The handoff was simple, just one man reaching out to another as they passed by, walking in opposite directions. No one was the wiser that something had taken place on the crowded New York street. The din of the city surrounded them, with people scurrying on about their business, and one could only imagine their reaction if they were told such things were going on around them on a daily basis.
The blond, dressed in his usual black suit and turtleneck, halted several blocks later, stepping back into the relative obscurity of an alcove to one of those peep show establishments that seemed to be operating one after another in the area.
Most people didn't want to be seen walking into one of those places; not that the Russian cared about his reputation in that regards. He wasn't a partaker in such demeaning activities, and what others thought mattered little to him. This was just a drop site, albeit a strange one, but it was all about the espionage business and not the lascivious nature of the other things that went on within these walls.
Illya walked inside, and after discreetly showing his identification, he was escorted to one of the booths in the back, the one reserved for things of a more covert nature, and not the other 'under cover' sort.
UNCLE had a number of such unusual meeting places scattered across the city, a pool hall, a bar, a movie theatre, a Chinese restaurant, just to name just a few. They kept agents from being followed to the little tailor shop that served as the secret entrance to headquarters, though there were some who already knew it's location, but many more who did not.
Illya Kuryakin always found this drop point to be unsettling, given what was going on there, but it was not his place to question UNCLE methods. He went where he was told and did as he was told to do, and that was that. It was the story of his life, he concluded; same rules but different masters.
The door to the small room squeaked as he opened it, and closed it quickly behind him. He wondered when someone was going to put some DW-40 on the hinges, but then again, since the doors had no locks, the sound made for a little warning of sorts against an unwanted intruder.
Hopefully there would be none of those...the rule was, if the door was closed, the room was in 'use.'
Illya sat on the stool in front of the curtained glass window, and taking a deep breath, he pressed a button and the cloth partition pulled to one side, revealing none other than Alexander Waverly.
"Good afternoon Mr. Kuryakin."
"Good afternoon sir," Illya replied, nonplussed. He glanced down at the first time to what had been passed to him on the street. It was crumpled dollar bills, and nothing more, but then he noticed they had actually been meticulously folded to spell out the phrase, "We need a revolution."
What that meant, he had no idea.
"Did you receive the message young man?" Waverly asked.
"Yes sir, though it is rather puzzling."
A drawer flipped open below the window, and Illya deposited the bills. Waverly pulled it closed again, picking up the notes and examining them carefully, but not unfolding them; that would be the task of the Intelligence Section, if it was deemed necessary.
"Hmm, yes quite," the Old Man uttered one of his standard catch phrases. "This confirms our suspicions... you are to proceed to LaGuardia Airport Mr. Kuryakin. The tickets for your flight to Algiers will await you at the Trans-World counter. Contact me as soon as you arrive at your destination, after which there will be on a communications blackout."
Though Illya hadn't seen his partner in days, he needed to ask.
"Will Nap...Mr. Solo be joining me on this assignment?"
"Mr. Solo is the one who sent us this message, you'll be meeting him there. Algiers is in a volatile state at the moment, and I want you both to see to it this revolution gets off to a good start. The people are ready for it and their independence from France, and need a catalyst to set things in motion." Waverly smiled, "I'm sure you both will come up with something creative to help things along."
The drawer opened again as the curtain abruptly closed. Illya reached into it, finding a single black and white photograph of presumably three native Algerians, sitting together drinking tea at an outdoor café. There was a message scrawled on the wall behind them in French.
"Votez pour L'indépendance...vote for independence."
"Indeed, " Illya thought, smiling wryly as he left the booth. He was in the mood for a little revolution...