Madeleine Pullman had worked for U.N.C.L.E. for almost thirty years. In that time she'd gone from being a junior file clerk to Head of Communications. Her long service with such a covert organisation meant she was highly attuned to things which seemed off-kilter. While in the ladies washroom, she overheard something which may have sounded innocuous to most people, but it set alarm bells ringing for her. As she headed back towards her office, Madeleine changed her mind; she had to tell someone of her suspicions.
Illya looked up from the report he was typing as Madeleine entered his office.
"Oh, it's just you Mr Kuryakin," she exclaimed. "I was hoping for Mr Solo."
"I shall try not to take that personally," the Russian replied with a smile. "Is there something I can help you with, Mrs Pullman?"
Thinking about it, she realised that telling Mr Kuryakin was akin to telling Mr Solo.
"Actually yes," she acknowledged. "I think there may be a problem with one of the ladies in my department, but I'm not sure how to proceed."
Illya stood up and pulled Napoleon's chair over for Madeleine before inviting her to sit down and tell her story.
"I overhead Helen McKenzie telling someone how her boyfriend drops her off and picks her up outside work every day," she told him. "I know the staff entrance looks like an ordinary office block, but it is still a concern. If it had just been that I would have had a chat with her, but she also mentioned she's only been with him for two weeks. Am I being paranoid, Mr Kuryakin?"
"If you were anybody else telling me this, I would probably dismiss it," Illya admitted. "However, I know your instincts are good. Leave it with me, but don't say anything to Miss McKenzie."
Madeleine breathed a sigh of relief. Hopefully it would all come to nothing, but if there was anything to worry about, Mr Kuryakin would uncover it.
"Thank you Mr Kuryakin," she said, as she stood up to leave. "Please let me know if you need any further information."
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
Two days later, Madeleine found herself joining a meeting with Mr Waverly, Mr Kuryakin and Mr Solo. It wasn't the first time, so she wasn't as awed as some people might have been. The Old Man welcomed her, while Napoleon pulled out a chair. Illya dimmed the lights, apart from the one needed by Lisa Rogers to take notes, and brought a photograph up on the projector. It was an image of the street outside the staff entrance, and it showed Miss McKenzie with a man.
"Is the something wrong with the image, or is that man actually wearing a white suit during the day?" Solo scoffed.
"Actually, it's a sort of cream colour," Illya told him. "I took the photo, so I can tell you it looks just as bad close up."
"Not everyone can have your sartorial elegance Mr Solo," Waverly harrumphed and urged Illya to go on.
The next slide showed a close up of the man's face.
"This is Malcolm Kent," he informed the gathering. "As you are aware, Mrs Pullman came to me with concerns about this man. As it turns out, she was absolutely right to be worried."
He brought the lights back up and took his seat at the table.
"I'm sure I know that name," Napoleon mused. "Wasn't he second in command of that satrap in Canada, which we destroyed two years ago?"
"Yes," Kuryakin confirmed. "We thought he was killed in the explosion, but it would seem not to be the case. It could all be a huge coincidence, but it's unlikely."
"I would say the odds are against it," Napoleon agreed. "With that suit, I thought you were going to tell us it was something connected with that whole Robespierre* incident."
"That thought occurred to me, and I'm glad to say it doesn't."
"Do we know how Miss McKenzie and Mr Kent met?" Mr Waverly asked. "Or how he knew she works for us?"
None of the staff at U.N.C.L.E. were permitted to tell anyone where they worked, other than agents when in the pursuit of their duty. The staff entrance looked like every other office building in the district, so no-one would know it was linked to the tailor's shop; which every THRUSH agent seemingly knew about.
"No Sir," Illya told him. "Until we can ascertain what exactly is going on, I suggest we put surveillance on Miss McKenzie and Mr Kent."
Before the Old Man could reply, the telephone rang and was answered by Miss Rogers. The call was incredibly brief.
"Apparently Helen McKenzie is outside one of the entrances, laughing maniacally," she told the people around the table. "No-one can calm her down. Medical is on the way."
"Which entrance?" Kuryakin asked, warily.
"Del Floria's."
"I suggest we adjourn the meeting until you gentlemen have investigated this worrying development."
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
A crowd had gathered outside Del Floria's, attracted by the woman who was laughing uncontrollably. The tailor called through to reception for assistance, where two agents were preparing to leave. The three men tried to calm the woman, but nothing worked. For security, and Helen's dignity, Del brought her inside and pulled down the blind. There were actually two blinds fitted over the tailor shop window. The first one was a normal 'out of business hours' one. The second was more or less the same, but was a different colour, which indicated to agents that the entrance was unavailable.
When Solo and Kuryakin arrived at the shop, a medical team was already there and Helen was hyperventilating; the constant laughing rendering her unable to take a proper breath. Despite reservations against, the medics had no option but to sedate the her.
"Any idea what is causing this, Doc?" Solo asked.
"I haven't the first idea, Mr Solo."
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
The Meeting resumed in Waverly's office; without Mrs Pullman, who had been called back to her own office. Mr Waverly was deeply concerned about the sudden turn of events.
"We appear to be on the back foot with this one gentlemen," he grumbled. "You are to trace this Mr Kent and ascertain his long range plans. I suggest you start with reviewing the security footage from Del Floria's. In the meantime, I'll have someone back-track Miss McKenzie's movements for the past couple of weeks."
Waverly closed his file and waved the agents away with his pipe. The two of them went straight to security to look over the recordings from that morning. What they saw didn't seem to be particularly enlightening. They watched as Miss McKenzie stepped out of the car. She was behaving fairly normally, right up until the point Kent kissed her. She seemed to go rigid and then, as he drove away, the laughing began.
"He's still wearing that cream suit," Solo noted. "It's as though he is trying to make himself as noticeable as possible."
"He put his hand on the back of her neck when he kissed her," Illya pointed out. "He probably injected her with something."
Pulling the glasses from his face, the Russian slammed them down on the table.
"What's wrong, Partner Mine?"
"I should have prevented this," Illya snapped back. "When Mrs Pullman brought this to me two days ago, I should have spoken to Miss McKenzie then and maybe she wouldn't now be in medical."
"Listen Tovarisch," Napoleon said, as he put a hand on his friend's shoulder. "All you knew then was that a member of staff had broken the rules. You had no reason to believe this boyfriend of hers was anything sinister. You followed protocol by performing a security check, and you informed me at the beginning. Don't go blaming yourself and concentrate on finding out what Kent is up too."
"Sorry my friend, you're right."
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
Down in medical, the doctors were perplexed. Helen McKenzie was fully unconscious and was now unable to breathe on her own. Whatever had caused the laughing now appeared to be shutting down her lungs.
"Have you any answers yet, doctor?"
Dr Barrie hadn't heard Mr Waverly enter, and immediately jumped to his feet, knocking the contents of a coffee cup over most of his desk.
"Erm. . . Not yet, Sir. I'm awaiting test results."
"Are you able to speculate on what may be happening to the unfortunate young woman?" the Old man asked, knowing full well that if the doctor knew anything, he would have told him.
"Sorry Sir, no," Dr Barrie replied sadly. "She seems to be deteriorating, but until I know what I'm dealing with, I can't do anything."
"I understand. Keep me apprised."
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
An hour later, after very little effort, Napoleon and Illya had an address for Malcolm Kent. Kuryakin was more than a little perturbed about how easy it had been to find him. It was obvious Kent was attempting to draw someone out.
"What I don't understand," Solo mused. "Is why did he change his methodology now, and why wait for two weeks before doing what he did this morning?"
"He wasn't getting the result he wanted," Kuryakin suggested. "Maybe he got tired of waiting for us, so did something different to get our attention."
"Why use Helen? What purpose does hurting her serve?"
Illya chewed on the end of a pen as he mulled it over.
"He obviously has a new type of weapon he wished to demonstrate. Though what making someone laugh is meant to achieve is anyone's guess. I've spoken to her colleagues, and it seems Miss McKenzie can be a little indiscreet. Maybe she was talking about things she shouldn't in public, and he overheard. Really, at the moment, we only have one way of finding out."
"So it would seem," Napoleon agreed. "Come on then IK. We have a trap to walk into."
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
Dr Barrie pulled the sheet over the face of Helen McKenzie. Despite his best efforts, he had been unable to save her. He still didn't know what he was dealing with and, as much as the death saddened him, he hoped her autopsy might enlighten him.
Nurse Redfearn began to tidy away the equipment which had been used to try and keep Helen alive. She hadn't really known her, but to her way of thinking, Miss McKenzie wasn't supposed to die in the line of duty. It was hard enough when an agent was lost, but they voluntarily risked themselves. Helen had worked in communications.
"I have to report to Mr Waverly," Dr Barrie told her. "Please could you organise Miss McKenzie's move to the morgue."
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
Illya was bringing the car to a stop, as they arrived close to their destination, just as Napoleon's communicator beeped.
"Solo."
"I have unhappy tidings," Mr Waverly said sombrely. "Miss McKenzie has passed away."
Napoleon glanced over at his partner. Illya was already blaming himself, thinking he hadn't acted sooner. This news would not be taken well by him. Solo could already see, by the fire in his friend's eyes, that the assignment had become personal. If the CEA didn't keep a careful rein on the Russian, then in all likelihood, Kent would not be alive when they brought him in.
"Does the doc know anything yet, Sir?"
"Not as yet," Waverly answered, with a tinge of regret. "Dr Barrie will be performing an autopsy shortly. Get to the bottom of this affair quickly, Mr Solo."
"What's your strategy?" Kuryakin asked, after the conversation ended. He had an edge to his voice which Napoleon knew all too well.
"He's going to be expecting us, given everything he's done to get our attention."
Napoleon looked over at their target. Kent had led them to a two storey brick built structure in the middle of seemingly abandoned farmland. There was a little cover from the trees which line the driveway.
"You go left and to the back, I'll go to the right and front." Solo instructed. "Don't forget, he's better to us alive."
"Don't worry, Napoleon," Kuryakin snapped back at him. "I am a professional."
"Calm down, Tovarisch," the American soothed. "I just know you can get a little gung-ho when you're riled."
"Gung-ho?"
"Just keep your head, Partner Mine, that's all I'm asking."
Illya knew Napoleon was talking about. He had to admit himself, that he was taking Miss McKenzie's death personally, even though he'd hardly known her. When he'd demolished the Canadian Satrap, Kent had been inside. He shouldn't have survived. Each man checked his weapon, and then got out of the car. Illya darted across the road to reach the cover on the other side; they then began their stealthy walk to the house.
From an upstairs window in the building, Malcolm Kent watched as the two U.N.C.L.E. agents made their way towards him. He wasn't particularly interested in Solo, but capturing him could go a long way with getting him back into the hierarchy. Illya Kuryakin was the prize he was after. The man had been the one who'd set the explosives and destroyed his satrap. His boss had been killed, but Kent had managed to get to their hidden escape tunnel. The obliteration of the base hadn't gone down well with THRUSH Central, and Kent had barely escaped from them with his life.
It had taken a few months, but he finally had a plan to take revenge on Kuryakin, as well as a new weapon. Kent had been ready to implement his scheme for a few weeks, but needed to find a way to draw Kuryakin to him. In the end, fate had stepped in to help.
Kent had been drinking coffee in a diner when his attention was grabbed by a conversation nearby.
"If both Mr Solo and Mr Kuryakin were to ask you on a date, which would you choose?"
"I really don't think you should be saying their names so freely in public, Helen."
"They can't be the only ones with those names."
"Do you know of any others? Even if there are, I doubt they'd know each other."
"Ok, I get your point. So who would you choose?"
"Mr Solo, obviously."
Kent had immediately made a move. Greeting both ladies and asking Helen if she would like to meet him for dinner. She'd been unsure at first, but he assured that he would pay for her cab home, if it would make her feel safer. After that it had been easy. It only took a couple of days for him to persuade her to let him give her a ride to work and back. After two weeks, however, nothing seemed to be happening. He could only assume that the entrance Helen used wasn't as consistently monitored as the tailor shop entrance. It meant a change of plan but that was okay. It would also give him the opportunity to show all of U.N.C.L.E. his new weapon. He was going to wait until he had Kuryakin, but it didn't really matter.
It had surprised him how agreeable Helen had been to being dropped off outside Del Floria's, but there was no point in questioning it. Kent had felt slightly remorseful at his plan to kill her; she'd actually been fun. His secondary plan had gone without a hitch and he would shortly have Kuryakin in grasp.
The two agents, ignorant of being watched, reached their destinations. At the back of the building, Illya quickly picked the lock and entered a kitchen. Drawing his weapon, he slowly made his way through the next door. That was the last thing he knew.
Napoleon broke into the front of the building just as quickly as his partner. He found himself in the main living area, which looked as though someone had been there recently. Continuing on, Solo went through the only other door in the room. Just like Illya, he didn't get far before consciousness was taken from him.
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
When Napoleon woke, it was to an all too familiar sore spot on the back of his head. An attempt to rub the area alerted him to the hand cuffs he'd been fitted with. They, in turn, were attached to ankle cuffs with a chain. It looked long enough to allow him to stand, but not much more. It took a bit of effort, but Napoleon eventually managed to get to his feet, and he took in his surroundings. He'd been locked in a cage in the corner of a small, darkish room. In another corner stood a large cabinet, but it was the steel table in the centre which drew his attention.
Strapped to the table, was the unconscious form of Illya Kuryakin. Dried blood matted the blond hair on the side of his head, indicating he had also received a blow from something heavy. Thick leather straps held his wrists, ankles and neck in place. When the Russian woke, he wouldn't be going anywhere, and he wouldn't be overly happy.
"Illya!" Solo called over to him. "Hey, Tovarisch!"
Kuryakin groaned as he came to, and tried to move. His eyes shot wide open when he realised he was pinioned.
"Kakogo cherta?!" (What the hell?!) He yelled, as he strained against the straps, before noticing Napoleon. "Mr Waverly is not going to be happy."
"If we can't get out of this, we won't need to worry about the Old Man," Solo replied, wryly. "Hey! At least you're not naked this time."
"Thank you for those comforting words, Napoleon," Illya replied flatly. "I am, however, tied to a table."
Solo did his best to indicate he wasn't exactly in a great position himself, though he had to admit, it was a better than Illya's. Unfortunately, this suggested that, whatever Kent had planned, Illya would be the recipient.
"I don't suppose you have one of your odds defying escape strategies to hand," Kuryakin enquired, in a tone which belied the fear he was beginning to experience.
"They all rather depend on getting out of these cuffs and this cage first."
The door to the room opened, and Malcolm Kent entered. He was carrying a gas canister and mask.
"I do hope you gentlemen are comfortable," he chatted congenially, as he placed the canister near to Illya's head. "I always try to be a good host."
The Russian couldn't help but roll his eyes. What was it with THRUSHies and cheesy dialogue?
"Do all THRUSH personnel have to do special training to sound like bad spy movie villains?"
It took Napoleon every ounce of willpower not to sigh in frustration. He would have to have a serious word with his partner about goading captors. It never did him any good, and generally led him to being treated much worse than he otherwise would have done. It often amazed Solo as to just how Illya had survived his life in Russia, with his somewhat confrontational attitude.
"For your information," Kent replied, in the same chatty tone. "I'm not currently with THRUSH. I hope to buy my way back in by presenting Solo to them. You, on the other hand, are going to pay for losing me my position in the first place."
"What's in the canister?" Illya asked, as a feeling of dread settled in his chest.
"You're going to enjoy this, Russkie. This is the gaseous form of the drug I injected Helen with. I had to give her a massive overdose of it so that you would be able to see what it does. In this form, it is much more diluted. As a result it will take you hours to die, but you will laugh the whole time. It starts out as little giggles and gradually gets worse."
Illya had faced torment and death more times than he cared to remember, but the thought of laughing his way to death terrified him. Dignity had never been something which concerned him, but this death would be too humiliating.
"I have to admit," Kent continued, "That the laugh is entirely coincidental. The substance was designed to slowly shut down the lungs and give the victim a long slow suffocation. It was such a wonderful discovery when my test subjects laughed themselves into hyperventilation."
"Ublyudok!" (Bastard!) Kuryakin snarled, before spitting into Kent's face.
Despite Napoleon's earlier warning, Illya was now determined to kill this man. If he was given even the tiniest opportunity, he would take it, and deal with the consequences later.
"Now, now. There's no need for that," Kent smiled, wiping the spit from his cheek. "I don't know what you said, but I doubt it was complimentary. Hold still please while I fit you with this mask"
From his cage, Napoleon could only watch as his friend tried, and failed, to shake the mask from his face. Kent slowly released the valve on the canister. Solo could see Illya holding his breath, in a futile attempt to prevent the inevitable. He thought back to the warning he'd given Illya about wanting Kent alive. Now, he wasn't so sure.
"I shall leave you for a while," Kent told them. "I'm sure you both have some heartfelt reminiscing to do, while you're able."
On the table, the Russian began to chuckle.
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
Dr Barrie took the seat which was gestured to. He placed the file, containing his finding, on the circular desk and spun it to Mr Waverly. The Old Man glanced through it, before asking the doctor for a translation.
"Basically Sir, we've found something which seems to be intended to suffocate a person from the inside," Barrie told him. "The chemicals appear to be designed to react with the lungs, causing congestion."
"Where does the laughing come in?"
"We honestly don't know," the doctor admitted. "We are assuming it is simply a side effect. The labs are currently working on an antidote in case it is released to the general populace."
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
In spite of sounding as though he were enjoying himself, Illya was on the verge of a panic attack. He fought wildly at the straps holding him, but they weren't budging. In the cage, Napoleon had fished a lock-pick from out of the heel of his shoe and was sitting on the floor, working at releasing the cuffs. He looked over at Illya and saw the panic in his eyes.
"Illya, look at me," he commanded. "Look at me!"
The Russian turned his gaze to his partner, desperately trying to stop the chuckling.
"I'll be out of here soon, Tovarisch," Solo assured him. "Stop struggling and save your strength. I know you're scared right now, but I'm going to get you out."
Illya tried to answer, but the chuckling wouldn't allow the words to form properly. He settled for a nod to let Napoleon know his promises were helping him to calm down. While he waited for his rescue, Illya concentrated on breathing around the laughter. He was still able to breathe relatively normally, but it was going to get difficult soon.
Once he was certain his partner had relaxed a bit, Napoleon quickly got the cuffs off and started on the lock off the cage. It took him barely a few seconds. As soon as he was free, he was by Illya's side. The laughing coming from the man was creepy. Under normal circumstances, a person who was laughing would look happy; Illya just looked terrified. Solo ripped the mask from his partner's face, and then quickly freed him from his bonds. He helped him to sit up and asked if he would be able to walk on his own.
"Yeah," Kuryakin managed to get out.
"Okay, if you're sure. Give me a second, I have a feeling there's something in that cabinet which will help."
Pulling open the door, Napoleon was presented with several vials of what he assumed was the substance. He turned to Illya to show him, only to see that the Russian's expression had turned to ice. Solo knew that look, and also knew nothing was going to stop Illya from taking personal revenge. Waverly probably wouldn't be happy, but then he didn't need to know.
"With you laughing like that, there's no way we'll be able to sneak up on him," Napoleon stated. "I think it would be better if you lay back down and I'll make it look as though you're still strapped down. I'll get back in the cage."
The American filled a syringe with the substance and handed it to Illya.
"I know this probably goes against the good guy ethic, but if you want to kill him, I won't stop you. After the way he used Helen, he deserves it."
"Waverly?" Illya asked between laughs. They were becoming stronger.
"The report will show you killed Kent in self-defence."
It was about half an hour before Kent reappeared. Napoleon had spent the time trying to distract Illya and keep him calm. For the most part, he was relatively successful. When their captor finally came back in, he showed no indication of sensing anything amiss.
"Why, My Kuryakin, you do seem to be having a jolly time," he said, in his annoyingly calm tone. "Don't worry, you've got plenty more hours of fun and laughter ahead of you."
Illya made his move. He brought his right hand up, and in one move, stabbed the syringe into Kent's stomach and depressed the plunger. The effect was instantaneous. He went rigid, and then began to laugh hysterically. The inability to breathe properly, coupled with abject terror, caused him to hyperventilate quickly. The last thing Malcolm Kent heard was the sound of Illya Kuryakin laughing. Napoleon observed his partner, and even he couldn't be certain if the laugh was chemically induced or genuine.
"Time to go Illya," Solo prompted. "I'll call for a clean-up crew on the way back."
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
By the time Napoleon got Illya back to HQ, his laughing had become full-blown and breathing was becoming a problem. As with Helen, the medics took the decision to sedate Illya and place him on a ventilator.
"The lab is preparing an antidote, Mr Solo," Dr Barrie told the pacing CEA. "Hopefully it will be ready before . . ."
"Before he dies!" Napoleon snapped. "Sorry Doc."
"We have it!" yelled a man in a lab coat, as he ran into Illya's room. "However, we haven't had time to test it."
"We'll need permission from Mr Waverly to give something untested to a Section 2 agent," Dr Barrie said.
"Then get it!"
It was a further two hours before they discovered whether it had been successful or not. Illya woke feeling disorientated and, in a panic, automatically reached for the tubing which had been aiding his breathing. Napoleon was instantly out of his chair. He placed a calming hand on Illya's and called for the medic. Within minutes, the ventilator was removed and Illya smiling.
"I'm not laughing," he stated hoarsely, but happily.
"You're not," Solo agreed. "Next time someone claims that you're miserable, at least we can tell them you've laughed enough for a lifetime. What did it feel like?"
"Forgive me my friend," Illya said quietly. "I don't wish to talk about the details yet. All I want to know is, when can I get out of here?"
"Not yet, Mr Kuryakin."
The agents looked the doorway as Mr Waverly entered.
"The doctor may have cured one problem, but he tells me you'll have to wait until your lungs a fully clear. Don't worry, young man, it shouldn't be more than a day or two. Mr Solo, I expect your report sooner than that."
"Yes Sir."
"I have just recieved a verbal report from the clean-up team," the Old Man continued. "It would appear that Mr Kent was injected with his own substance. Would you care to enlighten me as to how?"
"Self-defence," Napoleon replied, a little too quickly. "We got free and Kent attacked Illya."
Two bushy eyebrows met in an expression of suspicion. Alexander Waverly could read his agents much better than they assumed. He wouldn't go so far as to accuse either of them of murder, but he knew he wouldn't find the truth in their reports.
"Probably for the best," he muttered, "Get back to us as soon as you're able, Mr Kuryakin.
"He didn't believe you," Illya commented, after their boss had gone.
"I never expected he would, but I doubt he'll push the issue," Napoleon told him, as he made to leave. "Anyway, some of us haven't got time to lie around; I've got a report to write.
He left the room, and then stuck his head back round the doorframe.
"Enjoy your jello."
He managed to avoid the pillow which was thrown at him.
The End.