"Mr Kuryakin, by virtue of your cold climate experience, which you demonstrated so ably in the Yukon, you will travel to Northern Siberia and attempt to determine the location of THRUSH's satrapy."
Illya Kuryakin, number two, section two, suppressed a grimace. He did not relish a trip to Siberia at the best of times, and the middle of December was far from that.
"Alone sir?" his voice was even, belying none of his internal discomfort.
His boss, the redoubtable Alexander Waverly, harrumphed his craggy face folding into a forbidding scowl.
"Mr Kuryakin, surely a man of your talents can locate a THRUSH base in a deserted wilderness without assistance?"
Internally, Illya sighed heavily, although outwardly he merely nodded in acquiescence even though Waverly's question was almost certainly rhetorical.
"However," the Old Man continued, "Mr Solo is at a loose end and there is a good chance that you will encounter some resistance. You will inform him of his orders." Waverly refocused all of his attention on the briar pipe in his hand, effectively dismissing the young Soviet agent from both his office and his thoughts with the gesture.
Released, Illya made his way to the office he shared with his usual partner, UNCLE's Chief Enforcement Agent, Napoleon Solo, making a brief detour on route to requisition the specialist equipment that the mission would require.
"How goes it tovarish?" Napoleon asked, as the blond haired agent entered, his usually dour face more sombre than usual. Illya didn't reply, and instead began to rummage irritably through papers stacked on his desk.
"What did the Old Man want?" Napoleon pressed, causing Illya to look up with a scowl.
"To send me to Siberia," he replied shortly, before resuming his search. Napoleon winced in sympathy; although Illya would never say so outright, he found missions based in his homeland distinctly uncomfortable. Privately, Solo suspected that Illya was concerned that a time would come when he would make a journey there, from which he would be unable to return to the United States. However, to bring up such a subject with his partner was to invite a prodigious Russian sulk. Illya wouldn't call it a sulk of course, but nonetheless that is undoubtedly what it would be.
"Well," he eventually remarked, his voice mild, "You are Section Two's cold climate expert after all."
Illya rolled his eyes in a way that intimated that he had already heard that once too many.
"Yes," he acknowledged, "and my expertise is telling me not to take a trip to Siberia in December."
He paused in sorting through his papers to quirk a brief, rueful smile at his friend, "Still, ours not to reason why..."
The calendar on the desk in front of him caught Napoleon's eye.
"You never know pal, that close to the North Pole you might meet Santa Claus."
Illya raised his eyebrows but was interrupted by any further commentary on American - Russian cultural differences, particularly around the festive season, by a tentative knock at the door.
"Come."
A young man, barely old enough to be out of school came nervously into the room, glancing rapidly around until his eyes met Kuryakin's steely gaze.
"Your supplies Sir," he stuttered, before ducking back out into the corridor, returning moments later preceded by a trolley heavily laden with an assortment of equipment and cold climate wear. Illya nodded his thanks as he signed the proffered requisition form. Once the younger man had departed Illya began arranging items into organised piles.
"They cannot be serious..."
Napoleon looked up, grateful for any distraction from the report that he had reluctantly returned his attention to, and was met by the sight of his partner brandishing an item towards him. He took the item, unfolding it to reveal a crimson parka trimmed with white fur.
"Well," Napoleon commented after scrutinising the offending article for a long moment, "if you do make it to the Arctic Circle then you'll certainly look the part."
"Yes," Illya agreed acidly, "until I am shot by one of my comrades when I am mistakenly identified as a symbol of all that is bourgeois and religious in the West."
Napoleon tried valiantly, but was ultimately unsuccessful in stifling a snort.
"Still," he cajoled, "Rudolf should speed up the trip for you."
Illya's glare was, if anything, colder than a Siberian winter, until unexpectedly his eyes crinkled in mirth as he considered the item in his hand. After a moment he tossed a similar parka, this one a deep blue, to Solo with a grin.
"If I am to be Father Christmas," he remarked, "then it is only fitting that you should be Ded Moroz."
Napoleon look of confusion was rapidly replaced with an expression of horror.
"Didn't I mention?" asked Illya with an expression of wide-eyed innocence, "You're coming with me. Now, I had better go and saddle Rudolf for the trip."
Jauntily, he tossed his parka over his shoulder and strolled out, the jubilant notes of Jingle Bells clearly audible to Napoleon, as he disappeared down the corridor, only to return a moment later.
"Oh Napoleon, " he appeared round the door with a grin, "Merry Christmas!"
He almost ducked the fur-trimmed hat that was launched at his head.