Napoleon and Illya stepped off the plane chasing a Thrush agent, Gibson, who had stolen various agencies lists of agents' names in Europe. Luckily the man wants all the glory the lists would bring him and insist on handing them into Thrush Central himself. The UNCLE agents were asked to capture him yesterday and head toward Ahvaz, Iran where he was last seen.
"Бог (God) it's hot," Illya complained pulling off his suit jacket. "I hope our contact is on time so that we can get out of this heat."
"It's not too bad," Napoleon stated leading them to their rental car. "It's only 112 degrees. It's not unusual for it to be higher. The highest being 129.4 according to this guidebook."
"That doesn't make me feel better," Illya turned the air on in the car immediately after twisting the key and pulling out. After five minutes, the Russian complained, "Проклятый кондиционер не работает."
"Excuse me?" Napoleon asked.
"I said the damn air conditioner isn't working."
Chuckling Napoleon looked at his partner, to receive a murderous glare making him stop. "It's just normal for us. There the contact point, pull over."
They exited the car to be met by a man running out of the restaurant. "Mr. Solo, Mr. Kuryakin, he just left. Hurry, he headed toward the airport." The contact reached them before even leaving the car.
"Did you hear where he's heading?" Napoleon asked.
"No, sir."
"Do we have time to at least get a cool drink?" The sweat was running down Illya's face.
"No, sir. He said he was in a rush to get to his flight. I sorry." The contact bowed.
"Thank you. Let's get going Illya," Napoleon was already on his communicator asking their people to check out Gibson flight information.
