Illya Kuryakin sat outside in the drizzle, seeking shelter next to a closed storefront. Dressed in worn corduroys, a ragged hooded sweatshirt beneath a tattered leather jacket; he tried lighting a cigarette but the dampness made it a pointless effort. He flicked the butt to the wet sidewalk in disgust and pulled a piece of plastic over his shoulders trying to fend off the rain.
He scratched his chin, with four days growth of beard long enough to now be annoyingly itchy. Not having had a shower in days or a change of clothing left him with a pungent odor to fit his cover as homeless street bum.
The Russian ran his fingers impatiently through his dirty hair. It had been too long now without so much as an inkling of activity in the green three story building he was watching across the street.
It was a neighborhood full of boarded up buildings covered in colorful graffiti, with punks hanging out on street corners; though due to the weather Illya was the only idiot on the sidewalk except for the periodic passerby.
He had a soggy coffee cup sitting next to him on the sidewalk, looking as if he were begging some coins, but there were no donations today. Stakeouts were annoying, but why it always seemed to be his turn outdoors during nasty weather; he never understood this.
Napoleon was nice and snug in a second story room in the building behind him, using an infrared sensor to monitor the activity of the target site.
"I am turning into a prune," Illya complained over his radio. "When is it going to be your turn to play the vagrant?"
"Tsk tsk, seniority remember?" Napoleon's voice chuckled softly after which he took a sip of coffee from the blue and white paper cup sitting on the windowsill.
Kuryakin had the same, brought by the American, though in the case of the Russian the coffee was long gone.
"Seniority my zhopa. You just do not like the dress code."
"Ah, yeah that's a definite...whoops, wait a minute. We've got significant activity. Someone's heading down the stairs." Solo's monitor came to life with the surreal heat signature of a person moving inside the building. It was empty except for the apartment on the third floor where the suspects had sequestered themselves.
Illya watched as a dark figure exited the building. Dressed in a black raincoat with the collar turned up and a fedora on his head; only his squinting brown eyes were visible as he suspiciously looked right and left before turning and continuing down along the sidewalk. There was something tucked under his arm wrapped in brown paper and tied with string.
"He is carrying a package," the Russian whispered, "am following him down Westbury Street."
Kurakin stood, dropping the plastic sheet to the ground, and shoving his hands in his pockets; he shrugged his shoulders against the rain as he headed after his quarry.
"Chyort. Lijot kak iz vedra...of course it is pouring like from a bucket," Illya cursed, grumbling to himself. Thankfully it was only a few blocks away where his target ducked into a nearby drugstore.
Brock Drugs wasn't part of the many chain stores that were popping up all over the city. Established in 1885 as it's neon sign indicated; the place was seedy with dirty windows covered with stickers and posters. The glass looked as if it hadn't been cleaned in ages and the establishment fit in quite well with the rest of the neighborhood.
Illya followed the fellow inside, ducking behind a greeting card rack and peered out as a transaction took place between the counter manager and what Illya guessed was a courier.
The box was opened, the contents examined and the manager balked at the quantity of whatever was in it.
"This ain't enough! It's not what was agreed upon. It's not a even swap for my stock."
"You'll take what we give you or else you'll be reported for giving your customers cheap substitutes and placebos for their real medicines."
"Why you cheating bastard. I knew this was a mistake…" At that moment the manager spotted Kuryakin out of the corner of his eye.
"Hey you stinking bum! I told your kind not to come in here. This is a place for decent people….get outta here before I blow your brains out!" He suddenly brandished a sawed off shotgun, pointing it straight at the Russian.
Illya put his hands up not in surrender, but in protest.
"Mister please, I was cold and just came in out of the rain to get warm...I will buy a pack of cigarettes if that will make you happy?" His accent was evident, though his words fell on deaf ears.
"I don't want your business you stinking foreigner! Get your dirty ass out of here now!"
"Okay, okay I will go…" Illya began backing up towards the exit, lowering his hands slightly as he moved.
Suddenly there was a gush of damp air as the door opened and in stepped Napoleon Solo brandishing his own weapon.
Before the manager could react the American fired two sleep darts at the him as well as the courier, hitting their necks dead on.
Illya let go a sigh of relief as he moved forward, checking both men. They were out cold and he looked to his partner with a crooked smile.
"Good timing my friend."
"Good you left your radio on," Solo smiled.
Napoleon pulled his communicator, calling for a cleanup crew not only at the drugstore but at the building they had under surveillance, as the Russian and American's backup team had taken care of those remaining there.
"Good job tovarisch, all we needed was proof of what they were doing with their drug substituions. This ring is now officially shut down."
"Thank you," Illya turned, heading through the door, with Napoleon sticking his head out, calling after him.
"Where do you think you're going. We have a clean up to supervise?"
"I need a bath… a long hot bath, a shave and whatever other amenities I can think of to make me feel clean again. That is the only clean up I wish to be involved with...I think you can handle this on your own my friend."
Napoleon said nothing...what could he say? Well maybe something…"
"Enjoy yourself...Stinky."