Title: The Sweet Smell of Success Affair
"The Sweet Smell of Success Affair"
By Agent Ross7
Act I. "Never question a cushy assignment."
"Gentlemen, your next assignment," Number One of Section One announced, as his top two enforcement agents entered U.N.C.L.E.'s main briefing room. He thumbed a button on a console and a pretty girl's picture appeared up on the wall monitor.
The room's stainless-steel portal rumbled to a close behind the agents, and they aimed their gazes in the direction of their superior's pointing pipe.
"And a lovely assignment she is," Napoleon Solo appreciatively stated, noting the breathtakingly beautiful scene up on the viewing screen.
Recalling an ad campaign in a recently read magazine, his partner cocked an eyebrow and pondered, "The Lazatti perfume lady?"
"Correct, Mr. Kuryakin," Alexander Waverly acknowledged and tossed two folders onto the rotating table, around which his agents had assumed seats. "Otherwise known as Jessica Bendringer," he added, and gave the thing a shove.
Solo shot his surprisingly knowledgeable associate a questioning glance.
"I saw her face in an advertisement," Illya innocently explained.
Napoleon looked duly impressed. His partner never forgot a face. He, personally, never forgot a pretty one. As the dossiers came around, he put a hand out and stopped the spinning object.
Each agent picked up a packet of papers and eagerly began perusing its contents.
"One of our top couriers—Marco Giolo—has been murdered," their commander continued, and a glossy photo, of an equally attractive gentleman, replaced the gorgeous girl's. "Agent Giolo left London three days ago, carrying a microfilm dot containing detailed plans for T.H.R.U.S.H.'S new A.W.Y.U.A. Project.
The poor man was gunned down in the airport terminal in Rome. At the time of his death, the plans were no longer in Mr. Giolo's possession. We know this because, after searching both his body and his baggage, his assassins returned to the plane and began ransacking the first-class compartment. Which is where airport security finally caught up with them.
Unfortunately, the microfilm was not found on the plane." Waverly held a freshly lit match to his pipe's bowl full of tobacco and finally succeeded in coaxing some smoke from the tip of its tapered stem. "Something must have happened on that plane…something which caused our Mr. Giolo to realize his mission had been compromised. Prior to being either killed or captured, he apparently managed to pass the microfilm on to one of his fellow passengers."
"And he shared a seat with Miss Bendringer," Solo surmised.
"Precisely!" U.N.C.L.E.'s head said. "Gentlemen, your mission is twofold: find the missing microfilm and keep Miss Bendringer from falling into the clutches of T.H.R.U.S.H. . As is usually the case, time is of the essence! The girl is presently staying at Count Lazatti's palazzo in Valle Umbra, Assis—"
"—Excuse me, sir," Illya cut in, "but, wouldn't agents from our headquarters in Italy be able to reach the girl's position much sooner?"
"Agent Giolo was betrayed, Mr. Kuryakin," his superior solemnly replied, "by someone in either our London, or Rome office. Until we discover the traitor's identity, none of our British or Italian operatives can be trusted."
His agents exchanged rather alarmed glances.
Waverly saw the looks. "Relax! You won't be completely without back-up. Our man in Spoleto has agreed to assist you."
"I never knew we had an operative in Spoleto," U.N.C.L.E.'s C.E.A. confessed.
"I didn't say the man was an operative, Mr. Solo," his boss calmly came back. Alexander gave his pipe another puff and then added with a bit of a huff, "The two of you had better get cracking! Your flight leaves in less than an hour."
"Yes, sir!" the pair replied, in unison. The two men gathered all paperwork up and obediently began taking their leave.
"Good luck, gentleman!" Waverly called after his departing agents.
"Cheer up," Napoleon urged, when they were halfway down the hall and safely out of the Old Man's earshot. He pulled a plane ticket from his folder and waved it in his sulking comrade's face. "We're traveling first-class..."
"So I noticed," the dour Russian grumbled. "Tourist must have been fully booked."
"What are you so glum about? This mission is as good as a vacation."
"Humph! When has Waverly ever sent us on a vacation?"
"Never question a cushy assignment."
Illya's only response to his cheery chum's advice was another, even more deeply skeptical, "Humph!"
Solo remained optimistic. Let T.H.R.U.S.H. bring on its legions! After all, U.N.C.L.E. would have...its man in Spoleto? Humph.
Act II. "Getting there is half the fun."
(Nearly a full day of travel later...Somewhere in close proximity to the Italian Alps…)
"All right, this is as far as I go," U.N.C.L.E.'s man in Spoleto told his American cousins. Paul Krieger braked the brand new, bright cranberry-red Maserati Quattroporte convertible to a stop at a tree-lined intersection, where an olive-skinned beauty on the back of a blue motorbike sat waiting for him. "Valle Umbra is another 190 kilometers or so, that-a-way," he paused to point out the right road to his passengers. "You shouldn't have any problem locating Count Lazatti's palazzo. Oh, and see this?" Paul drew their attention to a red glow on the car's dashboard. "It's the oil light. There's a short in the wiring somewhere. The gauge can't be trusted. So, don't forget to check the dipstick from time to time. At 7000 rpm's, do you know how fast you can fry an engine, if it's running low on lubricant?"
"No," his blond passenger wearily replied, as the three of them exited the car. "But I'm sure you're going to tell us," Illya added under his breath, and received a 'Play nice!' warning glance from his pursed-lipped partner.
From the moment they'd been picked up at the Rome airport, Krieger had cornered the conversation market with his incessant car-talk.
The U.N.C.L.E. threesome stepped around the car and then stood at its hood.
"Our communicators are all open to the same secure channel," their contact continued. "So, if you should need anything, just let me know."
"A helicopter would be nice," Kuryakin confessed.
Their liaison laughed off the ludicrous request. Then he wished them well and quickly took his leave.
"I guess we should just be grateful we have a car," Napoleon realized, as the pair watched the bike disappear down one of the tree-lined lanes.
"This is not just a car," his comrade quickly corrected. "This is a Quattroporte convertible with black leather upholstery and a DOHC V-8 4.7 liter 400HP racing engine, with four, dual-choke, down-draft, Weber carbs!"
Solo flashed his sardonic associate an appreciative smile and then turned his attention to their mode of transportation. "The way Krieger was carrying on about this thing, you'd think he owned it."
"He does."
"In that case, I'd better drive." Napoleon stepped around the automobile and slipped in behind the wheel before his partner could protest.
Illya, however, had no intentions of contesting the matter. He simply vaulted over the vehicle's front passenger's door and settled back into his bucket-seat, with a satisfied sigh. The sun's position, directly overhead, said it was nearly noon. But the Russian's biological clock knew better. "Wake me when we get there," Kuryakin managed to mumble before nodding off.
The car's driver did not begrudge its passenger the sleep. The two globe-trotting agents lived with constant jet-lag. To keep their minds alert, and their bodies fully functional, they had to catch their 'z-z-z's whenever, and where ever, they could.
Solo ignited the Quattroporte's impressive engine and then headed off—at about 3500rpm's—for the Lazatti palazzo, in Valle Umbra.
The flatland rapidly fell away and conical-shaped Cyprus trees were soon replaced by olive orchards, and row upon row of grapevines, all growing—in incredibly straight lines—along fertile, steeply sloping hillsides. Such was farming, in the foothills of the Alps.
Solo spent an enjoyable afternoon cruising through the quaint—and increasingly inclining—Italian countryside.
Act III. "Meadows are for moo-moos."
"You awake?"
At the sound of Solo's voice, Kuryakin snapped bolt upright. Endless blue skies appeared before his wide eyes, along with majestic, snowcapped mountain peaks. Idyllic green meadows, with the occasional scrub pine, also stretched for as far as the eye could see. It was like waking up in a picture postcard. "Whatever happened to Valle Umbra?" Illya inquired, as he realized that they had gone above and beyond their original destination.
"The girl wasn't at the palazzo. It seems Lazatti is launching a new line of 'after-bath body-splash'. The ad agency hauled our Miss Bendringer up into the mountains this morning. Since the name of the new product is 'Alpine Paradise', they decided to do a photo layout in an authentic alpine meadow."
"You mean, one like that?" Kuryakin queried, when a whole passel of people appeared around the next curve in the long and winding road they were traveling.
Napoleon swung into the crowded parking lot of a scenic overlook. "Excuse me," he called to the person closest to them. "We're looking for Jessica Bendringer..."
The man motioned towards a small travel-trailer parked at the far end of the lot.
"Let's see..." Miss Bendringer, who appeared to be wearing nothing but a white bath towel, began, following the two U.N.C.L.E. agents' introductions and explanations, "You two want to rescue me from this despicably dull, dreary place...and, you wanna know if I'm okay with the idea?" The pretty miss pointed to the bare backs of her long, lovely arms. "You see these? They're goose bumps! Mister Lazatti invites me to his palazzo! Yeah, right! Do you know what I've been doing since sunup? Standing in a meadow! Can you believe it? Meadows are for moo-moos! Do I look like a cow to you?"
"Unh-uh...No-o! No!" Napoleon assured the extremely attractive young lady. "Not in the least!"
"You don't smell like one, either," Illya added, in reference to the rather pleasant aroma of 'Alpine Paradise' which permeated the entire trailer.
"This nasty-old cold, thin, mountain air is drying out my skin!" Jessica pouted and proffered a wind-burnt appendage as proof, "Go ahead...feel that. It feels just like leather!"
"We'll have to take your word for it," Kuryakin told her. "Because, right now, we need to get you out of here."
"Where are you parked?" the rarin'-to-go gal wondered, on her way to the exit.
"One more thing, Miss Bendringer," Napoleon stepped in front of the fleeing female. "We also need to bring all of your belongings. At least, all those that were in your possession on the plane."
"Everything's back at the palazzo," she informed them. "Well, everything but this diamond stickpin that Marco used to pin a rose on me," she corrected and pulled out the clasp that was keeping her towel in place.
The two astonished U.N.C.L.E. agents were even more astounded, and somewhat disappointed, when the terry cloth fell away and a neon-pink, strapless bikini appeared.
Kuryakin was the first to recover. He snatched the fancy fastener from the girl's fingers and closely examined it.
"We-ell?" Napoleon prompted, when he could no longer bear the suspense.
A smug smile slowly appeared on the pin-inspector's face and his pursed lips parted. "Never question a cushy assignment."
No sooner were the words said, when a 'chop-chop-chopping' sound was heard overhead.
The U.N.C.L.E. pair exchanged pained expressions.
Solo stuck his head out the door, for a little look-see. He didn't need to see the emblem of a black bird emblazoned on the helicopter's canopy to know to whom the thing belonged. The protruding tips of its occupants' automatic-rifle barrels said it all.
"I don't suppose it's Krieger...delivering my helicopter?" Illya insincerely inquired, when his partner ducked back inside.
"It's T.H.R.U.S.H.! And, it looks like they intend to lend new meaning to the term 'photo shoot'."
The U.N.C.L.E. team stood there for a few moments, contemplating all of their options. They didn't care much for either one of them.
Jessica saw the indecision on their troubled faces. "Look, fellahs, I've never held a gun before in my life. But, I'm pretty good behind a wheel."
"The car is just outside the door and the key's in the ignition," Napoleon informed their getaway driver. "You go first! We'll cover you!" he promised.
The girl dashed out the door.
The U.N.C.L.E. agents whipped their weapons from their shoulder holsters and closely followed her, firing up at the T.H.R.U.S.H. flunkies, as they fled.
Solo vaulted into the seat beside Miss Bendringer.
Kuryakin dove into the back, just as Jessica was taking off.
"Are we going up...or down?!" the woman behind the wheel wondered, when they reached the overlook's exit.
"Down! Down!" her passengers shouted, to be heard over the gunfire.
The little lady whipped the wheel sharply to the left and then floored the gas pedal. The car left the lot with a loud 'squea-eal'...and with a lot of smoke trailing from its rear tires.
Act IV. "Oils well that ends well."
The trip down the mountain was harrowing, but uneventful. The opposing agents exchanged a great deal of lead. However, since both targets and shooters were moving, there was very little contact.
Before long, the road began to level out and groves of silver-leafed olive trees began whizzing by, along with brief glimpses of vineyards.
They were only about three kilometers from Valle Umbra, when a bullet fired from the swerving car finally managed to connect with something vital on the bobbing chopper.
Unfortunately, at the same exact time, a bullet from the bobbing chopper managed to connect with something vital on the swerving car.
The U.N.C.L.E. missile tore through the helicopter's fuselage with a 'pzing-ping' and took out the servos.
The T.H.R.U.S.H. missile glanced up off the pavement and took out the Maserati's left rear tire.
Both the chopper's pilot and the car's pretty driver lost control.
The speeding sports car spun around a few times and then went into a sideways skid. When the out-of-control convertible finally came to a stop, its dizzy occupants discovered that they and their car were sandwiched—bumper to bumper—between the trunks of two, rather large, olive trees.
T.H.R.U.S.H.'s crippled whirlybird finally lost its battle with gravity and came crashing down onto the roadway—directly in the path of an approaching tanker truck.
The truck's driver veered to avoid the now flaming obstacle. This sudden change of direction caused the top-heavy vehicle to flip over onto its side. There followed the deafeningly loud sound of metal grinding against pavement. In mid-skid, the truck-driver somehow managed to scramble out his open window and jump to safety.
The car's occupants saw the truck careening towards them and ducked as far down into their bucket seats as they possibly could.
Just as it was about to slam into the car, the slowing truck struck a tree of its own. The top popped off the tanker, like a cork from a bottle of bubbly, and the compromised container's clear, golden contents game gushing out. The oily fluid filled the convertible to capacity and then began flowing over onto the ground.
Mr. Solo and Miss Bendringer slowly straightened up. The aurulent liquid was at chest level. They sat there for a few moments, practically nose-to-nose, fists wringing the slippery substance from their eyes and fingers swiping it from their ears.
Jessica got a taste of the stuff. "Olive oil?"
Napoleon reluctantly raised his gaze from the girl's glistening bosom. He ran the tip of his tongue rather seductively across his lubricated upper lip and then said, with a smile, "One hundred percent Extra Virgin."
Miss Bendringer returned his smile—with interest!
Illya surfaced from the back seat and released his held breath with a couple of coughs. He, too, tried swiping his vision clear. The Russian blew a few of the oily droplets from his lips and then added his own opinion of the liquid's composition and quality, "Cold-pressed." Seeing that Miss Bendringer was growing more and more concerned with her bedraggled appearance, he helpfully added, "I've heard that bathing in olive oil is very beneficial for one's complexion."
Jessie pulled a few more sticky strands of long, blonde hair from her forehead and flashed Mr. Solo's friend a grateful grin.
Sick of just sitting there, like a human dipstick, Solo turned to his partner. "We'd better call for backup."
"What do we tell Krieger when he asks about his car?"
"We-ell..." Napoleon glanced around the Quattroporte's glistening interior, "It's definitely not low on oil."
The End
Author's note: A.W.Y.U.A. stands for Always Wet Your U.N.C.L.E. Agents. :D