Napoleon Solo looked back at the image in the mirror with a mixture of admiration and something he couldn't quite identify. It wasn't fear, nor was it in any way remorse for what he was about to do. He had a job to do, regrets were unacceptable.
No, it was something about the way he looked in the uniform of the Capitol Guard of Sleskovia. The little country was under siege from within, its own military now ruthlessly controlling the government under the command of General Viktor Poppov. His ties to the Soviet Union ran deep, and the borders around Sleskovia had been seized by the USSR, the reigns of power handed over to Poppov.
Solo had been sent to retrieve something of value that had fallen into the hands of the newly appointed dictator; a human something of value known as Illya Kuryakin. The agent had also been seized during the takeover while attempting to smuggle a THRUSH defector out of the country before the borders were locked down. He had failed to get out, and the defector had been killed in the process. Information had finally gotten back to UNCLE about Kuryakin's whereabouts, and because of the sensitive nature of what he still had hidden somewhere on his person, it became necessary to retrieve him as quickly as possible.
The thing that intrigued Alexander Waverly and especially Napoleon, was the striking resemblance the American bore to Victor Poppov. It was uncanny, nearly as haunting a similarity as the scenario involving Illya and Nexor. For that bizarre affair the transformation had included giving Kuryakin a facial scar and a pair of wire-rimmed glasses. As Napoleon looked again into the mirror his incarnation as an older version of himself included grey at the temples and an impressive moustache. It would help to offset any doubts from those who got too close to him during this gambit.
Satisfied that he would pass most of the scrutiny he might be subject to, Solo put on the hat that completed the uniform and clicked his heels together. 'Hmm… no, that isn't right. I suppose it will those of lower rank who will be doing that sort of thing…'
Instead he assumed a commanding posture, similar to what he had seen in the few photos available of Poppov. The American took a deep breath, made certain of the communicator in his inside pocket and headed for one of the most important performances of his career.
Kuryakin was trying to remain conscious, although there was a faint sense of it being the wrong thing to do. After all, if he passed out then he wouldn't be able to feel the pain. Another assault on the already bruised face sealed his intentions and the Russian let himself slip into darkness once again.
"This one is weak. We should simply kill him and send him to an unmarked graved for traitors." The comment came from another guard who was standing ready for the order to do as he had suggested. The idea of a Soviet citizen working for the West was despicable, even to one whose own loyalties were sometimes more malleable than was known to his superiors.
"Comrade Poppov has need of something from him, Alexi. He must not be very important for his Capitalist masters to leave him like this in our custody. Perhaps he really does not know what we want from him; I do not believe he is capable of holding out much longer."
Alexi nodded his agreement. Nikolai was right, as usual. The two men sized up the small blond in front of them. He looked harmless enough, and certainly not capable of enduring the punishing interrogation. They concluded, silently and privately, that Kuryakin did not have the information they sought. Of course they didn't dare suggest this to Comrade Poppov, although they suspected he thought the same thing.
"Leave him. I believe we should have our supper now and then return later and see if he wakes up from his nap." Alexi motioned towards the door, the grumblings of hunger more important to him now than the naked spy. He would wait, but the borscht and dumplings he knew were being served would not.
Kuryakin heard the door slam shut and willed his aching body to not shiver from the cold. Even in this agonizing stupor he wondered how many times he would find himself in this humiliating position.
Napoleon Solo made his way out of the ancient stone building in which he had been transformed into the new leader of this bludgeoned country. No one dared speak if they saw him, for fear of reporting something they could not prove and being found a subversive for their trouble.
A car was waiting, the driver a familiar and welcome presence.
"Hello Mark. Good to have you here." Napoleon felt better having Mark Slate on the team. The British agent smiled discreetly, his eyes reflected in the rear view mirror.
"Comrade Poppov, it is my honor to serve you." The wink was quick as Slate turned the ignition in the lumbering black sedan. UNCLE had supplied an exact duplicate of Poppov's official vehicle, and in the cover of night the imposters made their way towards the remote location where they knew their fellow agent was being held.
The facility on the outskirts of the capitol city was formerly a factory that had produced textiles. The old building, although long abandoned, was being utilized now to house the newly conscripted army being assembled by General Poppov. Not yet completely renovated for the purpose, the only inhabitants currently were the skeleton staff necessary to mete out the occasional interrogation. The few men included a dozen or so, some of whom were relegated to kitchen duties. When Solo and Slate arrived at the gates to this ignominious location, all of those men were eating the evening meal in the makeshift dining room. None of them expected their new leader to make a surprise appearance.
Mark spoke to the guard at the entrance gate, indicating the passenger in the back seat. So striking was Napoleon's resemblance to Poppov that the man didn't hesitate to let them pass. Mark breathed a sigh of relief, as did Solo. There was not yet any means of communication between the guard's station and the community of men within, and so no warning was given of the approach of their Supreme Commander, General Poppov.
A large tureen of borscht was in the center of a rough wooden table. Benches on two sides provided seating for the twelve men who were busily slurping the hot soup. Another bowl held plump dumplings, steaming and lightly seasoned, they were a luxurious addition to the evening meal. In the midst of this modest repast, two men entered and observed before drawing attention to themselves.
"Comrades, you will stand at attention!" Every man stopped and turned to see who was making this demand. They all put down their spoons and made quick work of extricating themselves from the benches and standing at attention in the presence of General Leonid Poppov.
Napoleon gave a salute after the manner he had been instructed, and indicated to the men to resume their meals.
"I am here to see the prisoner, Kuryakin. Please direct me to his cell, and then you can resume your supper. I must speak to the man myself." That brought a round of barely perceptible shudders; they silently pitied the poor man who found himself in the hands of Poppov.
Alexi stood then, willing to be the one to escort Comrade Poppov to Kuryakin's cell. It might not hurt to be known by the General, and remembered perhaps sometime later. "I will be honored to escort you, Comrade General. Please, follow me."
Nikolai watched his friend go, followed by the other two men. Something about them seemed … wrong. How could he think that? Obviously the man was General Poppov, but still…
As Alexi made his way back towards the cell in which Kuryakin was being held, he felt his chest puff out with pride at being the one to rub shoulders, more or less, with the General. Surely this would be to his credit, a glowing remark perhaps to be added to his file. He was thinking this as he opened the cell door, then stepped back so that the other two men could enter.
Napoleon turned to the young soldier and dismissed him.
"Leave the door open please. You may return to your meal, Comrade…" Alexi seized the moment with enthusiasm. "Alexi Yellen, Comrade General." And then he clicked his heels.
"Ah, very well Comrade Yellen. That will be all." Napoleon turned his back on the man and left the impression that he would be conducting his own interrogation on the Russian spy within. Alexi stole one last glance at Poppov and then nodded his head to Slate as he turned to go. That had gone very well, he commended himself.
Mark shut the door part way, keeping watch on the corridor. It wouldn't do for them to be surprised by someone and locked inside with Illya. Napoleon knelt down beside his partner. "Illya… Come on Illya, wake up." He snapped open a vial of something that immediately brought Kuryakin back to consciousness. Sputtering and trying to move away from the odious stuff, the beleaguered blond was not immediately cognizant of who held it. Slowly his vision cleared and he saw the confusing visage of Viktor Poppov. That wasn't right, was it? He looked very familiar…
"Napoleon?" Confusion, pain and not a little whiff of cold air caught the Russian back to life. He tried to sit up a little straighter but was seized with pain from a broken rib. He became aware that he was naked, and was grateful to see Mark Slate pulling something that resembled trousers and a shirt from inside his large coat.
"Here you go, mate.' Slate handed him the clothing and then produced a pair of shoes from deep within the hem of the big military garb he was wearing. "You better put these on as well. I have a feeling we may need to move pretty quickly."
In the dining room the men anxiously awaited the return of Alexi. Nikolai was still puzzling over what had seemed out of place to him. It was preposterous, he had never seen Comrade Poppov in person so he had nothing to go by. Still, it seemed inconceivable somehow for the Comrade General to show up here with only one man at his side. As Alexi strode proudly through the door to the dining hall, Nikolai was heading for the prisoner's cell to see just what was going on. It wouldn't do for anything to go wrong while he was on duty.
Napoleon managed to get Illya dressed, although he wouldn't be much use if they needed to move quickly. Once again the Russian was battered and drugged, although this time it wasn't THRUSH drugs in his system; just a run of the mill version of truth serum. Thankfully it wasn't effective on UNCLE agents who had been programmed chemically to resist sodium pentathol.
Mark, back at the door, heard before seeing the approach of Nikolai. "Here's someone coming, Napoleon. What do we do?" Napoleon didn't have an immediate answer; he looked at Illya, now fully dressed and looking none the better for it.
"Obviously we can't undress him again…' Solo nodded towards the blond who was sitting in the chair again, struggling to remain upright. "Let's play it by ear."
"Righto, mate. I didn't know there was any other way in this business." The Brit winked at his superior, glad to know Solo was in charge of this operation; the man was known for his superior technique with impromptu solutions.
Nikolai appeared at the door, not immediately curious as to the location of Comrade Poppov's companion. Mark had slid into a shadow, his slight build the perfect fit for the meager hiding spot. Napoleon turned away from the prisoner at the sound of Nikolai's approach, setting a stern expression in the hope of getting the man to leave without any violence.
"Comrade General, sir…' It suddenly dawned on Nikolai that his actions may have been unwise. The General looked displeased with his presence here, and in spite of the strange clothing on Kuryakin, the soldier was hard pressed to explain why he had intruded on this scene.
"Sir, I was sent to inquire as to any needs you may have … ummm… Comrade, may I offer any assistance?" Nikolai was a clever man, able to spin a lie out of most situations. He hoped this one would work now.
"You are to be commended for your attitude, Comrade. I require no assistance, however. It is better for everyone if there are no witnesses…" Napoleon let that last drift into the night, the innuendo fully understood now by the hapless Nikolai. He backed out of the room, finally noticing the shadowy form of Mark Slate as he hovered nearby, obviously intent on remaining out of sight. The wary young man no longer wanted to know anything more about this situation and determined to get out of the army as soon as possible. He thought it best to not be remembered by the Comrade General.
"As you wish, Comrade General." Nikolai backed out of the room and barely resisted the urge to run back to the dining hall. He would share none of this, not even with Alexi. He knew of those who disappeared in the middle of the night, and for several nights afterward found himself unable to sleep for fear of unwanted visitors.
"Well, that seems to have handled itself rather well. You make a menacing tyrant, Napoleon. I'd say that chap is happy to leave here alive." Mark was smiling now, his sense of well-being slightly restored as he lent a hand to help get the wobbly Russian up and on his feet. Illya was vaguely aware of what was happening, and he tried to be self-sufficient. As it was, Slate and Solo carried him out with a firm grip beneath each armpit.
As the trio passed by the dining hall, the room was redolent with the aroma of the borscht and dumplings. Illya stirred slightly at the familiar scents and would have broken away from his escorts to go in search of its source. They managed to keep him going in the right direction, mindful of the men within that room. None of them looked up to see Comrade General Viktor Poppov carrying out the prisoner, Illya Kuryakin, with the help of his aide. On the suggestion of Nikolai, no one wanted to know anything more than that their country's most powerful man wanted to remain free of observation, something they willingly obliged.
The UNCLE agents shoved Kuryakin into the back seat; he slumped down beside Solo, virtually invisible now in the dark of night. Mark got behind the wheel of the big car once again, and pulled up to the guard's station; that man dutifully raised the barrier and watched as the official vehicle drove away into the night. He, along with the others, would eventually receive severe reprimands for the loss of this most valuable prisoner. Most would never be heard from again.
Mark drove for several hours, staying on back roads that were mostly ignored by police and military. The destination was due south, to a place where a helicopter would be waiting to pick up all three of the men in the car. The timing was crucial, the location one that slipped by the scrutiny of those who guarded such things. At the appointed hour Slate pulled up to the edge of a large field and stopped. Illya had been asleep the entire drive and Napoleon kept a vigilant check on his friend's breathing. He could hear the rasp of respiratory distress, was prepared to discover that Illya had developed pneumonia or something else just as debilitating.
Within minutes the sound of a helicopter approaching ignited action from Slate and Solo. Napoleon grabbed Illya and pulled him out of the vehicle just as Mark was ready to grab one arm and begin the trek out to the pick up spot. They weren't going to be out of danger until the chopper got them into a free fly zone. As the last of Kuryakin was shoved into the helicopter Mark saw the approach of headlights and shouted to Napoleon to hurry and get in.
"Napoleon, they're onto us. Hurry up, man, get in. Let's go!" Napoleon threw the uniform jacket onto the ground and tossed the hat into the air, watching it float for a few yards before plummeting to the ground. 'Enough dress up for me,' he thought.
Illya had come out of his drugged stupor, sleep and time helping to ward off the effects of the drugs. He looked around now at the interior of the helicopter, and at the other three men. What had he missed? The last he remembered he was sitting naked in a cell, being hit and harassed by two members of the new Poppov military.
"I see you ruined another suit." The blond was looking now at Napoleon's uniform, or what was left of it. Napoleon just smiled, glad that his partner seemed to be all right in spite of the ill treatment.
"Well, uniforms aren't really my style. At least this one won't need to go on the expense report." He said it with such a breezy affect, one would never know he'd just outsmarted a tyrannical regime. Slate laughed out loud, the absurdity of it all made him giddy. Not many people could pull off what they did for a living.
Illya winced in discomfort when the chopper hit a pocket of turbulence. He wasn't entirely discomfited about the notion of spending a few days in medical; he was very tired. Napoleon saw the expression on his friend's face, noted the gauntness. Sometimes the roles were reversed, but always they wore an identity that was intended to fool someone.
"A hat for every occasion…'' The Chief Enforcement Agent of UNCLE Northwest suddenly remembered a sign he'd seen in the window of a millinery shop in London. Sighing with relief and weariness, he closed his eyes for a few seconds.
Tomorrow it would start again, and he would get a new hat to wear.