Glancing around to make sure there were no witnesses, Illya Kuryakin quietly jumped up and caught hold of the escape ladder. Dressed entirely in black, including the climbing harness and rope he had brought with him, the nimble Russian made quick work of reaching the roof, which was nine floors up.
Darting across the roof top, Illya had to come to a sudden stop and was forced to squat behind a large water tank. The door to the stairway had opened to reveal an elderly woman with a watering can. He had to wait for quite some time as she slowly, and carefully, tended to the little garden of potted plants she had evidently placed there. Illya was a patient man and was in no great hurry to reach his destination; especially knowing what was waiting for him there.
As soon as the old woman disappeared back through the door, Illya was on the move once again. He tied his rope to the railing which edged the rooftop, before attaching it to his climbing harness. Checking to ensure there was no-one looking up, Illya climbed over the railing and began to abseil down the building.
Dropping rapidly, he brought himself to a stop at the fifth floor. Locking the rope off, he fished his small house-breaking kit from his pocket. It took Illya a matter of moments to crack open the window and he stealthily entered the bedroom. With a cat-like tread, he crossed the room and opened the door a crack. Through the small gap Illya could see one of the people he was hoping to avoid.
…
The plane Illya had been meant to arrive on had come and gone, with no sign of the man himself.
"I don't understand," Napoleon Solo said to April Dancer. "Control said he was definitely booked onto this flight."
"Try your communicator," she suggested.
Solo did so and quickly became quite concerned when there was no answer. He looked to April, who shrugged with confusion. Switching channels, Napoleon called HQ to ask if they had heard from his partner. He was told that had checked in upon arrival in New York, an hour ago, and had stated he would file his report in the morning.
"Did he say where he was going?"
"Sorry, Napoleon," replied the voice from the other end. "He didn't say anything."
"Try this," April said, as she rooted around in her purse and pulled out a signal tracer.
Napoleon tried calling Illya again while April held up the tracer.
"Are you sure this is calibrated correctly?" Solo asked after a few seconds. "It's indicating that Illya, or at least his communicator, is at his apartment."
…...
In his bedroom, Illya swaddled his communicator in a sweater in an effort to muffle it. Mark Slater was only in the next room and Illya couldn't risk him hearing the chirruping sound. He made a mental note to discuss some sort of vibration setting with R&D. Shortly after his own communicator went silent, he heard Mark's go off and, a minute later, the bedroom door opened.
"Yeah, he's here," Mark confirmed into the device.
"Keep him there," Solo instructed, despite knowing it would be impossible if the man didn't want to stay.
"How did you find out about the party?" the Brit asked, after tucking his communicator away.
"I am a spy," Illya replied flatly. "I made it my business to know. I appreciate what you are all doing, and please make yourself at home, but I am going out."
With that, he deliberately placed his communicator on the bed and walked out. Mark toyed with the idea of physically holding him down, but decided he preferred his bones in their unbroken state. Besides, there was something about Illya's demeanour which spoke of a deeper issue than not wanting to celebrate his birthday.
Four hours later, Illya returned to the apartment, slightly intoxicated, but not rolling drunk. He found Napoleon waiting for him, beside a small pile of gifts. April and Mark had long since gone home.
"Happy birthday, Tovarisch," said Solo, and raised his glass in a toast.
"It is after midnight," Illya replied; his accent thickened by alcohol. "It is no longer my birthday."
"Why have you gone to such lengths to avoid your party?" Napoleon asked him.
When Mark had explained Illya's demeanour, Solo had immediately known there was something going on in his partner's head. In recent years he had loosened up to the idea of celebrating birthdays, so this sudden reverting to his previous state was a little worrying.
"I am thirty-four," Illya stated, as though that was enough of an answer.
"I'm almost thirty-five," Napoleon countered, "We've both still got plenty of active duty ahead of us."
"You do not comprehend," Illya told him, as he flopped down into an armchair. "My papa was thirty-three when he died. I am still relatively young, yet I have out-lived him."
Napoleon finally understood. Illya's family were rarely far from his mind and, although he could live with their loss, there were times when he felt it acutely.
"I wish there was something I could say to make you feel better," Napoleon admitted.
"You need not say anything my friend. I apologise for spoiling your plans, and I will apologise to the others tomorrow."
"I am sure they'll forgive you," Napoleon replied with a smile, as he picked up one of Illya's gifts. "How about you start on these, and I'll get us a drink."
Illya returned the smile and accept the gift. His family could never be returned to him, but the one he had now was more than he could ever have hoped for.