by LRH Balzer
*****
Illya Kuryakin picked up the ham sandwich and took another bite out of it. It tasted different, the bread drier, and a look at the clock told him that he had picked it up in the cafeteria about three hours before. With a resigned sigh, he ate another bite, then pushed aside the rest. He'd eat it later.
He stared at the pen in front of him. He'd been working on how to fit a normal fountain pen with the U.N.C.L.E. transceiver, a bulky contraption that looked about three times the size it needed to be. At the moment, it was not-too-successfully housed in a package the size of a cigarette pack, glaringly obvious to anyone who looked at it twice.
A pen, though. Everyone had a pen and if you could fix it to actually work as a writing instrument, so much the better.
He took a sip of the warm, bubbleless glass of Coke, wondering why it was so flat. Then wondering when he had poured it.
The lab tended to be quiet in the evenings, so it was a good time to work and people generally left him alone. He had been assisting in Amsterdam with a case a few weeks before, helping interpret for a rogue Russian agent, then staying behind to go undercover in a local shipping warehouse, to assist the office there. It was his first assignment as an agent, one Waverly had told him would expedite an assignment for New York. Precedent had been set; he'd worked as an agent now.
Well, that was six weeks ago, and he was still in the New York labs. So while he waited for the illusive promise of being an agent for U.N.C.L.E., he would earn his keep trying to get the internal workings of a cigarette pack into a slimline fountain pen.
*****
Napoleon Solo strode down the corridor to the science section of U.N.C.L.E.'s New York Headquarters. He had called ahead to say he was coining and what his request was, but he decided to visit Shakely in person and collect whoever was chosen to accompany him.
George Shakely, his counterpart as head of Section Eight, was waiting for him. Next to him was a tall, slim, young man, dark wavy hair cut short, prematurely graying sideburns on a classically handsome face. He was dressed with impeccably good taste in a navy blue suit, crisp white shirt, gray tie with the U.N.C.L.E. logo on it. Adam Plotnik was in the midst of changing his tie to another gray tie, this one without the identifying symbol on it. A white lab coat was carefully folded over one arm.
"Adam here will be a great asset to your team, Napoleon. He's been working out in the gym, too." Shakely said, moving to get the ringing telephone. "He just happened to drop by when Mr. Waverly called in his request and he immediately volunteered for the job." Shakely left them alone as he took his call.
Plotnik stepped forward and offered his hand to Solo, the firm handshake reassuring. "I'm happy to help, sir. I'm ready to leave now, unless there is something further you need?" He let the question trail, but Solo waved him off
"No, I appreciate your assistance. Have you been filled in on the problem? It is rare to take a Section Eight scientist into the field, I need to know that you are going willingly."
"Yes. You need to identify some chemicals and need my assistance in the field. I'd be happy to offer my expertise. I've been waiting for an opportunity to work in Section Two."
"I appreciate your help. My car is ready to go in the garage. Newton will be waiting for us there."
Plotnik nodded. "Jack Newton, Section Two. Yes, I know his reputation."
"That's the man. He's working with Xavier Garcia these days."
"Excellent."
Solo stepped back to let Plotnik exit before him, but Shakely's abrupt wave stopped him before he could step through the doorway. The Section Eight Chief replaced his telephone receiver and then pressed the intercom and made a request to the lab's receptionist. Only then did Shakely turn to Solo. "There'll be another Section Eight agent joining you."
"If Plotnik is capable to assist me, one scientist is ample."
"This request comes from Section One. Mr. Waverly just requested that another of our men go with you instead of Plotnik. I'd prefer to send Adam Plotnik, as well, as he has been looking forward to the possibility of moving up to Section Two. This would give him some firsthand experience. I'm not prepared to go against Mr. Waverly's orders, but I think Plotnik is the more experienced here of the two." Shakely looked up as the outer door hissed open. "Here's the young man Mr. Waverly suggested."
The scientist who entered the room looked scarcely out of his teens, dark rimmed glasses largely hiding his eyes and his features. His hair was blond and uncombed—at least, it hadn't been combed recently. A stained lab coat was open to reveal a tie-less, wrinkled, once-white shirt with a frayed collar, and a dark pair of suit pants that needed pressing.
Shakely was obviously embarrassed by the man's appearance. "Kuryakin, Mr. Waverly requested that you accompany Mr. Solo on assignment."
Solo recognized him suddenly. The man with the Number "2" badge, from Waverly's office. Sure enough, he still wore it. A Section Eight boffin wearing the Number "2" badge. More mysteries that he didn't have time for.
Kuryakin took off his glasses and turned his blank eyes on Solo. He stood waiting expectantly, as though he were one of those futuristic robots in the science fiction "B" movies waiting for instructions.
Solo stared at him, at a loss of what to say, but it seemed that Mr. Waverly had already made the decision for him. "Kuryakin, is it?"
"Yes.”
"How long have you worked here?"
"One year, eleven months."
That was about when he'd seen him in Waverly's office before. "You don't look familiar." Solo waited a moment, but Kuryakin seemed to feel that no response was required of him.
"Kuryakin has been working solely in the labs here in Section Eight. A great asset to our team, actually," Shakely offered.
Solo looked back at Kuryakin. "Mr. Waverly seems to feel that your assistance is needed on this assignment. Do you have any hesitation about joining a potentially dangerous mission? This normally isn't required of Section Eight lab workers."
"Alexander Waverly requested me?" Kuryakin asked softly, his eyes meeting Solo's for just a moment.
"Apparently so," Solo replied.
"Then I will go." As Kuryakin pulled off his lab coat, the receptionist entered with his suit jacket, an equally rumpled match to his suit pants.
"Mr. Kuryakin, are you fully aware of the situation we are heading into?" Solo asked cautiously.
"Yes."
Not a talkative one. "And what might that situation be?" Solo prompted.
Kuryakin blinked as he took in the question, then he responded quickly. "On the telephone, George Shakely told me that you require assistance identifying chemicals Thrush shipped to their warehouse. Time is of essence, as decision needs to be made before Thrush can move them out, change locations of storehouse, or make use of them. According to George Shakely, we are unable to sabotage Thrush's operation without knowing nature of what we are blowing up, or we could inadvertently destroy half of Manhattan in process. Since we cannot help unless we know exactly what chemicals involved are, it is necessary to accompany you to Thrush Chemical depot, long enough to make assessment, and leave you to see to disposal of crates immediately thereafter, if it is deemed safe to do so."
"Swell." Solo motioned for him to precede him from the office. Mr. Waverly, I hope there 's a reason why you want this kid with me.
* * * * *
Kuryakin sat quietly on the rear bench of the U.N.C.L.E. van, trying to listen to the conversation in the front between the driver, Tom Philips, the head of Section Two, Napoleon Solo, and Jack Newton, another Section Two agent. The three men were going over the details they knew so far— much of it information that Kuryakin wanted to know, but the idiot beside him kept talking. Not that Adam Plotnik was stupid; he would have to be brilliant to be accepted into U.N.C.L.E., but it should be clear to anyone who had worked previously in any form of espionage, that this was one individual better left at the base.
"... so I expect to be in Section Three by March or April at the l
atest."
Kuryakin glanced over to Plotnik, irritated that the man was still talking. The Russian looked away, turning his shoulder slightly to stare out the heavily tinted window to his left.
Newton swivelled around in his seat finally, and addressed the two Section Eight U.N.C.L.E. scientists. "Gentlemen, we realize that normally you would never leave our Headquarters, and I'd like to add my thanks for agreeing to assisting us on this mission. I'd like to explain your involvement. We will be arriving at the warehouse in approximately ten minutes. Philips will park down the block, then we'll go in on foot. We have a lookout posted to the site, who has just radioed in that all is quiet there, and the entire east side of the property, where the loading dock is, appears to be unmonitored. That's where the barrels are. We haven’t seen any surveillance equipment, which confirms our suspicions that these chemicals are not valuable, or are not explosive, at least. We are hoping to get in at either end of the platform, let you have a chance to look at the contents of the barrels, then get out, without sounding any alarms."
"Where's my gun?" Plotnik asked. "I've had training, you know."
Newton shook his head. "That won't be necessary. If we have any indication we are in danger, we'll find another way of doing this."
"Don't worry about me. I can take care of myself. You can leave the kid in the van," Plotnik added, gesturing to Kuryakin. "Why put him in danger?"
Solo turned around as the van came to a stop at their destination. "We've no plan to put anyone in danger. Not if we do this right. Plotnik, you and—"
"Kuryakin," Illya provided.
"You and Kuryakin will wait here in the van until we can secure the area. Newton and I will check the lot and see if it's relatively safe to take you both in." With that, Solo and Newton left the parked vehicle and in the shadows of the street, made their way toward the Thrush-run warehouse. The driver, Philips, went to the hood of the van and lifted it, peering at the engine with a flashlight as though he was experiencing mechanical trouble and had pulled to the side of the road to take a look at it.
Plotnik stared out the window after the two Section Two agents, his brows drawn into a long frown.
After a moment, he spoke, addressing Kuryakin condescendingly. "Just stay here, kid. I'll go see what the situation is."
"Agent Solo said to stay here."
"Then do as he says; it's safer here. We'll call you if we need you."
Kuryakin grabbed hold of the man's sleeve as he attempted to leave the van. "I believe he meant for both of us to stay here."
Plotnik tried to tear his sleeve away. "Then we have different understandings of what the orders were. Let me go."
Now what? Kuryakin released the man, twisting to see out the window as Plotnik blundered out to the street. He could hear Philips strangled hiss to the man, which also went ignored.
Plotnik gave a sharp whistle, then waved to where the Section Two Agents had gone, jogging towards them.
Kuryakin groaned, already seeing where this was heading. Any pretence of secrecy evaporated as the man clumsily made his way across the street, the overhead lights clearly picking him out as his feeble attempts to dart behind cars only made his presence more obvious.
A shot rang out from the warehouse. Plotnik died instantly at the second volley, his face caught in an expression of surprise as he had mindlessly stood to see what was happening and had taken the bullet through his forehead.
Kuryakin was out of the van and into the bushes before Plotnik's body hit the ground. Thrush agents swarmed from the warehouse property and descended on the van; the U.N.C.L.E. driver and security agent, Philips, was dragged from the vehicle, his U.N.C.L.E. communicator in hand as he made an attempt to call for additional backup. He was shot to death in the street, the transceiver clattering to the road and crushed under a boot. The van was riddled with bullets, then upended, making a loud crash as it slammed to the passenger side, glass shattering.
At the side of the road, Kuryakin crawled through the thick bushes that lined the street, making his way toward the warehouse. Gunfire erupted behind him, and he turned to check the situation, staying low. A second group of Thrush agents emerged from the building to split forces and effectively trap Newton on the northeast side dock. Two had large weapons, a type of rifle Kuryakin was unfamiliar with. Having nowhere to hide, Newton turned out to be a sitting duck for the first bullet to connect with him, but from the way the body twitched as it fell, Kuryakin suspected the agent's corpse was peppered with bullet holes.
A green light flickered, then, like an errant bolt of lightning, crept along the northeast platform. One guard screamed, flinging himself out of the way as a tendril of energy hissed. As quickly as it had appeared, it vanished, and the agents on the docking platform returned inside.
A gun. I need a gun. He moved further south, keeping to the shadows and the bushes. He had discarded his white coat in the van, using instead his dark suit jacket, the collar turned so as to hide his white shirt. He reached into the dirt beside him, scrubbing the earth across his face and hair and discolouring the shirt further. The night air was crisp; he could smell the evidence of gunfire, he could hear the shuffle of booted feet as the first group of Thrush agents left Philip's body and walked along the road away from him, the undercurrent of muttered orders and curses.
I need a gun. I need a gun. The cold air singed his lungs, invigorating him, drawing him onward.
He didn't want to think about the green light. Not yet.
The shadows worked to his advantage. There were only two streetlights, one at each end of the long block. Outside the warehouse, a feeble spotlight at the gate illuminated the company's name "New York MultiTask Corp"; several banks of lights dotted the loading platform, but they cast little brilliance outside their small sphere of responsibility.
He was invisible. There was no moon. No stars visible in the clouded sky. No one to record his passage in the brush parallel to the road. No one noticed him.
I need a gun. Where—?
Kuryakin paused, lowering himself to the ground and watching the movements of the guards. He had not yet completed his assignment; he would not go back to Alexander Waverly yet. Solo, the Section Two chief, was still out there. They still did not know what was in the barrels. There was no backup, no sirens cutting through the frosty night air.
He was alone, no longer struggling with choices. For now, he worked on automatic, trusting his instincts. He rose from the bushes and reversed his path. When another round of gunfire broke out, he slipped around the side of the U.N.C.L.E. vehicle and stole Philips' weapon, a double-action revolver, from his lifeless hand, then blended back into the shadows to check the ammunition. He had one clip only, but the weapon was better than nothing. He was armed. He was complete. It was as if a switch was turned in his brain and he moved without thinking, but knowing.
There were five Thrush guards, traveling together down the center of the street. No traffic came this way, down the side-street at two in the morning. Kuryakin counted the agents, watching the building and the area, but there was evidence of no other guards. The second group had vanished back into the building. There were cars parked along the street, belonging to the people inside the building. He took his knife and slashed the tires as he moved along the line.
Determining that the attention of the Thrush agents was directed away from him, Kuryakin made his way back down the block to where Solo was holed up at the southeast comer of the lot. There was time yet to accomplish the task Alexander Waverly had set for him. Thrush guards were slowly checking out the northeast end of the warehouse, checking all the nooks and crannies to see if Newton had other accomplices.
He lowered himself to the pavement, then watched from beneath a vehicle until he was sure he would not be seen. Timing was everything. Too soon, and he risked alerting them to his presence, and Solo's. Too late, and Solo would be dead and there would be no reason to further risk his own life. The moment came, and Kuryakin sprinted across the road and hid b
ehind a delivery truck parked up at the loading dock. Gun in the rear waistband of his pants, he climbed the ropes horizontally so he could maneuver along the bed of the long truck crab-like rather than risk being seen below it or above it.
He worked his way closer to the barrels, tossing a pebble toward Solo to let him know he was there. The U.N.C.L.E. agent didn't seem to be surprised at his presence, almost as though he had been waiting for Kuryakin's arrival. Solo nodded briefly, gesturing for him to move closer to the barrels, then the Section Two Chief covered him while Kuryakin scrambled to see what was inside the nearest one. He tore off a data sheet taped to the lid, glanced at it quickly, then pried open the barrel top and examined the contents, pulling strips of specially treated papers from his pocket and dipping them in the dark liquid. In less than 30 seconds he was satisfied, shutting the lid and, at first opportunity joining Solo crouched behind a forklift. He thrust the data sheet at Solo and whispered—the next time he got a chance—that the contents were clearly and accurately labeled on the paper.
Their capture was anti-climatic. A canister of knock-out gas landing unceremoniously at their feet, from which there was no escape.
Well, that was a short career, Kuryakin thought, as unconsciousness claimed him.
*****
Hmmmm?
It took Solo a moment to realize that he was awake. Sitting upright in a chair of sorts. Bound.
Memories filtered in, where he was, what he was doing. He remembered being captured, but had no memory of being brought to this room or manacled to the chair.
Another moment to shake the drugged haze from his brain, blink rapidly, and focus on the demolished Thrush laboratory. Pain hit after that, but it was controllable, confined to his wrists and his ankles where the steel manacles dug in. He coughed, trying to peer about the darkened room, hampered by the cloud of dust floating upward from the debris surrounding him. A noise had jarred him awake, probably the ceiling falling in.
