"You know this is all your fault...it's just another fine mess you've gotten us into Stanley."
"Excuse me, do not try to blame this on me….and who is this Stanley? You always call me that when you try to blame me for a predicament that is your fault and yours alone."
Napoleon scowled at his partner's answer, saying nothing. At the moment he just didn't feel like explaining the Laurel and Hardy reference.
Kuryakin made an equally annoyed face, staring off and refusing to make eye contact with the American.
"Napoleon when are you going to stop this...this behavior, or should I say misbehavior. Why can you not just keep it in your pants?"
"That's putting it rather crudely isn't it tovarisch?"
"Perhaps, but what happened between you and the French Ambassador's daughter was not exactly what I would call exemplary behavior."
Napoleon stood up from the curb where he and Illya had been deposited without a second thought by the Embassy Security guards.
"Hey well it takes two to tango you know and for your information nothing really happened.
"Oh please," the Russian retorted," and she is barely nineteen. Do you have no sense of propriety?"
"Well I thought she was older," Napoleon suddenly smiled.
Illya stood up, finally making eye contact.
"What does it matter now? We have been ejected from the embassy, and our contact is inside waiting for us. If we try to re- enter...we will surely be arrested. If we do not show, she will leave with the microdot and Mr. Waverly is going to be furious and it is…"
"Yeah yeah, I know it's my fault,"Solo interrupted."What if I told you I could get us safely back inside?"
"I am listening," Illya crossed his arms in front of his chest.
"With a little well applied makeup, some hair cream to slick back our hair and to darken yours...maybe a pair of spectacles; we can disguise ourselves as waiters. We seek out our contact, get the microdot and skedaddle before we're noticed. I don't think the embassy staff would really expect us to come back there anyway and waiters are practically invisible."
"It just might work my friend." Illya finally permitted himself to smile, but just barely. Sometimes Napoleon's 'seat of the pants' strategy had a way of backfiring and he hoped this wouldn't be one of those times.
The two men headed to the back of the embassy building and there they spotted the catering van parked and unattended. Inside it were hanging several uniforms; white jackets, black pants and bow ties to complete the look, to which they quickly helped themselves.
With the help of a little olive oil to slick back their hair, their disguises were nearly complete. Illya put on his reading glasses, and Solo found a pair of specs miraculously sitting on a shelf as if they were put there just for him to use. They were very weak prescription, so he had little trouble navigating with them perched on his nose.
They each stuffed their open communicators in their breast pockets, and hopped down from the van to the loading dock.
Just as they finished readying themselves, a balding moustachioed maitre dí suddenly appeared in his black uniform, clapping his hands together and barking at them in French to hurry up as more help was quickly needed with the hors' d'oeuvres.
The agents lowered their heads, holding serving trays up to cover their faces as they passed the man, who was so fidgety and focused on the job that he never paid them any mind.
Once inside, Solo and Kuryakin grabbed some plates of hors' d'oeuvres from a stainless steel table in the kitchen and moved out among the guests; their eyes darting about as they searched for the contact.
Napoleon spotted her near bottom of the long elegant staircase that led up to the Ambassadors private quarters. A gorgeous blonde, dressed in a low-cut pale blue beaded gown; she sipped her champagne, nervously looking about, trying not to be too obvious.
"Bingo," Solo whispered," found her."
He quickly approached the woman, holding the serving tray out to her.
"Hors' d'oeuvres Mademoiselle? It's a lovely evening for lovers isn't it?" He gave her the password.
"But only if you're in the mood and the moon is blue," she gave the correct response."Where the hell have you been? I need to get out of here before I'm discovered," she hissed with a distinctly British accent.
"There were ummm, some unforeseen complications, but I'm here now."
"Oh really? I heard there was an incident with the Ambassador's daughter. That wouldn't have happened to have been you would it Mr. Solo?"
"Moi?"
"Oh trust me, your reputation precedes you even at MI6. You and James, I swear will..."
"Monsieur Napoléon," a young female voice crooned from behind him. It was the golden-haired Béatrice Bénétict, the Ambassador's daughter.
"Ummm Béatrice...now is not a good time." He carefully detached her grip as she'd latched onto his arm with her hands.
"Oh mais Napoléon, I want to finish our kissing lesson. We were so rudely interrupted by my Papa and 'is brutish men. I am soooo sorry they dragged you and your 'andsome friend off like that...Napoléon, why are you dressed as a waiter and you reek of olive oil...what 'ave you done to your beautiful 'air?"
"That's it Solo, I'm out of here!" The MI6 agent hissed.
"Illya!" Napoleon growled into his communicator.
"I see her," came the Russian's response.
Illya handed his serving tray to one of the guests and took off towards the door and the woman in blue.
"Excusez-moi mademoiselle, you have forgotten something," he called out to her.
"No I haven't, now please get out of my way." She tried pushing past him. "I must leave."
Illya quietly repeated the password to her, not waiting for her response. "Please give me the microdot before Napoleon and I are discovered."
"Kuryakin?" She clicked her tongue. "Fine here it is. I suggest you make a hasty retreat as I have just spotted several birds fluttering around the room."
She passed him a worn, oddly engraved cigarette lighter and quickly turned away, dashing out the door as if she were going to turn into a pumpkin at midnight."
He glanced at the engraving and somehow it struck a chord with the Russian, touching part of his psyche that he kept hidden and under control.
It read in faded letters..."You have never lived till you've almost died. For those who fight for it life has a flavor the protected will never know." Etched on the lower half of the lighter were the words. "Yeah though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death I will fear no evil. For I am the evilest son of a bitch in the valley."
It was the juxtaposition of the good and the bad, reminding of the monster within, put there by his Soviet masters who trained him to be a cold-hearted killer. He hated it, but it was part of who he was and every day he fought to keep it from escaping.
Illya looked up, squinting his eyes as he scanned the guests and spotted three THRUSH goons heading straight for Solo and the young girl.
"Napoleon get out of there, you have feathered friends coming on your left," he called into his communicator.
Solo turned, but it was too late as one of the men grabbed Béatrice, most likely thinking she was the contact. She let out a blood-curdling scream, and Napoleon drew back his arm to get off a right cross. It landed hard and squarely on the man's jaw, sending searing pain up the American's arm, but it freed Béatrice from the man's hold.
Illya arrived seconds later, leaping through the air at one of the other THRUSH agents, tackling him to the floor and pummeling him with a several quick punches.
Béatrice took off, running straight to the arms of her father's security people just as a free for all erupted. Fists went flying along with bodies, some of guests jumped into the fracas and somewhere along the line Solo and Kuryakin managed to crawl along the floor, avoiding the insanity.
They made it to the front door and outside, just as the police whistles of the 'gendarmerie' could be heard coming down the cobblestoned street.
The U.N.C.L.E. agents dashed off into the night, heading back to their hotel room with the procured microdot hidden in the base of the cigarette lighter.
Napoleon contacted Mr. Waverly, relaying the news of a successfully completed assignment while Illya took a quick shower. The Russian emerged in the midst of the conversation with headquarters wrapped only in a white terry cloth hotel robe and drying his hair with a towel as he listened in to their boss' commentary.
"Well done Mr. Solo, however I am hearing about an incident with you and the Ambassador's young daughter. Good God man, she's barely nineteen….when will you learn to keep it in your trousers? I simply do not understand how you and Mr. Kuryakin get yourselves into these messes. You're just lucky the mission wasn't compromised."
"But sir I didn't…we didn't,"
"I don't want to hear your pitiful excuse Mr. Solo. I will expect a full report upon your and Mr. Kuryakin's return to New York. Waverly out." The displeasure in the Old Man's voice had been far from disguised.
"So here is another fine mess you have gotten 'us' into...Ollie." Illya smirked, tossing his damp towel in his partner's face.
"Oh NOW you get the reference?" Napoleon was back to sporting an unhappy face…
"Well the redeeming factor is that the mission was a success, and will surely make up for your indiscretion with the Ambassador's daughter….with whom you told me nothing happened. I hardly call a kissing lesson nothing."
"Okay okay, I get it. Duly noted and I will endeavor to control myself in the future. I do learn by my mistakes you know. So lay off will you?" Napoleon headed to the bathroom for his own shower.
"As do I but yes, you have learned your lesson... until the next time," Illya called after him, uttering a few choice Russian epithets, and ducked as a bar of soap came flying out the door at him.
"Decorum please Mr. Kuryakin...now wash out your potty mouth with soap," Napoleon yelled as he slammed the door shut.
"I will stop cursing when you learn to control yourself my friend."
"Then we're both going to have a long wait partner mine," replied the muffled voice of Napoleon Solo. He then broke into an off key rendition of 'O Sole Mio...' knowing his partner was cringing and most likely rolling his eyes.