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

The gargoyles of Nôtre-Dame Cathedral, looked out over the city of lights with cold unwavering eyes, these bizarre and ancient mythical creatures made of stone remained there as silent sentinels over the centuries.

Their purpose, for the people of medieval times, had been to teach and warn the everyday man in his everyday life that the devil was out there. They were born of a need for constant vigilance. These stone gargoyles were the epitome of the words of St. Peter:

“Be sober and watch because your adversary the devil, as a roaring lion, goeth about seeking whom he may devour.”

Yet one crouched among them, living...breathing, his blond hair highlighted by the moonlight when a drifting cloud would pass by, letting the light free to shine down on Paris and all its goings on.

Illya Kuryakin, was deep in thought as he squatted atop the cathedral; it was beginning to lightly rain. The gargoyles built into the ends of the gutters began to drain rainwater from the roof since they extended far off to the sides of the edifice, allowing the litres of rainwater from storms to fall far from the walls, preventing damage to them over the centuries.

“Ah, Istanbul, how I remember it well,”  the Russian said, as he and his partner moved deliberately among the many spice and fruit vendors on the outside of the Egyptian bazaar; a view of the principal mosque of Istanbul, the Hagia Sophia, loomed in the distance behind it.

“Yes,” Napoleon agreed, ”the pungent odor of something that hasn’t been cleaned since....ever.”

“Fruit flies and spiced meats, a lovely combination.” Illya crinkled his nose and sneezed.  “Yes the red pepper, mint, cumin do add to it.

“Don’t forget the sumac and cinnamon...what a combination,” the American said, sniffing the air. “They add a certain saveur to the place.

“Watchout! “Illya yelled, pushing his partner out of the way.

The Parisian cemetery was filled with the most diverse or perhaps exotic statuary and tombs for the dead that Napoleon Solo and his partner, the Russian, Illya Kuryakin had ever seen.

The agents had been in many of the legendary cemeteries in New Orleans where possibly the French tradition of over the over-the- top monuments had been continued, but even those seemed not to hold a candle to this purportedly haunted ‘aux morte de la commune.’ (the community of the dead)

Napoleon Solo and Illya Kuryakin trudged along the snow covered streets of Paris, they’d wandered out to just get some fresh air and had walked about a kilometer or so from the Eiffel tower.

Solo was dressed comfortably in a lined trench coat, with a dashing fedora covering his head, while his partner looked ever the Slav, wearing a short black woolen coat, a dark scarf wound around his neck and the crowning glory covering his blond hair, a black Russian style cap, minus the red star of course.

Napoleon’s gloved hands were animated as he spoke, while Illya’s clenched fists were firmly entrenched in his pockets. The Russian was in one of his stubborn moods and his partner was trying to change that.