A low beeping interrupts the slumber of Napoleon Solo, man from U.N.C.L.E.: United Network Command for Law Enforcement...
"Hm. What?" a half-asleep Napoleon mumbles, before reaching over, to his night table, and picking up what looks like an inocuous-looking ink pen. Albeit a pricy one.
Picking it up, Napoleon utilized very specific hand movements that quickly transformed the pricy ink pen into a unique to U.N.C.L.E. communications device.
"Yes, Napoleon Solo here."
"It's Illya," came the very familiar voice over the tiny-but-powerful speaker built into the powerful microphone that, moments ago, was the writing end of what appeared to be a pen. Illya Kuryakin was calling Napoleon Solo from his on apartment somewhere else in New York City. "Hate to wake you, old friend, but Mr. Waverly has just sent out the call for us. By contacting me. We've got to get down there as fast as we can."
"Did Mr. Waverly give any indication as to what might be wrong?" asked Napoleon as he swung his legs off the edge of the big bed to allow bare feet to feel caressed by plush carpeting. He was sans pajamas of any sort.
Even as Illya Kuryakin continued via the quickly converted communications device, held tightly 'twixt thumb and the first two fingers of his right hand, Napoleon Solo was at his closet, quickly fumbling, with his one free hand, through a collection of high-end suits, shirts, and ties.
"Only that T.H.R.U.S.H. was involved. So you know it has to be big," came the cool comment from the tiny speaker of Napoleon's communication pen. "I'm heading out the door now. As soon as I grab a free cab, I'll be heading through the tailor shop's entrance. Hopefully you'll be right behind me, Napoleon. Illya out."
Having signed off, the incoming message via tiny speaker went silent. Prompting a suddenly wide awake Napoleon Solo to swiftly restructure the device so that it appeared to be an expensive ink pen again.
Pulling together a sharp ensemble', Napoleon quickly began getting dressed, underwear and outerwear, while noting the lump beneath his big bed's expensive comforter began to move.
"Why are you up? What's going on?" came the sleepy response from a beautiful blonde beneath said comforter, also sans pajamas or nightie of any sort. She propped herself up on her elbows, while looking past disheveled hair with eyes smudged slightly by the mascara she had been wearing to perfection a handful of hours earlier.
"Sorry, my dear," began Napoleon in his patented tone of sensuality that had gotten the younger-by-fifteen years lovely to go back to the up-scale apartment of this man with graying hair and deeply set character lines about forehead and eyes. "I've, uh, got a business appointment I just remembered. Make yourself at home while I'm gone, and let yourself out when you're ready. Good-bye."
After stealing a passionate kiss from the naked-beneath-the-comforter young lady, clearly in her early-to-mid twenties, the fully dressed, and dapper, Napoleon Solo swept out of the bedroom and, moments later, out the apartment's door.
"Good-bye?" came the after-the-fact mumbling consideration of the twenty-something woman, still propped up on her elbows on one side of the large bed. "We'll see about that."
While Napoleon was downstairs, as fast as the elevator would take him, flagging down a taxi, the young woman, with whom he had spent the night in the heated throes of passionate love-making, plopped back down on the bed and pulled the soft comforter over her head.
After she grabbed a couple of more hours of sweet sleep, she, too, would get dressed and go downstairs to hail a cab. But, in the meantime...
Minutes later, having taken two entirely different taxis to the address of the faux tailor shop, Illya Kuryakin and Napoleon Solo walked toward one another from opposite ends of the self-same sidewalk.
Napoleon was straigtening the knot of his tie, as well as allowing his hands to smooth out any temporary wrinkles, from sitting in the back of a cab, from his suits coat.
Illya, already looking dapper, in his own right, in his mod outfit of the times, which sported a dark-colored turtle-neck with a lighter-colored coat and slacks, was smirking at the look on Napoleon's face, that spoke volumes on what he had done the night before.
"I take it," began Illya, as the two reached one another's side in order to walk down the short steps before the tailor shop entrance, with a friendly note of sarcasm to his tone, "you had a good night with some lady whom you do not even remember by name, my friend."
"Don't be ridiculous," was Napoleon's prompt, and a little pompous, reply, even as they reached the door, which Napoleon opened to allow the seemingly ageless darling of the hipsters of the 1960s free entry, "her name was, uhm, I wanna say Nicki. It might have been Rikki. Oh, well, it doesn't matter, she'll be gone whenever I get back to the apartment. I doubt I'll even see her again. There's a lot of single women in New York, you know, Illya."
"Of that," Illya Kuryakin remarked in a tongue-in-cheek fashion, "I am keenly aware, Mr. Solo. But at least I take the time to actually remember a name of my latest conquest."
"Is that so?" harrumphed Napoleon, just as the two pass by the old man, supposedly the tailor shop's owner and operator, causing him to pull down the press, and tap twice on its steam handle.
After which, Napoleon and Illya pass through a curtain that led into a rear changing room. Hooks perflectly aligned along the wall.
But it was only one particular hook to which the attentions of two men from U.N.C.L.E. were drawn.
And, after that lone hook was twisted in a predetermined manner by Illya Kuryakin's hand, the dense door-wall popped open and allowed two U.N.C.L.E. agents to enter, and commence their walk down a long corridor in order to stop at a reception desk.
Thereupon, after the aging-yet-still sexy Napoleon Solo flirted with the receptionist handing out two specific upside-down triangle badges of yellow.
As usual, Illya pinned his own badge, with the number two emblazoned upon it, to his own coat lapel. Napoleon, on the other hand, leaned in to allow the receptionist, with whom he had been flirting, to pin his badge, with the number eleven upon it, to his coat's lapel.
"Thank you, beautiful," said Napoleon Solo to the lovely receptionist in control of the agents' badges, with a badge of her own showing the number twenty-seven emblazoned upon it.
"You're most welcome, Agent Solo," was her response, just as one hand secretly depressed an unseen button that opened the next dense door, through which two aged-yet-still-sexy agents to enter.
Soon they would both be in Alexander Waverly's office, the only person with an upside-down yellow badge emblazoned with a number one, and would discover the reason for being summoned so early in the day.