Although he prided himself in his ability to blend in anywhere, Illya Kuryakin never felt entirely comfortable amongst the moneyed classes. His poor upbringing, and political indoctrination, made it difficult for him to despise those with more than they needed. Admittedly, while he was hardly rich, he was far better off these days, and often indulged in things which were wholly unnecessary.
Napoleon Solo, on the other hand, took to society like a duck to water. He had grown up around money, power, and influence, and had learned how to behave in those sorts of circles.
Both men were attending a charity gala being given by Gerald Moore, though neither had acknowledged the other. They had arrived separately and had carefully made sure not to cross paths. Not that it would have been a problem. Both Napoleon and Illya would easily be able to act as though they had only just met, should the need arise.
Gerald Moore was one of New York's leading financiers. He was a pillar of society and a well-known philanthropist, who had donated millions to good causes throughout the city. It was the perfect cover for a leading member of Thrush.
Moore's true affiliations were well known to U.N.C.L.E., and they had found it useful to leave him at liberty. He often held parties and galas, which were usually frequented by the crème de la crème. Where you found large gatherings of money, you often found associates of Thrush; especially when the host was counted amongst their number. One of the guests at this particular soiree, Dmitry Viktorovich Shvets, was the target of Illya and Napoleon's interest. He was a Russian businessman, with ties to Thrush and the Soviet government. He had for capitalism, and the luxury it could bring him.
It was for this reason that, for once, Illya wasn't playing the role of a waiter. Instead, he was posing as a member of the abolished Russian nobility, Rurik Fyodorovich Levkin. His backstory was that his father had fled the country following the October Revolution, in order to safeguard most of his wealth. At this level of society, the lines between politics and countries were practically non-existent. It didn't matter where you were from, or who you claimed to support, as long as you had a provable pedigree and a lot of money.
Standing to one side of the room, half engaged in small talk with an overly-bejewelled elderly lady, Napoleon Solo kept a close eye on his partner. It was his job to be a covert body guard for him, and Solo was absolutely certain he was going to be needed in that capacity.
Illya's mission was to introduce himself to Shvets and gain his confidence. The long term goal was for him to infiltrate the man's inner circle and uncover any other Russians who may be playing with the bad guys. Napoleon was unsure about the whole plan. As U.N.C.L.E.'s only Soviet agent, Illya was known about amongst the higher echelons of the Kremlin who, in turn, would be as thick as thieves with other powerful people. This probably included Shvets.
There were a few agents who could speak Russian, but, unfortunately, the assignment required a native speaker, which meant it could only be Illya. To defend against possible recognition, he had adopted a disguise comprising of dark contact lenses, and a black wig. He'd even gone so far as to wear shoes with lifts, to give him a little extra height.
Illya was being annoyed by a young blonde debutante who thought he was 'just darling', and who was insisting that he ask her to dance. Not wishing to draw too much attention to himself, he had declined several times, but she wouldn't take no for an answer. In the end, she decided to drag him to the dance floor, but was prevented by Mr Moore, who shooed her away.
"Young girls today," he commented. "They seem to have lost all sense of decorum."
"Standards are definitely slipping," Illya replied, with a heavier accent than usual. "Do I have the honour the honour of addressing Mr Gerald Moore?"
"Indeed you do, but you have me at a disadvantage," Moore confirmed. "I assume, by your accent, that you a Russian. No doubt nobility."
"Many years ago, I would have introduced myself as a prince, but alas, those days are gone," Illya told him, with a regretful tone. However, while the status may have gone, our fortune continues to grow. Forgive me, I am yet to give you my name. I am Rurik Fyodorovich Levkin."
Illya offered a small Slavic bow, complete with a click of his heels. Moore was impressed. He didn't know who the man was, but that was sometimes the case at these gatherings. Some people bought tickets in order to be seen in society, while others were accompanying known guests. Who this person was, he clearly had breeding.
"If I may, I would like to meet one a countryman of yours," Moore said, carefully shepherding Illya towards his target.
The two Russians were introduced to each other, with Moore giving each a small nugget of information about the other. He then moved off to talk to other guests, leaving Illya and Shvets alone together.
"So you are a prince are you, Rurik Fyodorovich?" Shvets asked, in his native language.
"Indeed I am, Dmitry Viktorovich," Illya replied. "Though the title is no longer used."
"I doubt a runt like you ever had a title," Shvets whispered, with a snarl. "Isn't that the truth of it, Illya Kuryakin?"
Illya didn't react to his name being used. Nor did he react when Shvets produced a small pistol and aimed it at his stomach, standing so that is was shielded from the rest of the room.
"You and I are going to take a walk."
Napoleon, who had been pleased to see his partner making progress suddenly grew concerned. As the two men headed for a nearby door, Illya sent him an 'I'm in trouble' signal.
...
Napoleon tried not to worry too much about Illya leaving the room with Shvets. For all he knew, his partner had suggested it. However, Solo wasn't about to just stand around waiting for Illya to return. Unfortunately, the building they were in was a large hotel, and the two men could have gone just about anywhere. He decided that his best bet would be to start with the door they had gone through.
Excusing himself from the old woman, who was talking non-stop about her grandson, Napoleon made his way towards the door. He had barely made it halfway across the floor when he was interrupted by Gerald Moore.
"I would advise against your current course of action, Mr Solo," he said, with a warm smile, so as not to draw any negative attention from those nearby.
"Why would that be?" Napoleon replied, mirroring the smile.
To the casual observer, the two men looked as though they were having an enjoyable chat.
"There is nothing through that door to interest you," Moore told him. "Now, if you take a careful look over to the entrance you will see a man waiting to escort you elsewhere."
"I'm not ready to leave just yet," Napoleon answered. "And I promised my friend we'd go together.
"Your partner will already be on his way out of the building," the financier informed him. "Mr Shvets was very keen to get to know him and, as I have you, I was more than happy to hand him over."
Napoleon looked around the room and tried to formulate a strategy, but there was nothing he could do right at that moment. To add to his problems, he felt the distress beacon locator in his pocket start to vibrate. Illya was calling for help.
"Off you go, Mr Solo. You don't want to make a scene, do you?" Moore urged. "My man will take you to my car, which is waiting out front."
...
Contrary to what Napoleon had just been told, Illya was not on his way out. He was, in fact, travelling up in an elevator, and he was panicking; though he showed no outward signs of it. He had no idea how he had been discovered so quickly, but he fully intended to bluff it out for as long as possible. Though he doubted his bluff would take him far.
Shvets was a taller, and had the appearance of being stronger than Illya, despite looking at least twenty years older. However, the U.N.C.L.E. agent had more physical power than he was evident, and there was every chance he could subdue Shvets before he could shoot him. Of course, there was also the chance he would be killed outright. Wishing to avoid this possibility, Illya decided to go along with Shvets and see how things developed. As a precaution however, he activated the locator beacon embedded in one of his buttons.
The elevator opened on the sixth floor and Shvets indicated for Illya to move.
"I don't know who you think I am, but I am not that person," Illya told Shvets, as they stepped out of the elevator.
The only response he got was an instruction to turn left and keeping walking. The corridor was indicative of most high class hotels, in that it was tastefully appointed in muted colours, and decorated with suitable artworks. Halfway along, Shvets told him to stop while he unlocked one of the many doors, and then was ordered into the room.
"Sit down, Kuryakin."
"I told you, I am not the man you believe me too be."
"Actually, it's the other way around," Shvets told him, puting his pistol away. "I'm not who you think I am."
Illya frowned. Their pre-mission research had been exceptionally thorough, and there had been no doubt that they had the right man.
"Who are you then?" he asked, dropping all pretence, "And how do you know me?"
"Moore recognised your partner," Shvets explained. "He told me, and I noticed that he was surreptitiously watching you. It stood to reason therefore that you had to be Illya Kuryakin. He thought I would enjoy having a little fun interrogating a countryman. I must admit, I would never have known it was you. Your disguise is very convincing."
The agent said nothing; content to allow the other man to keep talking. It would hopefully give Napoleon a chance to find him. Besides, he was quite interested in knowing just who his captor was.
"When you were introduced to me, I knew I was correct in my guess of your identity." Shvets continued. "You are the only Soviet agent at U.N.C.L.E., and it is easy for one native Russian speaker to know another native speaker. No matter how skilled a linguist is, they can never sound as natural as one who grew up with the language."
"This is all very fascinating, but does not explain why you are not the Thrush operative we know you to be."
"If you will indulge me, I will explain."
….
Solo headed for the main entrance of the hotel, running escape scenarios through his mind the whole way. It wasn't until he stepped outside, with his escort a short way behind him, that the answer came. Two police officers were patrolling past and, much to Napoleon's delight, one of them was well known to him.
"Barney!" he yelled congenially. "Long time no see."
Barney Patrick smiled upon seeing Solo, and held his hand out in greeting.
"Hey, it's been a while," he responded. "What are you up to?"
"Oh, you know, same old same old" Napoleon answered, before lowering his voice. "I've got a guy behind me who would very much like me to stay in his company."
"And you would prefer not to?"
Barney was fully aware of Napoleon's status as an U.N.C.L.E. agent and quietly clued his own partner in.
"Don't worry about it," the other cop told him. "I'm sure we can hold him up for longer than you need."
"Thanks, I owe you both."
As Napoleon walked off down the street, he glanced back only once, and smiled as he saw Moore's man being handcuffed.
With that little wrinkle dealt with, he pulled out the beacon locator and realised that Illya was still somewhere in the hotel. He turned down the next side street, with the intention of making his way to the back of the hotel. Hopefully, Moore would be unaware of his henchman's arrest and would therefore have not beefed up security.
Napoleon wasn't challenged at all as he entered the hotel via the kitchens. One or two members of staff glanced at him, but they weren't being paid enough to worry about a well-dressed gentlemn being where he shouldn't.
It took Napoleon barely any time at all to find his way to the room Illya was being held in. Tucking the locator away, and pulling out his special, he knocked on the door. It opened after a few seconds and Napoleon, recognising Shvets, pulled his trigger. The Russian dropped like a stone. Pushing the door open, Napoleon stepped in and found his partner rolling his eyes at him.
"What did you do that for, you blockhead?" Illya demanded.
"It was a dart," Solo assured him. "I thought you were in trouble. That was the signal you gave me."
"I thought I was in trouble too," Illya acknowledged. "However, it's seems that we and Shvets are on the same team, more or less."
…..
Just over two hours later, Napoleon and Illya were heading to Waverly's office. Solo was still having trouble with what Illya had told him, and was waiting for confirmation of it from the Old Man. Shvets was sleeping peacefully in a guarded guest suite. It had been easy to get him out of the hotel using an U.N.C.L.E. ambulance. Had anyone at Moore's party seen it, they would simply have assumed that a hotel guest had taken ill. The agents themselves had exited via the back route.
Once in the office, they took their customary seats at the large round table, and waited for Waverly to be ready for them.
"Well, gentlemen," he said, eventually. "I can verify that Mr Shvets is exactly what he told Mr Kuryakin."
"So he is KGB?" Napoleon questioned.
"Indeed," Waverly confirmed. "It would seem that there are many in the Kremlin who are growing quite concerned at the power Thrush is grabbing within Russia. Mr Shvets has been in deep cover with them for some time."
"Moscow will not be too happy that we have blown that cover," Illya commented, with a slight trace of fear in his voice.
"Only you haven't," the Old Man told him. "From what I gather from your reports, Moore knows that Shvets left with you, and that Mr Solo left with one of his men. That man will explain how his captive escaped, and that story has no connection to you, Mr Kuryakin."
He paused temporarily while he lit his pipe.
"A plausible explanation for your escape will have to be discussed with Mr Shvets of course," he continued. "However, you are notorious with the Thrush ranks for being able to get out of impossible situations, so I don't see it being an issue."
Waverly brought the discussion to a close, and instructed the two men to liaise with Shvets. He told them to then make sure that, when he left, he went via a non-descript, direct route.
"There is a plus side to all of this," said Napoleon, as he and his partner stood up to leave.
"And what might that be?" Waverly asked.
"We now have an ally within Thrush," Solo explained. "Though I'm not sure I'd trust him too far, given who he actually works for. No offence, Illya."
"None taken," replied the ex-KGB officer, with a deadpan tone and expression which gave nothing away.