Vozmozhnost'

By Wendie Z

In Russian, the words for opportunity and possibility are one and the same. As a gift for the second anniversary of their partnership, Napoleon introduces his friend to a beautiful and intellectual woman, the daughter of Russian immigrants. But, will Illya view this as an opportunity, a possibility or just plain meddling? Pre-series.

Napoleon Solo leaned back in his chair, his left ankle resting across his right knee, folded his hands; digits interlocked with the index fingers forming a spire and studied his bespectacled partner across the lunch table. Illya Kuryakin had already finished his sandwich and his full attention was on a rather thick, soft-cover book that Solo knew to be the most recent issue of The American Journal of Physics. "You know it's impolite to ignore your partner, partner."

Illya did not look up. "When you really have something important to say, I shall be more than attentive. But until then, I refuse to sit here and pretend not to notice the stain on your tie."

Reflexively, Napoleon looked down at his favorite and expensive tie, realizing only then that he was being toyed with. It didn't help when Napoleon heard the blond-haired agent chuckle. "Made you look."

It helped even less when he looked up at the Russian's smug grin. His lip curled in aggravation. "Very funny. Just remember that paybacks can be hell."

"I think it's safe to say that I've done more than my share of penance, being the focus of many of your so-called practical jokes. So, what did you feel was so earth-shattering that you had to interrupt my reading?"

"Ah, yes, the comment." Solo uncrossed his leg and sat up straight. "And a really important one, I might add, worthy of your full attention."

"I'll reserve judgment on its worthiness, if you don't mind."

"It's just that I wanted to well-wish you on the beginning of our third year as partners."

A flicker of mild surprise crossed the calm expression. "Really? The date really hadn't occurred to me." And he looked down to read once more.

"I thought some kind of celebratory plans might be in order for the evening."

"Certainly. Feel free to celebrate all you like. My plans are to go home with my favorite Chinese Carry-out, lay a stack of records on the changer, put my feet up and catch up on my reading."

"Sounds exciting. Is that the lucky journal?" Napoleon said pointing.

"You may scoff all you like, but our feathered friends read the same journals. Someday, the information here might be very useful."

"Yeah, you never know when you might be called upon to crack the odd atom or two. Look, Illya, it's our anniversary, we aren't on a mission and I can't believe you're going to spend it with your nose in some book. You need to get some romance in your life and you're not going to get it there in that journal."

"How often do we have to rehash this old argument? You have more than enough romance for both of us. I have better things to do with my extremely limited spare time than pursue a meaningless entanglement that is diametrically opposed to the parameters of my profession."

"I guess that means you wouldn't be interested in going out to dinner on a double date," Solo said with a sigh.

Illya looked up. "Napoleon, you have an excellent grasp of the obvious. Now, if you'll excuse me, I have some lab work to finish and you have a report to add to mine." He stood, and walked around the table, bending over. "Happy anniversary," he said quietly. "It has been, for the most part, a pleasure working with you."

When Napoleon looked up, there was a smile on his friend's lips as if to punctuate the sentence. He echoed the smile.

"But, I'm still not interested in double-dating," Illya finished. "I'll see you later."

The Russian agent walked past the American to the door without looking back. But if he had turned, he would have seen the smile on Napoleon's face change to a sly grin. "Yes you will, my friend."

When Illya arrived at his apartment, he found an envelope taped to the door, with a quote written on the front in Napoleon's handwriting:

The excellence of a gift lies in its appropriateness rather than in its value.

Charles Dudley Warner

Curious, he pulled theenvelope from the door and let himself into the apartment. He laid his technical journal on the coffee table with the envelope, his keys and his supper before starting his ritual security sweep. Then, he picked up the envelope and pulled out a single-fold note card. It read:

Be dressed and ready to go at 8:00 sharp. No excuses.

Illya slid the note card back into the envelope, a frown forming on his lips; Napoleon was up to something and from experience, he knew it was not necessarily a "something" to look forward to. "Please, Napoleon," he said softly to the envelope, "not a party." He sighed heavily. Anything but a party—

Though tempted to ignore Solo's note, he knew better than to not follow the instructions on the notecard. If Napoleon found him waiting in his underwear, he'd either badger him until he got dressed or drag him out in public undershorts notwithstanding. Consciously kindling his annoyance into a smoldering bad mood, he went into the bedroom to change.

Napoleon was punctual. At eight o'clock, Illya heard a "shave-and-a-haircut" wrap on his door. The Russian had an inclination to make his partner wait to be admitted, but out of necessity Napoleon had a key to Illya's apartment as Kuryakin did for Solo. They each could gain admittance to the other's apartment at will.

With a sigh, Illya opened the door, taking in his partner's attire which was every bit as casual as his own black turtleneck shirt and black suit.

"Hi," Napoleon greeted jovially. "Ready to go?"

"No, I am not ready to go," Illya grumbled back. "I had a perfectly acceptable evening planned for myself, which did not involve going out on the town. No matter how many times I try to explain that I don't wish to be 'set up', you manage to either ignore it or conveniently forget."

"I promise this isn't a set-up."

"And I don't want a party."

"It's not a party."

"What is it, then?" Kuryakin asked suspiciously.

Napoleon smiled. "It's an opportunity. Come on, trust me on this. Have I ever steered you wrong?"

Illya turned out the light and followed Solo into the hallway. "I've lost count."

Two blocks away, Napoleon hailed a taxi, allowing his partner to enter the vehicle first. He gave the driver an address, which made Kuryakin turn to face him with a look of mild surprise.

"The Russian Tea Room?" he said, his interest piqued. "I was not aware that Petya had received another shipment. He usually contacts me when his supplier has come through."

"So, you're not as put out with me as before?"

"It's been a while since I've been able to savor the 'little water' from home. So, yes, you are exonerated somewhat."

"Only somewhat?" Napoleon replied faking indignation.

"I haven't decided yet if this isn't some ploy to get me to complete a foursome of some young lady to whom you've promised a dinner but she has a friend in from out-of-town."

Solo thumped his chest with his fist in mock woundedness. "Oh, ye of little faith, Illya. Why then would I be taking us to someplace as esoteric as the Russian Tea Room? Italian, my friend. That's where to take a lady on a first date; especially when there's a second couple in tow." And he grinned as Illya started to frown once more.

"Are you honestly trying to make me hurt you? You really do like to play with fire, don't you?"

"Retract the fangs, tovarisch. This is going to be a pleasant evening, I promise. And if it isn't, you have my permission to take it out on me at a later time. Deal?"

Kuryakin studied his partner for a moment, then nodded. "Okay, deal. Only remember, Napoleon, that paybacks from me make hell look like a romp in the park."

"Don't I know it, my friend," Solo said with a smile. "Don't I know it."

The main dining room of the Russian Tea Room was just beginning to fill up when the pair of UNCLE agents entered. The maître d' recognizing Illya, greeted them both in Russian and asked if they wanted a table or would be sitting at the bar.

Napoleon answered, also in Russian that the far end of the bar was where he preferred and proceeded in that direction. Illya however, lingered for a few moments to converse with his acquaintance. By the time he joined Solo again, there were two shot glasses on the bar and a bottle of expensive "imported" Russian vodka on ice between them.

"Would you care to do the honors?" Napoleon asked, though he knew his friend did.

Moments later, the pair was toasting the other on the start of their third year as partners.

"To another year," Illya said, raising his glass.

Napoleon touched his glass to his partner's. "And may we live to see it through." He smiled.

Illya looked at him for a moment as all the implications of the phrase settled around them. "Yes," he replied softly. "May we do just that."

They lifted the shot glasses to their lips and downed the full two ounces in one swallow. Napoleon sighed against the burn of the alcohol. "Good vodka," he said his voice a little raspy.

Illya smiled. "At the risk of sounding pompous, only Russians know how to make decent vodka. Anything else is merely adulterated alcohol."

Solo raised his eyebrows. "Oh, really? I'll have you know, partner of mine, your vodka is really nothing more than Russian moonshine. And in this case, very expensive moonshine."

Before Illya could reply to the slight to his beloved favorite libation, a female voice beat him to it. "You'd better not say that too loudly considering where you are."

Both men turned toward the voice; Napoleon's lips broke into a pleasant smile of recognition while Kuryakin remained noncommittal. The American did notice, however, the slight widening of his Russian friend's eyes as the woman attached to the voice came into view. She was tall and slender, but shapely with delicate brunette tresses framing her deep brown eyes and cupid's bow-shaped lips. And she was exceptionally adept in the use of cosmetics for she had skillfully applied her makeup to accentuate her already attractive features without being over-done.

"Ah," Napoleon said jovially, "Tanya. You have perfect timing." He turned towards the blond friend. "Illya, I'd like you to meet Tanya Storbin, a Russian linguist with the UN." He was about to complete the introduction when Kuryakin stepped forward and reached for her hand.

"Rad poznakomit'sya s vami, Tanya . Illya Nickovetch Kuryakin k vashim uslugam," he said with a slight bow.

She blushed slightly at his formality. "I'm happy to meet you, too; may I call you Ilyusha?" She blushed further at his deliciously wider smile.

"By all means," Illya said. Napoleon was certain he detected a distinctly stronger Slavic accentuation to his speech than usual. "You may call me anything you like."

"Except late for dinner," Napoleon mumbled under his breath.

The blond agent ignored the gibe. "I assume you are the 'pleasant' part of the evening, especially since Napoleon cannot be considered as the pleasant part of anything."

Tanya caught her involuntary laugh and looked over at Napoleon. "Oh, my. Your friend has a rather dry sense of humor, doesn't he?"

"Only when he's trying to impress. Actually it's just camouflage for a lack of manners," Solo dead-panned. "Illya, behave yourself."

"Oh, I am behaving myself, my friend," Illya said slyly. "And let me take this opportunity to thank you for the drinks and the introduction. However, I believe I'll be able to find my own way home: later." He reached for the vodka bottle and ice bucket. "Tanya, may I show you to a quiet table for two where we can extol the virtues of this bottle of vodka my partner has so generously provided?" He snatched up the shot glasses, grasped her hand and led her away from the bar to a corner table in the rear of the restaurant.

Napoleon watched them but was not the least bit put out at his friend's behavior. Indeed, he was pleased that his plan had come together so effectively. He called for the bartender, paid the tab and with a glance to the back corner he smiled and headed for the front door.