As Big Ben struck midnight, Illya Kuryakin looked up from his perch on a boat anchored in the Thames. It was frigid tonight and he shrugged his wool pea-coat around himself as he peered through his binoculars, searching along the Westminster Bridge. A black UNCLE sedan was parked, waiting there.
There was little traffic, and just after the witching hour tolled, a white lorry pulled to a stop on the bridge as arranged. It was there for a prisoner exchange.
UNCLE would be surrendering one Jack "the weasel" McVay. He was nicknamed 'the weasel' which seemed an apt nom de guerre for the sharp-nosed man. In exchange for the weasel, Mark Slate would be returned.
Alexander Waverly's usual response was not to play this sort of game with evil doers but Slate had vital information that he'd obtained on his latest mission before he was captured by McVay's cronies as he left London headquarters.
Jack McVay was purported to be a mobster involved in extortion, drug trafficking as well as murder and was a sometime associate of the notorious Kray twins.
After interrogating McVay, the London office deemed him to be useless. He was nothing but a low level thief, and not a very intelligent one at that. Under the influence of truth serum he admitted that his crimes were made up, mere braggadocio.
Given his mobster identity was red herring, Waverly had no hesitation in agreeing to the exchange for his agent.
Hours earlier, Slate was being held in a musty and damp cellar of a place with which he was quite familiar...well at least upstairs. It was the Ten Bells public house in Spitalfields, the East End of London.
Besides being a popular pub, the place was notable for its association with two victims of Jack the Ripper, namely Annie Chapman and Mary Kelly.
As the story went, Annie Chapman may have drunk at the pub shortly before she was murdered; and it was suggested that the pavement outside of the pub was where Mary Kelly picked up clients as a prostitute. Mary Kelly's mangled body was found across the street from the pub.
As an UNCLE agent Mark dealt with some pretty scarey blokes, though thankfully none like the Ripper.
The employees of the pub had reported possible poltergeist activity, and inexplicable gusts of wind. Rattling glasses, and a bottle of whisky falling off its shelf all on its own didn't seem very frightening to Slate and as for the wind...he'd never felt it.
The association with the Ten Bells and Jack the Ripper never bothered Mark when he'd meet some of his mates there for drinks.
Tonight though, he was not here of his own accord.
He remembered leaving headquarters. It was pouring rain when he stepped outside in front of the innocuous little used book shop that served as the entrance to London Headquarters.
Pulling up the collar of his trenchcoat, he whistled loudly for a taxicab. It would take him on the last leg of his mission, to deliver the information he'd obtained putting it directly in to Alexander Waverly's hands. It was too important to discuss via video conference.
The last thing Slate recalled was getting inside the cab, asking the driver to take him to Heathrow airport.
"Gas." Mark said aloud. He remembered the back of the cab filling with white smoke. "Must have been a knockout gas."
Kuryakin adjusted his binoculars as he spotting a white van pull up to the designated stop on the bridge. He pulled his communicator, planning to report that all was going well...when it didn't.
A couple of thugs steeped from the van, clubbed the UNCLE agents there, and grabbed McVay, with no sign of Mark.
"Agents down!" Illya called into the communicator. By the time a team arrived the van and McVay were gone.
"Blyad'!" The Russian hissed his curse. After he motored the boat in, he went to the bridge. The agents who were attacked were just coming to.
"What the hell happened?" He barked. "How could you let them overpower you...you are trained agents!"
"Cor, I'm sorry Mr. Kuryakin but those blokes were strong, I meant super strong. I...we couldn't hold them off. It was right queer it was."
Illya ran his fingers through his dampened hair. Though he was dreading it, he pulled his communicator to report to Waverly.
The door to the basement opened with a creak and in walked Jack McVay, who practically strutted down the stairs..
"So much for your UNCLE," he smiled at Slate. "A bunch of daft cows if you ask me. So mate, why they want you back so bad?"
"Firstly I'm not your mate, and secondly UNCLE treats every employee as an asset, no one means more than another."
"Asses? You're pulling my leg!" McVay howled.
"No you ponce it's a-s-s-e-t. It means a useful or valuable thing, person, or quality."
McVay backhanded him. "That's for calling me a ponce. So it's valuable you are? Then maybe your boss might be willing to pay a ransom."
"Don't hold your breath on that."
Suddenly McVay stiffened, and an eerie orange glow appeared in the basement. Slowly it drifted to the man and enveloped him.
Mark had no idea what was happening, but he reckoned he was right snookered for sure.
McVay began to laugh. It was maniacal and sinister.
"Where is she?" He suddenly demanded.
"Who's she?" Mark replied.
"Mary...I want Mary."
"Mary…?"
"Mary Kelly you wanker, that who." McVay's accent had completely changed, sounding more Polish."
Mark had no idea what made him ask in Polish. "Kim jesteś?"
"Who am I? I am Aaron Kosminski."
He instantly recognized the name as one of the suspects in the Jack the Ripper murders. Chief Inspector Donald Swanson in handwritten notes seen in the margin of his copy of Asst. Commissioner Sir Robert Anderson's memoirs. In them it was stated that there was a strong reason to believe Kosminski was the Ripper because he "had a great hatred of women … with strong homicidal tendencies."
Was the Ripper a real person, or a malignant spirit possessing a weak minded host? That was a realization that nearly blew Slate's mind.
"Ugh...Mister Kosminski, can I go upstairs and get you anything? You thirsty for a nice pint?"
"Tak. I have work to do tonight….vere's Mary Kelly? I need to see her."
"I heard she went away for a while. I'll just go now and get that pint for you, maybe some nice fish and chips too?"
Kosminski smiled, "Thank you. Vat is your name?"
"George Chapman but my real name is Seweryn Klosowski, "Mark threw out another name of a Ripper suspect.
"Good, another Pole," Kosminski slapped him on the back.
"Tak," Mark agreed; he slipped up the stairs, praying that Jack McVay and the spirit of the Ripper taking up residence inside him didn't cop on.
Once he made it out to the street he headed straight for a police call box, contacting them and telling them to relay a message to Illya advising him where he could be found.
He also asked that a police van be sent for Jack McVay to be picked up and brought to a mental institution for permanent incarceration...and fast. He said a straight jacket would be advisable.
Couldn't have the Ripper starting all over again…