampled the crops down in a circle. The event was captured for posterity on a wood engraving. There has been talk for many years that these things have been made by extraterrestrials.”

Solo shrugged his shoulders, pointing to a spot far enough away from the formation so as to not disturb it.

It was raining, something that was long overdue in this arid area. Napoleon Solo hobbled along with hundreds of other refugees, most carrying their meager belongings balanced in bundles on their heads. Their care-worn faces filled with resignation, a tiredness of the conflict within their country. It was the faces of the children that tore at his heart, the ultimate innocents caught up in an adult pissing match. Life just wasn't fair.