Illya Kuryakin hated this type of assignment. He had lived a long time outside of Russia, but the experiences and doctrines of his youth still remained with him. As such, working undercover as a waiter at a decadent society gala, sat rather uncomfortably with him. It was supposedly a charity fundraiser, and it was this detail which really stuck in Illya's throat. The ticket price for the event was high, but he knew a lot of that went into staging it. Then there were the designer gowns and opulent jewels which were being flaunted. The value of those alone far outstripped the amount which would be donated. Illya would have called it western hypocrisy if he didn't already know it was the same in his country.
As usual, Illya had taken on the role of a waiter. It was a practical cover; allowing him to freely move about the room. Just once, he thought to himself, it would be nice if Napoleon took this role. It wouldn't have worked at this event, however. Napoleon had the natural flair to pass himself off as a well to do businessman.
The Russian worked the room, with his tray of canapés, and gradually made his way towards his partner. Napoleon himself was holding court over a group of giggling debutantes. He wasn't saying anything particularly humorous, but they behaved as though he were the last thing in funny. As Illya approached, deftly sidestepping the couples on the dance floor, he caught the American's eye.
"Canapé, Sir?" he offered, trying not to sneer at the haughty look Solo was giving him.
"Thank you my good man," Napoleon replied, taking one of the bite-sized morsels.
Illya glided away and continued to present the tray to people. Meanwhile, Napoleon made to eat the canapé, but 'accidently' dropped it down his shirt front.
"Would you excuse me ladies?"
Catching up to Illya, Solo snapped his fingers, knowing how much it would irritate the Russian.
"Oh waiter! Would you have a napkin?"
"Certainly, Sir," Illya answered, piercing Napoleon with a glare which promised retribution.
Producing a napkin from beneath his tray, he handed it to Napoleon before moving away. The cloth contained a microfilm, which Kuryakin had received from a contact. It was his job to pass it to Solo, who would then whisk it straight to HQ. They whole thing had gone without a hitch. Making sure the senior agent was free and clear of the building, Illya made his way to the staff exit. It could arouse suspicion if he left via the front still dressed as a waiter. That was when the assignment became less smooth.
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
Napoleon had been back at HQ for an hour and a half, but Illya had yet to return. Solo had expected him to be only about twenty minutes behind him and was now beginning to worry. Several attempts to contact the missing man proved fruitless. Leaving instruction for communications to keep trying, he went to Waverly's office to brief him on the mission.
Waverly looked up as Napoleon entered the office.
"I understand Mr Kuryakin has gone missing between the gala and here," he stated.
"Yes Sir," Napoleon confirmed, taking a seat. "The pick-up and hand-off went perfectly. I can only assume he was recognised by someone. They can't have been after the microfilm, or they would have followed me."
"Go and find him Mr Solo."
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
Illya would also have liked to know where he was. Being able to see anything at all would definitely have been a plus. He was blindfolded and gagged, and his arms were shackled behind him, but at least he hadn't been rendered unconscious; yet. All he could remember was stepping out of the back doors of the hotel and being tackled by three masked men. They'd caught him so utterly by surprise, he hadn't had time to react before he was bound and bundled into the back of a vehicle.
Wherever he was being taken to only seemed to take about ten minutes. Illya once again felt himself being manhandled. He was placed on a chair and had his ankles roped to the legs. He had another tying his torso to the back of the chair. For what felt like an eternity, Illya was left like that.
Eventually, someone returned. The gag and blindfold were removed, but before he could get his bearings a bright light was shone into his eyes. Squinting past the light, Illya could just about make out the shape of a person.
"Who are you?" he demanded.
The figure stepped into his vision and gave him a predatory smile. Illya slumped in his bonds.
"I should have guessed."