The Code of Omerta

Illya Kuryakin strode briskly into Waverly's office, his active mind already mulling on numerous possibilities for his next mission. For some reason, it seemed to help during briefing if you filed all the useless, trivial information you discovered during the week into your brain. Mr. Wavely's objectives always took their source from just that, seemingly useless and trivial information.

Illya made no secret to himself of his admiration for Mr. Waverly, which knew no bounds. If there was ever a man for controlling U.N.C.L.E. and handling world events with such thorough and adept skill, it was Mr. Alexander Waverly.

His jacket open and flapping, tie swinging, Illya paused only a second as the door slid open. Waverly turned as he entered and gave him an appreciative nod. "Mr. Kuryakin. Sit down."

Illya slid into his seat and leaned forward a little eagerly to peer at the video screen. "So, what is THRUSH threatening to do now?"

"Actually, its not THRUSH we're dealing with today, for once." Mr. Waverly turned in his seat and pulled over a file before sliding the table around until the file ended up in front of Illya. "You're aware of that group called the Mafia, of course?"

Illya opened the folder and fingered a few sheets meditatively. "An organized crime syndicate originating from Sicily, made up of primarily Italian descendents, concentrated on breaking the law in whatever lucrative way possible?"

"Correct, Mr. Kuryakin. But as they don't threaten the world at large or even the country, we usually leave them to the FBI or routine investigations. But about two days ago we came across something big." He pushed a button at the desk controls and the screen lit up.

Illya scanned in vain for the shadowy, blurred faces of the six figures gathered around the large rack. They seemed to be in an airport, but no one could be seen except for a few figures in the far distance.

The image flipped to another. The men were reaching into the racks and examining the items inside. Again, everything was rather blurry. The day was grey and overcast, while the men wore trench coats and fedoras to hide their already indestinguishable features. Mr. Waverly noticed Illya's face furrowing in concentration. "About the poor picture quality," he explained, "it was taken by a civilian who thought it looked suspicious. We appropriated it from the local police station."

"I gather you weren't able to make a positive identification?"

"Except one. The man with the container in his hand. As far as our information goes we believe him to be a caporegime. You know what that is, I presume?"

Illya nodded, face serious. "An officer in the Mafia who leads ten to twenty men, in direct charge of carrying out their crimes." He squinted at the image. "He's rather young, isn't he?"

Waverly gave him an amused look. "He's a year or so older than you, Mr. Kuryakin. But to be a caporegime, yes, he is young. We have very little on him in our files. He's been very careful at covering his tracks so far, but we do have a few minor felonies pinned on him.

Now, about what they have in that rack. From certain sources we have reason to believe that the Mafia has actually managed to collect information on a special drug that causes extreme contraction in the lungs, called Exhale 4."

Illya was incredulous. "The Mafia did this?"

"Not on their own. Apparently on one of their raids they killed this fellow, Dr. Maltar." A thin face came on screen. "He was waiting for a THRUSH pickup at a restaurant, carrying the plans and the only samples with him. His suitcase was somehow blown open in the ensuing mishmash, and some particularly bright Mafia soldier found the formula and took it."

"Our young caporegime?" Illya guessed. Waverly nodded again, pleased. "Exactly. And that is where your mission comes in. What we're afraid of is that this man or his superiors will sell a supply of the drug back to THRUSH. I want you to infiltrate the Mafia, Mr. Kuryakin."

Illya almost raised his eyebrows in disbelief. "I'm Russian, Mr. Waverly." He was not afraid of death or torture but knowing the strict ethnicity the Mafia observed, he gauged his chances to be on the low side of failure.

"Immaterial, Mr. Kuryakin. That file contains all we know about the Mafia hierarchy and traditions. You'll be taking an Italian language and programming course that will have you ready in less than a month. We've been monitoring Mafia communications and we believe you to have just that much time to prepare yourself."

Illya took the papers and stood. "Why aren't you sending someone who already speaks Italian and better yet, is Italian?"

Waverly gave him a discerning, commanding look. "Because we've already tried that. The man was killed. Our caporegime is a very clever man, and so I need a very clever agent."

The dismay at hearing how a genuine Italian had failed turned to swelling pride and then to pricked gloom at the last phrase.

"And unlimited pasta is not part of your mission, Mr. Kuryakin, not unless you pay for it yourself."

NS IK NS IK NS IK

Illya pulled the hat further over his eyes, hands deep in the pocket of his trench coat as he stepped carefully across the street and into the brightly lit nightclub that shone its red light in both warning and invitation. The murmur of voices and the clinking of glasses and the name above the door told him he had found the right establishment for what would be a very important part of his plan.

First of all, he had a fake story of his past and a proper name to fit his new life. Luigi Giano. Him, a Luigi. But the name was almost as much a part of him by now as his own. His Italian accent had been perfected; his grasp of their customs was complete. Now came the test. He would not begin working for the Mafia immediately. He could only be invited.

It was much easier and more practical to start work for a local gang instead, one that was known to have dealings with Mafia business. By working up a good record with them, he would already have a criminal background when he tried to join the Mafia.

So, he started working for Mr. Acalpa, a slimy racketeer whose main income was illegal drugs, weapons, and supporting the Mafia for a healthy sum when they needed some cheap fighters for a night job.

Tonight was one such of those night jobs. Illya saw several faces he was familiar with, all of them scattered unobtrusively here and there around the bar. Fernandez, Joe, Nikolai, Peters, Rafburn, all of them fellow employees of Acalpa. The only difference was they were genuine. They had all been briefed together in Acalpa's study and then gone their separate ways afterwards, meeting up at this restaurant.

Here, they would be contacted by the caporegime in charge of the operation and five Mafia soldiers. Illya ordered a drink, his blue, intense eyes never ceasing as he gazed carefully over the room, searching for his contact and the signal.

Then, a man came in. His overcoat was buttoned up tightly and a fedora was pulled down so far it covered his eyes. He gave the room a once over before walking by, his hand purposely brushing along the bar before swooping up a glass cup. No one made a move to stop him or looked surprised when he put the cup on top of the jukebox. The man disappeared through a back door.

It was as if an electric signal had been sent. Joe gulped down the last of his drink and pulled a cigarette out before casually, almost tranquilly, saunted through the door. Nikolai thumped his drink down twenty seconds later and followed. Rafburn asked for the restroom and went in. Peters and Fernandez came soon after. Illya took a deep breath that was completely unnoticeable by an observer. Outwardly he appeared calm and even dangerous.

He sat up and went over to the door, rested his hand on the handle a moment, and then pushed inside.

Ten heads turned slightly, some more obviously than others, as he closed the door behind him. There were five men in the room whom he knew, six he didn't. And he didn't trust any of them.

The ones he didn't know were the Mafia soldiers. One or two were sitting with Illya's own group, but the rest were standing against the wall, giving the others a disdainful, almost scornful look. They were the elite, while these mercenaries were just associates, gentiles, people of lower class and ability, sheep like all the other law abiding citizens of the town.

Illya moved almost insolently to a seat near the front, ignoring their glares and their tough poses as if they were thin air, even though he knew they each carried automatic weapons under their coats. His own group looked at him with a little relief; Illya had risen far in their esteem in the short time he had 'worked' with them, due to his ingeniosity, skills, and bravery.

The caporegime was seated on the edge of the table, mulling over a clipboard. He was the only one who hadn't looked up when Illya entered. The air was very silent, and he seemed completely oblivious to them all. Illya could feel the growing irritation and impatience coming from his group. But he stared intently at the caporegime's head, ready to imprint that face to his memory forever and file it away as a suspect when it showed itself. The clock ticked on. And on. And on.

Suddenly, the caporegime's wrist twitched as he flung the clippboard against a wall. It clattered loudly and every man in the room except Illya and two Mafia soldiers jumped. The caporegime finally looked up at them all, and he smiled.

It was a daredevil, friendly, heartless smile. A smile that spoke of danger ahead and death behind and a friend with a knife at your back to boot. He stood up. "Well boys, time for business, hey?" His voice was very lightly laced with the Italian accent.

And Illya recognized him immediately from the picture. His eyes were light brown and sparkling. His dark hair was parted neatly into a thick, black wave over his forehead. His slightly cleft chin and heartmelting smile immediately marked him as a charmer. The way he carried himself marked him as a killer.

The caporegime put his fists on his hips and took a few steps, studying them all very carefully, weighing the value of each member. His eyes linger on Illya, who met his gaze squarely. Finally, he seemed satisfied. "Good evening, boys. I'm your caporegime tonight." He leaned back on the table casually. "You can call me Mr. Solo."

**to be continued**