Napoleon and Illya having been summoned to Waverly's presence, stopped just short of the door sensor outside the Old Man's conference room to straighten their ties and cuffs before stepping forward. That was their ritual, at least Kuryakin's.
His partner, after attempting yet again to flirt with Lisa Rogers would also smooth back the sides of his hair with his palms.
Illya's method of grooming was... well, to do nothing. His shaggy blond mop was clean and presentable; he saw no need to fuss with it.
"You can go in now," Lisa said, hiding her eye roll over Solo's primping behind her hand, though she was sure Illya caught it.
The Russian gave her a hint of a smile because of it.
The pneumatic doors opened with barely a sound and together they stepped into the inner sanctum, the single room that was the hub for all activity for U.N.C.L.E. Northwest.
Alexander Waverly was seated at the console in his wall alcove and was speaking quietly into a microphone. He turned, covering the mic with his hand, "I'll be with you in a moment gentlemen, please be seated."
The team of Solo and Kuryakin did as they were told, noting there were classified files on the table in front of them; both men began perusing them as they waited.
The CCO flicked a switch, closing his control panel and turn his attention to his agents.
"Beg pardon gentlemen, there was a minor incident in the London office that needed settling...now I see you have already begun to look at your files. It has been brought to our attention that there has been a growing problem with the use of illicit drugs in this country coinciding with this hippie and free love movement. With the likes of Timothy Leary known for his advocacy of psychedelic compounds, drug users have evolved and expanded into a subculture that extols the mystical and religious symbolism often engendered by such drug's powerful effects, and their use advocated as a method of raising ones so-called consciousness".
"Yes sir," Illya said. "I am familiar with his experiments under the Harvard Psilocybin Project."
"Wasn't he just fired from Harvard University for giving psilocybin to an undergraduate student?" Napoleon put in his two cents worth.
"Correct," Waverly said," but Mr. Leary is not the focus of what I am about to tell you. Apparently there is a new drug appearing on the scene, a most deadly one that has fit in with this counter culture, in spite of its known dangers. The drug is being distributed in a quite innocuous form, that of black pearls."
"Pearls?" Solo repeated.
"Yes, quite so." Waverly sucked the mouthpiece of his pipe. "It would appear that synthetic black pearls are being manufactured, virtually undetectable from the real thing, though R&D has developed a test to detect true pearls. These faux pearls are not being created to undermine the jewelry market, instead these they are being made with the more sinister purpose in mind. Somehow they are being infused with a deadly chemical that's making its way into the underground drug scene here in the United States."
"Source?" Illya asked as always succinct and to the point.
"I'll be getting to that in a moment Mr. Kuryakin. The effects of this new drug are similar to that of LSD, yet magnified substantially; the user has to simply grind up the pearl, inhale some of the powder and slowly experience a high that could potentially last for days, sometimes longer. With continuous use of the drug, the user neither eats, drinks or sleeps and begins to physically waste away while still in this euphoric state, literally burning themselves out."
Illya jotted his usual notes on a yellow legal pad, adjusting his thick rimmed reading glasses as they continually slipped down the bridge of his nose. He made a reminder to himself that perhaps it was time to get a new pair of glasses; perhaps something a little more contemporary that would force Napoleon into ending his remarks about the old Soviet issue spectacles.
He glanced over at his partner, seeing Napoleon watching him with a smirk on his lips. Illya leaned over, whispering to him.
"What is so amusing?"
"Oh just you and your comedy routine with those oversized glasses of yous. Stop being so cheap and get yourself a new pair, something stylish."
"Mind your own business,"Illya hissed.
"Gentlemen is there something you'd like to say? Please don't keep it to yourselves."
"Umm, no sir," Solo cleared his throat, while Kuryakin merely shook his head.
"Well then, if I may continue? There have been those who've used this drug for the first and last time, finding themselves trapped in a permanent drug-addled state. I believe in the vernacular it's called a bad trip. Unless they've been gotten to in time and put on a feeding tube or other means of life support, they just die, albeit with a smile on their faces, but still a horribly deteriorating death nonetheless."
"Just after one trip?" Illya asked.
"In some cases, yes. The drug is called 'the Dreaming,' as if people could use it to embark in their mind on a journey of self-discovery such as a Native American 'vision quest' or an aboriginal 'walkabout.' The trouble is a growing number of people are beginning to not return from their journey.' In spite of the dangers, more and more young people are taking it, and greater numbers are dying from it."
"Any clues as to the source of it sir?" Napoleon asked, giving his partner they eye as Illya had been put off when he'd asked the basically the same question.
"Our intelligence has led us to a small island in the South Pacific gentlemen." Waverly tossed a pair of airline tickets to the circular table, sending them round to his agents.
"You have a flight to Los Angeles this evening, from there you'll head to Hawaii where the United States Navy will lend you support by transporting you both via submarine to the island of Aimeho, to some also known as the Island of Dreams."
"Perhaps the origin of the drug's name," Illya interjected.
"One might think so Mr. Kuryakin. Regardless, there you will have twenty-four hours to assess the situation and destroy the drug manufacturing operation. And gentlemen do be sure to bring back some of these pearls for analysis. R & D up to this point has minimal samples, just small bits and not enough to do a viable study. Only the blood chemistry of victims has given us a few clues. As of this moment we have not been able to discern the distributor of the drug. Complete pearls would be invaluable helping to develop an antidote to help save the lives of those out there who still have hidden away their supplies of this diabolical drug, if we are able to cut it off at the source."
Napoleon and Illya stood together, gathering their briefing folders, and tucking their tickets into the jacket pockets.
"Good luck gentlemen and I will expect a full report once your task has been completed. Remember you must return to your drop off point to meet the Americans within forty-eight hours. If you miss the deadline then you are on your own in getting off the island. Am I clear on this?"
"Crystal Sir," Napoleon nodded before joining Illya on the way out the door. Once in the corridor he grinned ear to ear.
"Ahhhh, Hawaii, Tahiti...the South Pacific and all those lovely Polynesian women wearing their grass skirts."
"Keep your mind on the mission my friend,"Illya cautioned, "There will no time for any dalliances with the native beauties and they all do not wear those abominable grass skirts. May I remind you of the last time we were in the South Pacific and the trouble we nearly got into because of you? I want no repeat of that."
"Hey it wasn't my fault. How was I supposed to know an innocent gesture like kissing the back of a girl's hand when introducing myself was the sign of a marriage proposal." *
"Ignorance is no excuse Napoleon. You nearly got us run through with spears, not to mention those flea infested grass skirts we had to wear and nothing else. Did I tell you I had bites all over my p…"
"Okay okay, too much information, and point taken. I will behave myself, scouts honor."
"That will be the day,"Illya mumbled under his breath.
"What did you say?"
"Nothing, nothing at all. I was just clearing my throat."
.
The sun was beginning to set over the island paradise of Aimeho. There the native Polynesian population numbered barely a few thousand and depended upon not only agriculture but the pearl industry as well to eke out a living.
Barely 10 miles in width from west to east; the island could boast of its lovely beaches, with a vast and incredibly lush interior, that included the Opunohu Valley filled with every tropical plant and fruit imaginable.
With its eight mountain ridges, Aimheo also had some of the most stunning panoramas in the South Pacific, yet surprisingly it had not been discovered by the tourist trade. Aimeo remained blissfully anonymous.
There were two small, nearly symmetrical bays on the north shore. The one to the west was called 'Ōpūnohu Bay with the main surrounding communities of the bay of Piha'ena in the east and Papetō'ai to the west. The one to the east was Pao Pao Bay with the largest village of Aimeho at the bottom of the bay.
The highest point on the island was Mount Tohi'e'a, located near its center. It dominated the vista from the two bays.
Vai'are Bay, another small inlet, smaller than the two main bays, was on the eastern shore. This was the least populated area of the island, and was a place where someone wishing to do something not quite legal could operate undisturbed.
On Aimeho there had been a flourishing business dealing in a rare commodity, black Tahitian pearls, but whoever it was, was interfering with that livelihood used to help support the indigenous population. According to R&D the death rate on the island had increased substantially, though there was no documentation as to why. It was probably safe to presume the drug laced pearls had something to do with it.
It was in Vai'are Bay that two men rowing a black rubber dinghy emerged from the gentle waves washing upon a moonlit shore.
Solo and Kuryakin, dressed in black shirts and cargo pants, quickly made their way up the beach to the cover of low lying vegetation and palm trees that lined the shore. There they hid the raft, relying only on the light of the moon to guide their way.
They carried with them a waterproof bag, the contents being an assortment of explosives to cover any contingency. Illya pulled a compass from his pocket, getting his bearings as he peered at the fluorescent dial.
"Aerial photographs put the supposed manufacturing facility less than a kilometer in...that direction," he pointed the way.
The moist tropical air was filled with a multitude of heady scents from gardenia, frangipani, hibiscus, orchids and jasmine at least those were just a few that Kuryakin could mentally identify. For a moment he thought he was going to sneeze, and he unsuccessfully fought back the urge.
'Aaaaaah…chew." He stifled the noise in his handkerchief.
"Oh great time for your allergies to kick in tovarisch."
"Do not worry about me, I took something to relieve them. It will be but it a but short time for the medication to kick least that was what he hoped.
They headed off at a trot, Illya carefully minding the compass to keep them on target. Given the dense topography, it took them a little longer to arrive at their destination as the moonlight was cut off once they disappeared amongst the denser stands of trees.
Periodically they'd head noises, heavy thuds, forcing them to stop and drop to the ground. It took a few minutes to realize the sound they were hearing were that of coconuts dropping from the palm trees.
Once they found the location, it was a simple prefabricated structure from the looks of it. The boxlike warehouse was lit with several spotlights on the exterior walls, no visible guards which they thought odd, but given its remote location perhaps only a few were needed.
Those in charge most likely surmised that no one knew their operation was here, nor what they were doing.
Of course they didn't know the U.N.C.L.E. knew.
Even to the untrained eye of the locals it was simply a processing plant for black pearls and nothing more.
Parked outside the warehouse was an antiquated dull grey flatbed truck, looking as if it were from the1930's and most likely was. Vehicles on such a small island were rarely necessary as most people used carts with horses and donkeys to traverse the short distance.
"Dare we take a look see partner mine?" Napoleon whispered.
Illya shrugged. There seems to be no one around."
Not taking that fact for granted the agents moved forward with the utmost of caution and their guns drawn.
There was only one window that they could see, a single door, and a larger entrance one might find in a warehouse for loading and unloading.
"This is going to be too easy," Solo whispered out of the side of his mouth.
"I agree. It does not feel right. I am sure something is going to go wrong."
"Will you knock it off Mr. Fatalism, why can't a job be a piece of cake for once?"
"Napoleon you are just too optimistic sometimes and may I remind you that every time a mission has been as you say 'a piece of cake,' we end up in big trouble."
"Well there's always a first time," Napoleon cracked a smile. Checking the door knob, finding it unlocked; he opened it without a sound.
"See, our lucky day."
"Do not be premature,"Illya cautioned.
The partners entered the building, and even though it was an easy in they remained on edge, not letting down their guard and they continued to hold their guns at the ready.
After checking to see they had no company Illya quickly went about the task of setting the explosives. They were not just bombs, he was planting incendiary devices as well. The warehouse couldn't just be blown up, the contents of it had to be completely destroyed, fire was the best means of doing that. It helped that the place was filled with dozens of highly flammable cardboard shipping boxes taped shut and apparently ready to go.
A remote to detonator was hidden in the heel of one of Illya's shoes for safe keeping, until the time was right.
By his estimates, it was going to be a big explosion and it was in their best interest to be far enough away. However, the detonation would have to be delayed until they found samples of the faux pearls.
That problem was quickly solved as Napoleon, while acting as lookout, went over to a table where he found dozens of oyster shells filled with dozens of black pearls of varying sizes nestled in them.
To the untrained eye they looked real, and they were apparently being prepared to be shipped out. One label on a half filled box was addressed to a jewelry manufacturer in New York, a company called 'Pearls of Wisdom,' located in Chinatown, a neighborhood in lower Manhattan.
That had to be the distributor, and would have to be shut down as well.
He gathered a few of the pearls, placing them one by one in a row on the table. Drawing a vial from his pocket, he opened it and using an eyedropper Solo put a small amount of clear liquid on each one. Of the eight pearls, four began to smoke, telling him they were genuine. The others had no reaction, those were the fakes. After dabbing them dry with his handkerchief, he stashed them into a waterproof pouch, tying it to his belt.
"Looks like they're shipping the fake pearls with real ones. I wonder why?"
"Perhaps a payoff for customs or the distributor; they keep the real ones. Tahitian black pearls of good quality can be worth a lot of money even at wholesale value," Illya said with aplomb.
Illya took a quick look at the remaining pearls on the table.
"The misshapen ones are what is known as baroque and circle pearls...not as valuable, though still popular. The most expensive and sought after pearls will have a dark green body color and peacock overtones. Black pearls are formed when a piece of sand gets stuck in the body of a very specific type of oyster, the Tahitian black-lipped pinctada margaritifera."
"How do you know all that tovarisch, and don't tell me you researched it. You couldn't have had time to do it."
"I have contacts in the jewelry district in Chinatown as I go there often to pick up Wonton Mein soup. It took but a single phone call to get the information on the pearls.
"You go all the way to Chinatown just for soup?"
"Napoleon it but a mere twenty minutes by car from headquarters and five minutes walking from our apartment building."
"True, but just for soup?"
"It is not just soup. Wonton Mein is a combination of wontons, thin lo mein noodles, bits of pork and lettuce in a light broth. It makes for quite nice as a snack. I usually get a quart of it along with some egg rolls, shrimp toast, and fried dumplings."
"Those are your snacks. All at one time?
"Sometimes," Kuryakin showed the barest hint of a smile.
Illya's task completed; he and Napoleon quickly headed to the exit and as the Russian reached for the knob the door opened without warning.
There stood blocking the way out were four very large men armed with rifles. After a momentary wide-eyed stare, a fist fight ensued.
Kuryakin took a blow from a rifle butt to the solar plexus, sending him over with an 'oof'. Solo was quick to respond, karate chopping Illya's attacker into unconsciousness.
Illya recovered and managed a roundhouse kick to another. The size and number of the other men gave them the advantage and the U.N.C.L.E. agents were finally taken down despite their best efforts.
They were disarmed and held at rifle point. All Napoleon and Illya could do was remain motionless.
"A pair of thieving blokes we have here!" One of the men said in a thick Australian accent, spotting the bag hanging from Solo's belt.
He pulled it free and shook it in Napoleon's face. "If you thought you could cut into our business mate, you're a few roos loose in the top paddock!"
"Actually I was just looking for some nice pearls for the little lady…we have an anniversary coming up," Solo quipped.
That remark found his stomach on the receiving end of several punches while one of the men held his arms behind him.
Illya tried coming to the rescue, but was knocked down again by a rifle butt.
"Come on lads, let's take 'em to the boss. He'll know what to do with these drongos."
Napoleon and Illya were pulled to their feet, and after placing their hands on top of their heads as they were guided down a path with rifle barrels shoved against their backs.
They were taken to a rather impressive house, a white two storied structure resembling a plantation style home. White exterior with wooden columns lining the front porch, and a grooved metal roof; it was reminiscent of the French owned rubber plantation homes they'd seen in Vietnam.
The agents were led in through the front door and there were forced to kneel in the foyer on an immaculate hardwood teak floor while one of the men headed off to fetch the man they referred to as the boss.
Minutes later a dark haired, mustachioed man dressed in a white linen suit emerged through a door, a rather large cigar in one meaty hand, and in his other was a silver tipped ebony walking stick that he twirled arrogantly as he sauntered towards them.
He addressed the agents in a heavy French accent.
"I am Charles Toussaint and this is my home. It would seem you have tried to steal from me, n'est ce pas?"
Napoleon said nothing; what was there to say? Yet Illya, as always, had to get a word in, blurting out something they might regret.
"Your drug dealing ways will not remain hidden for long. UNCLE knows…"
"Who is this Uncle, and how did he find out about my operation?
"Illya, ixnay," Napoleon growled.
"Illya, that is a Russe name. And who might you be Monsieur?" Toussaint turned his attention to the American.
He figured Illya had pretty much opened the door.
"That would be Solo, Napoleon Solo. My associate Mr. Kuryakin and I are members of an organization known as the United Network Command for Law and Enforcement, otherwise referred to as U.N.C.L.E. and we're here to stop you."
Toussaint let out a loud belly laugh. UNCLE? What nonsense! I have never heard of such an organization. How dare you, you... petit tabernac! You think you can undermine my operation?"
Napoleon was surprised to hear the man utter a French Canadian term of disgust, but said nothing to acknowledge it.
"We will destroy you, and your undertaking," Illya said as calmly as if he were reporting the weather.
"I think not Monsieur Kuryakin." He turned to his men. "Shorty, give me the pearls they took."
Toussaint removed two of the glistening black orbs from the bag, ordering the agents heads drawn back with their mouths forced open. He dropped a single pearl in each of them and once done, the guards held Napoleon and Illya's jaws closed tight, until they swallowed them.
"You will feel the initial effects soon enough gentlemen," Toussaint chuckled, "and I am told it is quite extraordinary. However, given you have ingested my little beauties the effects will take slightly longer, sort of like a time release capsule within your stomach. Eventually it will become quite strong, and you will experience a pleasant excursion into the psychedelic world but, my guards will give eventually give you another dose. That will take you on a journey from which you will never return. So I bid you adieu messieurs from UNCLE."
"Why are you doing this?" Napoleon gasped. "You're killing innocent people...young people who haven't had time to live their lives."
"To become filthy rich of course, why should I care about these fools who take drugs; if they die, they die. It is their own fault for being stupid enough to use them in the first place and think there would be no consequences. The world is better off without such imbéciles."
"Soooo you want to desss-troy thuh youth ovvvtha world?" Illya's speech was beginning to slur.
"You think I have some sort of plan to take over mankind? Non, as I said it is merely about the money Monsieur, and seeing that me and my child will want for nothing. C'est tout."
At that moment a young perhaps in her early twenties, her straight dark hair flowing down below her hips, walked into the room. Seeing the two men on their knees filled her heart with was a stunning beauty with large brown almond shaped eyes, looking to be of mixed Polynesian blood.
"Pappa, what's going on?"
"Not your concern my child; I am simply dealing with a pair of would be thieves and nothing more, now vite, vite allez...hurry go! There is nothing here for you to see."
"But Pappa, they are so handsome; they do not look like thieves."
"Look at their eyes ma cherie," her father said," their pupils are dilated, they are how you say... druggies and very bad men." He lifted Napoleon's Special from a nearby table. "They were carrying guns and no doubt intended to do me harm, or perhap you mon trésor."
Marie-Thérèse obeyed her father and left the room, but stayed within earshot to hear what else was going on; for some reason she just couldn't believe the man with blond hair and his dark haired friend were evil.
Toussaint addressed his men."Mr. Dunphy, I want them taken down to the beach and left there. They will be too high to fend for themselves, and the tropical sun will make them dehydrate quickly. In an hour's time give them another dose of the Dreaming. Throw these UNCLE agents into the bay and let the sharks finish them off." He tossed the small bag of pearls to his man.
"And take this back to the warehouse, I don't want any of it in my home."
He pointed to the agent's guns and communicators.
"Dispose of these as well."
"Righto Mr. Toussaint," Shorty replied."Let's go mates."
The girl fought back her tears, not wanting to believe what she'd heard. How could her father order such a thing? He was not the man she thought he was and her heart was breaking because of it.
The men lifted Solo and Kuryakin easily between them as the agents were now as weak as kittens, their heads drooping forward with drool slobbering down their chins. Their eyes were wide and glazed over, becoming lost in wherever the euphoria was beginning to take them.
Marie-Thérèse remained at a safe distance, following her father's men to the beach, and remained hidden among the heady hibiscus flowers until they left.
She approached the two strangers with caution, finally standing in front of them as they'd each been propped up against a palm girl watched as their expressions changed, with slight smiles appearing as she stepped in front of them.
The girl felt no fear; her instincts still told her these men were not thieves, nor were they drug addicts.
She'd seen enough of those on the island, men who died with a strange smile on their lips but she never knew her father might be the cause of their deaths. The girl wanted to blame her father's men especially the one called named Dunphy, thinking he was a bad influence on her papa.
"Pretty lady," Napoleon whispered.
Illya said nothing, and seemed to look right through her as if he were intently studying something in the distance.
Soon the sun would rise and the temperatures would begin to climb and these men would be exposed. The blond one with his fair skin would be sunburned badly.
"Monsieurs, are you all right? You do not look like thieves to me or les druggies for that matter."
"Pretty lady," Solo repeated.
"Mon Dieu, you are high n'est ce pas?"
Marie-Thérèse tried dragging them from the beach, but she simply didn't have the strength to do so. She slapped both men in the face, hoping that would get them to snap out of it. It seemed to work with the blond as his eyes began to focus and he looked directly at her.
When she went to slap him again, his hand shot out at lightning speed, grabbing her wrist.
"That is enough pleeeease," his speech was slurred but he was definitely more self-aware. "Qui êtes-vous mademoiselle?" He asked her in French.
"Je m'appelle Marie-Thérèse Toussaint...my father's men did this to you. You are not drug addicts and thieves are you? You do not look like who they say you are."
"Non...weeee are, ummm, police officers of a sort. We are here to stop a drug operation that I am sorry to say is run by your father." Illya leaned his head back against the trunk of the palm tree, feeling as though everything were spinning.
" I would not believe my papa would not do such a thing had I not heard it from his own lips."
'I am sssssorry Missss. The bbbblack pearls are not real...they are the drugs and must beee destroyed."
It took every ounce of Illya's concentration to form cohesive thoughts, much less speak. Every few minutes or so his field of vision was filled swirling kaleidoscopic colors, and he shook his head to clear it away.
'Are you all right monsieur?"
"For the moment, though the drug I was given is still affecting me."
"Je m'appelle Illya Kuryakin, Mademoiselle Toussaint," He introduced himself to her in French.
"Call me Marie-Thérèse...Illya,"she shyly smiled at him."Mon Dieu, you must be a very strong one to fight off the effects of this drug."
"No man is free who is not master of himself," he quipped. "Suffice to say I have been exposed to many chemical concoctions in my line of work, and my body has built up some resistance often quickly overcoming them."
Somehow this time his body was not fully metabolizing the drug. Could it be some sort of tolerance or perhaps the fact that he had taken an antihistamine for his allergies. Still, it was not as though he was incapable of being affected.
"Oh you quote Epictetus. He was a Greek Stoic philosopher, was he not?"
"Correct." Illya's eyebrows arched at that rather pleasant surprise."Intelligent as well as beautiful."
"Merci monsieur. My father did not neglect my education and has had tutors brought here for me."
Kuryakin turned his attention to his partner. Solo was sitting there, cross-legged and grinning from ear to ear. What he was seeing in his mind's eye, the Russian could only just imagine, having experienced some mind boggling hallucinations himself.
"Napoleon, my friend. Look at me." Illya grabbed the American's face forcing him to focus his gaze.
"Hi there," Napoleon continued flashing an inane smile. "Come loooook at the pretty colors. You see 'em?"
Illya tried standing, but found himself still too unsteady on his feet. There was a rush of dizziness and suddenly were bright lights flashed in front of his eyes like tiny little explosions. He leaned forward, becoming sick to his stomach. So much for being a master of himself...
Vomiting was apparently what he needed to do, ridding himself of what was being slowly broken down in his stomach as he felt better. Kuryakin stuck his finger down his throat, forcing himself to do it again. Once he was satisfied he had nothing more to bring up, he sat back against the tree. The effort had nearly exhausted him
Marie-Thérèse helped steady him, offering her handkerchief to wipe his mouth when he was done retching.
Blinking a few times, he remained quiet until he calmed down from vomiting so hard.
That's what Napoleon needed to do, but he wasn't about to stick his finger down Solo's throat and get bitten for his trouble.
Salt water would have to do. Illya looked around and spotting a large, brightly colored shell; he instructed the girl to get it and fill it with water from the bay.
Forcing Napoleon to swallow salt water was no easy task but once it was all gone it was only a matter of time before he expel the contents of his stomach, and that he did.
"Illya, we must leave. Monsieur Dunphy and his men are supposed to return within the hour to give you more drugs. My father instructed them to throw you into the bay to let the sharks finish you." Her eyes were filled with sadness.
There was no time for sympathy as Illya needed to get Napoleon up and on his feet.
"Come to your senses my friend. Time is of the essence."
Solo was slow to respond, as he was still feeling the affects of the drug. Illya backhanded him, slapping him in the face until Napoleon's hand shot out, blocking the next blow.
"Okay, enough. I'm back."
Illya quickly introduced Napoleon to Marie-Thérèse, and together the three of them left the beach, but not before Illya and Napoleon removed their tee shirts and tossed them to the water line. Taking palm fronds, they cleared their footprints, and made new ones to look as though they'd gone into the water. Hopefully that would throw off Toussaint's men.
"Where is a good place to hide?" Illya asked the girl.
"There is a small cave not far from here. I used to go there as a little girl when I was in trouble. No one would ever find me there. After returning home my papa would demand to know where I was; I would tell him I was taking a long walk on the beach...we have lots of beaches," she giggled.
She took them to a fair sized rock that was surrounded by flowers and dense undergrowth, and parting the plants with her hands, a small opening was revealed. They had to crawl to get in it. Once there she lit several candles for them.
While doing so, they asked a favor of the girl.
"Is there anyway you might be able to retrieve our belongings for us? The two guns your father left on the table and with them were two silver pens...they are our communications devices. We will need them to contact our ride to get off the island," Illya said. "Time will be running out for us to complete our task and make the rendezvous."
"Mais bien sûr, anything I can do to help you."
"Do not put yourself at risk Mademoiselle," Napoleon added.
"I will try not to do so. May I ask what is your task Messieurs?"
Napoleon and Illya looked each other in the eye, hesitating to answer. With a nod of his head, Solo put it on his partner to answer.
"Marie-Thérèse, I am afraid we must blow up the warehouse. We have to destroy any trace of these drug-laced pearls."
"Though we do need samples of them," Napoleon interjected.
"Alors, do what you must Messieurs. I understand what my father is now. You will not hurt him and he will be arrested for his crimes, oui?"
"Most likely. I am sorry," Illya whispered.
Not saying another word, the girl suddenly gave Kuryakin a quick kiss on the cheek before she turned and crawled out of the cave.
"Illya, you dirty dog," Solo chuckled." Up to something while I was out of it, hmmm?"
"Get your mind from the gutter."
"Hey, you were the one lecturing me to forget about the beautiful Polynesian girls."
All Illya could do was roll his eyes.
There they waited rather impatiently in the cave for the girl to return with their communicators and guns. They could have completed the assignment without them but it was the samples they needed. Without them the scientists back in the UNCLE labs couldn't develop an antidote to reverse the effects, particularly an overdose of 'the Dreaming.' They surely couldn't attempt to get the samples again on their own completely weaponless...though it didn't help them last time.
At least now they knew what they were up against.
Neither man liked getting an innocent involved, but sometimes it was a necessary evil.
"There is a chance that Toussaint's daughter might change her mind about helping us, "Napoleon said." After all blood is thicker than water."
"Why must you always speak in idioms?"
"Come on, you have to know it means that family is more important than friends."
"I do...in Russian it is Krov' gushche. The equivalent in German is 'Blut ist dicker als Wasser,' Compared to water blood's much thicker but compared to water blood boils quicker. It appeared in a different form in the medieval German beast epic Reynard the Fox. The 13th-century Heidelberg manuscript read in part, "Ouch hoer ich sagen, das sippe blůt von wazzere nicht verderben."
"I also hear it said, kin-blood is not spoiled by water," Napoleon quickly translated.
"Dare I say the French equivalent,"La famille, c'est la famille."
"Okay enough already, I get that you get it. Still I think it may help that Miss Toussaint has a crush on you tovarisch."
"Do not be ridiculous." In truth Kuryakin was himself attracted to her, but now was not the time nor the place to explore such interests.
"Hey I saw you blush when she kissed you on the cheek."
Illya became indignant. "It was a normal reaction to such a demonstrative gesture by a pretty girl."
"Oh, then you have noticed her," Solo winked.
Even in the dim light he could see his shy partner blush again, but Napoleon decided to quit the ribbing.
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Marie-Thérèse returned to her home, though her stomach was tied in knots. Her world had just been turned completely upside down.
There was no sign of her father or his men, but just as she looked to the table where she'd seen the agent's guns, she ran right into someone.
"Marie-Thérèse! Où avez-vous été mon enfant? Il est temps pour vos leçons."
She was caught off guard, but when she realized who it was, the girl knew she was safe. It was her tutor, the priest Father Maurice Garnier. Dressed in a short sleeved black shirt and pants, his white priest's collar was stiff with starch. She'd completely forgotten it was time for her lessons with him.
"Père Maurice, I am so glad to see you. I need to talk to you and if possible, get your help?"
"Yes my child. What's wrong?"
She came to tears as she told the priest, not even thinking for a moment that she couldn't trust him; he was a man of God after all. She lived a sheltered life and was a bit naive, never having left the island. Though her father frequently did, he never took her with him on his travels. He would tell her it was an evil world out there and he was only protecting her.
After telling Father Maurice what her father had done as well as what was going on with the pearls, the man looked quite grave.
"Mon Dieu, my poor child. What can I do to help?"
She told him of Napoleon and Illya and said she had to find their guns and two silver pens they carried with them that were some sort of communication devices. They needed them in order to destroy the drug manufacturing that apparently was taking place in the nearby warehouse where the priest once presumed the true pearl business was handled for the island.
"I saw two guns and such pens in the back of the house in a trash receptacle. Come, we will look mon petite."
They were right where Father Maurice had seen them and while the girl would take them to the agents, the priest would get more of the pearls for them. He knew it was stealing, but it was stealing for the greater good.
Father Maurice was devastated at the drug addicted natives he'd found across island and had buried too many of the poor souls already. He could never discover the source of the drugs; now he had his answer. It was only an assumption, but perhaps Toussaint had been using the natives as guinea pigs.
The priest had the free run of the property and assumed no one would question him being in the vicinity of the warehouse.
He pulled a small bible from his pocket and walked at a leisurely pace along the path, pretending to read. Once he arrived at the warehouse door, an employee exited the door, looking at the priest suspiciously.
"I'm looking for Monsieur Toussaint, is he inside? There is a matter of importance concerning his daughter that I must discuss with him."
"Not in there Father Maurice but he should be here shortly. You can wait here for him if you like. I'm the last one out as the others have already gone to eat their lunch."
"Merci my son. I will wait here then."
As soon as the man was out of sight Father Maurice slipped inside. There he spotted the table filled with shell halves containing countless number of pearls.
Pulling a handkerchief from his pocket, he grabbed a handful of them, put them in it and tied it closed. He then shoved it in his pocket.
The priest exited the building just in time as Charles Toussaint was walking towards him.
"Père Maurice, étiez-vous dans l'entrepôt?"
"Oui, but I only stepped inside for a moment as I was looking for you."
"What did you see?"
"Nothing Monsieur, just boxes."
"What is it you wanted Father?"
"I wanted to tell you that Marie-Thérèse has been a bit tardy with her lessons. She told me she has taken to long walks on the beach again and is ...umm, looking to the horizon. I asked her if she is becoming bored here and she said that might be true. Perhaps it is time to let her travel a bit; I know of a wonderful girl's school...St. Paul's in the French Alps…"
"Non, my daughter remains here! Perhaps it is you with whom she is becoming bored. We will bring in a new tutor then, though I wish you to continue overseeing her religious studies."
"As you wish Monsieur Toussaint. I will send out inquiries for a new tutor then. Au revoir, I must tend to the villagers needs now and will return this evening for your daughter's lessons."
"À tout à l'heure mon Père, " Toussaint proceeded into the warehouse presumably to oversee packaging the next shipment.
Father Maurice quickly blessed himself, uttering a prayer to beg forgiveness for not only stealing but also for the lies he just told.
He hurried on, heading toward the beach where Marie-Thérèse had told him to meet her.
The priest was perspiring and out of breath when he stepped onto the strand and gasped at what he saw.
Laying there in the sand were the bodies of two men face down, but Marie-Thérèse was nowhere to be seen. Had her father's men caught her with the guns and killed the men to whom she was taking them?"
"Mon Dieu, please let the poor child be safe?" He folded his hands in prayer as he knelt beside the first body. Rolling it over, he prepared to pray for him, asking that God forgive his sins and graciously receive him into his kingdom. At this point it was no use administering the sacrament of anointing the dead, not that he had any oil with him to do so, and only if the man were still barely alive.
When he saw the face, Father Maurice received another shock. The dead man was none other than Shorty Dunphy. If it weren't too sacrilegious, he would have spat upon him. Dunphy was a cruel and wicked man who abused many's a girl on the island. Father Maurice asked God's forgiveness at being glad that Dunphy was dead.
The priest rose, examining the other body and discovered it was another of Toussaint's men. At that moment he was filled with a sense of panic and he began to shout for the girl.
"Marie-Thérèse! Où es-tu mon enfant? S'il vous plaît, où êtes-vous?"
"Ici le Père Maurice! Ici!" The girl called back.
She was with the agents who were right behind her stepped out from among the palm trees.
"I am here Father!" She shouted this time in English.
"Grâce à Dieu, you are safe," the priest exclaimed.
"Father Maurice this is Monsieur Illya Kuryakin and Monsieur Napoleon Solo; they are the men I spoke about to you."
"Messieurs, I believe you will be wanting these?" He offered up the handkerchief, handing it to Napoleon who quickly untied it and was pleasantly surprised at the number of pearls the priest had brought.
"Merci beaucoup, Father," Napoleon said. "This is exactly what we needed. Now I must ask you both to get down, there's going to be a rather large explosion followed by a concussion."
He nodded to Illya who removed the hollowed out heel from his right shoe. In it was a small black remote with a single button on it.
"Trois-deux…" Illya counted down in French, but he was stopped when a shot rang out. A bullet hit him in the shoulder, throwing him backwards to the sand.
Shots continued from the gun of Charles Toussaint who'd apparently followed the priest.
Father Maurice was the next to be hit, and as Napoleon pushed the girl down, he fired his weapon, killing Toussaint with a single shot to the head.
"Papa!" Marie-Thérèse screamed as she ran to her father. The girl fell to her knees, weeping over his body. She knew he'd done evil things, but he was still her father who showed her nothing but love.
Napoleon looked to Illya, who waved him off. "It is not bad, the bullet just grazed my shoulder. See to the priest. Wait, get down."
He hit the button on the remote and there was an immense explosion, sending a orange fireball into the sky.
Once this settled, Solo went to the priest. Father Maurice was alive, and though he suffered a more serious wound than the Russian, he'd live.
Illya rose, going the girl to offer her comfort. She whispered to him, saying she forgave Monsieur Solo for what he was forced to do."
Father Maurice and Illya were seen to by a doctor who had his practice in the local village.
It was then Napoleon made the decision to pass on the rendezvous with the American submarine in order to let Illya recuperate.
The Russian snickered, cracking wise that they were staying because Solo didn't want to row the rubber dinghy to the sub all by himself.
Napoleon chuckled, as Illya making a joke told him his partner would be fine.
Marie-Thérèse insisted she personally take charge of Kuryakin's recovery and had beds made up for both he and Napoleon as well as the priest in her home.
She seemed to pay more attention to Illya as the girl obviously had a thing for him; she did admit she liked blonds. For once Solo kept to himself and out of the picture while his partner enjoyed the attention of the lovely Polynesian girl.
The wreckage of the drug manufacturing warehouse was inspected; nothing was left as everything had been incinerated, even the flat bed truck.
Napoleon called in his report to Waverly who complimented them on a job well done. The Old Man suggested they remain on the island for another week in order for Mr. Kuryakin to recuperate.
Apparently another American sub would be passing by at that time and would give the agents a lift to Hawaii, from there they'd fly to Los Angeles. Finally a direct flight via an UNCLE jet would take them back to New York city.
At the moment, Napoleon could care less as he enjoying his week in this tropical paradise while getting to know a few of the local beauties. He made sure he did nothing that could be misconstrued as a marriage proposal. After all he'd promised his partner he'd behave.
He could very much enjoy the company of a lovely woman without sleeping with her, though it was something Kuryakin found hard to believe. For that reason Illya reminded him again of Napoleon's near wedding to the chief's daughter.
Solo's reaction was to pull an Illya and roll his eyes. He said nothing to the attention his partner was giving to Marie-Thérèse. Apparently what was good for the goose was not on Illya's mind.
Kuryakin made himself scarce while he enjoyed the tender ministrations of Marie-Thérèse. They'd take walks together along the beach and would disappear for most of the day doing who knew what.
She discussed at length with Illya what to do once she discovered she'd inherited lots of money, though it was questionable as to how much came from her father's illicit business dealings.
Still there were coconut groves, as well as pineapple and breadfruit that were imported with great success from the island. There was apparently plenty of income even without the pearl trade.
She planned to share her bounty as it was her intention to help build up Aimeho and draw it into the tourist trade as the Tahitians had done with their island.
It would be her way of paying back the locals for what her father had done to them and their home.
"Perhaps I can turn it into a true Island of Dreams," she smiled before she and Kuryakin locked lips in one last embrace.
"Au revoir ma cherie,"he whispered.
"A bientôt, j'espère," she smiled.
Marie-Thérèse planned to do some traveling, especially after Illya invited her to New York, offering to show her around the city.
"Pas encore, mais peut-être bientôt," He added…"Not yet, but maybe soon."
She watched as a dugout was paddled from the shore to the awaiting submarine.
"Je t'aime, Illya Kuryakin," she said as she waved, but he never looked back.
He told Napoleon once they'd boarded the submarine that the girl had a good head on her shoulders, as well as some other admirable body parts…
Solo's reply was to wink,"You dirty dog you..."
Kuryakin blushed again. He said nothing of his suspicions that Marie-Thérèse had developed feelings for him. He told himself it was but a mere infatuation that would fade with time, as to his own feelings...those he kept to himself. In truth he and the girl had not been intimate, not that Solo would have believed him...
Months went by and Illya received a letter from the girl to which he decided after reading the contents that it would be best not to respond.
She never came to visit, which was better off for both of them, that's what he told himself.
A year later he heard Marie-Thérèse Toussaint had gotten married to a French clothing designer in Paris. Deep down inside Illya was sorry to hear that, but he would never admit it.
His solace, although a cold one, was that U.N.C.L.E. was would have to be his mistress for now.
Someday, if he lived long enough, Illya Kuryakin hoped to meet a woman, the right woman with whom he could have a home and a family. Ten years was a long time wait to find out if that might ever happen. Retirement age seemed so distant.
He had his doubts of making it to forty given the life expectancy of a spy was short...
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* ref. "The Aloha Affair"
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Translations:
Bloke: slang for a 'man' in Australia, UK, Ireland etc.
A few roos loose in the top paddock: An Australian colloquialism, describing someone intellectually impaired or moronic. Roo is short for kangaroo.
Drongo: Australian slang meaning a stupid or slow-witted person, a simpleton.
Ixnay: Pig latin for 'nix'. Possibly the only Pig Latin phrase to enter common American English besides amscray. (scram) Ixnay and amscray were used widely in The Three Stooges shorts, possibly the main source of popularity for the words.
Russe: French- Russian. (nationality)
Petit tabernac: Fr. Canadian. In this usage it means ' little fuck.' It has a variety of uses. It is an equivalent of 'fuck' and its derivatives in how it is used. It can be used as an insult (when addressing someone)or to overstate/amplify an emotion/state of mind, or to express surprise-disgust, etc.
C'est tout: French- 'that's it.'
mon trésor: French -'my treasure'
La famille, c'est la famille: French- 'Family is family.'
Mon petite: French- 'my little one.'
Où es-tu mon enfant?: French- 'where are you my child?"
S'il vous plaît, où êtes-tu: French- 'Please, where are you?"
"Ici le Père Maurice. Ici!: French- 'here Father Maurice. Here!'
Mon Dieu: French -'My God.'
À tout à l'heure, mon Père: French- 'see you later (Father)' This phrase is used if you will see the person later in the day. It's acceptable in both formal and informal situations.
Mais bien sûr: French- 'but of course.'
Grâce à Dieu: French- 'Thanks be to God.'
Au revoir ma cherie: French - 'goodbye my darling.'
A bientôt, j'espère: French -'see you soon, I hope.'
Je t'aime: French - 'I love you.'