Groton, Connecticut, USA
July 1963
Back in the good ol' U.S. of A., thinks Solo, and wonders when exactly Sanders' voice became so ingrained in his subconscious that he can hear it even when the short man with the long leash was nowhere in sight.
It's not usually part of the C.I.A.'s purview, posting an agent on U.S. soil, but this assignment is unusual in plenty of other ways. Sanders hadn't contacted him; instead Director McCone himself made the phone call.
Frankly Solo would rather deal with the short devil that he already knew. But here he is, walking along Esker Point Beach with the ex-wife of the submarine captain who has gone missing. Along with all his crew and the submarine itself.
Gaby and the Red Peril are a few miles away, in close proximity to the Naval base and their colleagues inside. The U.S. Navy has gone to extraordinary lengths to be as transparent as possible-in private dealings with both allies and enemies, if not in public-which has led to this: under the auspices of U.N.C.L.E., Gaby coordinates intel-sharing with SIS and the KGB, Kuryakin shadows the KGB agent that the organization chose for its semi-public face, and Solo... well, he's the honeypot. Again.
He doesn't think Marlene knows anything about her ex-husband's doings, but he's here to make sure. To play the beach bum that Marlene can confide in after downing generous portions of Blue Hawaiians and Vodka Gimlets.
"Robert, look over there!" Marlene grabs his arm and points it in toward the water. "They're playing with a Frisbee!"
He looks closer at the group of young people throwing a lightweight disk-made of plastic, he thinks, rather than metal. "That's a Pluto Platter," he tells Marlene. Or a Flynn Saucer; another name that bobs to the surface of his memories.
She shrugs, uninterested in what he called the thing, and tugs him toward the group. Solo spends the afternoon getting a sore wrist and a sunburn, and learning exactly zero secrets from Marlene, who is more interested in watching shirtless men throw around a plastic saucer than in sharing confidences.
At least he wins whatever unofficial contest they're engaged in. Grand prize: the Frisbee disk itself. (Marlene was right; that name is printed across the top of it.)
Twenty-four hours later he meets up with Gaby and Illya in the ballroom of a hotel-not the hotel where Gaby stays in her official role, or where Illya doesn't sleep in his publicly undisclosed role. It's a boring meeting, but he's pathetically happy to see them and talk about something, anything, other than what passed as small talk in Marlene's circle of friends.
Okay, and maybe he's slightly pleased to see his U.N.C.L.E. colleagues, even if they're not all officially working for U.N.C.L.E. this time.
(The Istanbul mission ended two weeks ago; they arrived separately in Connecticut, flying in from different countries, and while Solo definitely works better alone, it's not always bad to have someone else around. Neither the Red Peril nor Gaby are hard on the eyes, and they're surprisingly effective given the one's temper and the other's newness to the job.)
Gaby finishes her U.N.C.L.E.-sanctioned news report, Illya stays close-mouthed, and Solo gets his turn. He pulls the Frisbee disk out of his briefcase with a flourish, stating, "This is what I have to report."
"Was ist das?" Gaby blurts out. It's a satisfying enough result to his deliberate dramatics.
"It's a Frisbee disk. And this is about as exciting as things got during the beach date with Marlene yesterday." He tosses it lightly and it sails across the length of the ballroom, bouncing off the wall and falling to the floor.
"This is for what purpose?" asks Illya.
"It's a game, Peril. You toss the Frisbee to your friends, they chase it around, you all get sunburned and drink a lot, and you don't share any secret plots your ex-husband had to steal a submarine and its crew."
Gaby raises her eyebrows. "At least you got to drink."
Fair point, he thinks. Per her report, she's been on the phone with London or talking to a KGB agent with a thicker accent than Illya's for the last three days.
Illya walks across the ballroom and then returns, Frisbee disk in hand. He examines it, turning it over. "Why the name Frisbee?"
"Does there have to be a reason?" He doesn't actually know the answer to Illya's question. Marketing, copyright law, a whim...
Illya bends his knees, flexes his wrist and throws it. It flops over, traveling maybe a third of the length of the ballroom. Gaby giggles, and it's the first time Solo has heard a sound like that come out of her mouth since-well, ever.
Illya's eyes narrow in a glare at Solo as he stalks back with the disk in hand again. "Teach me this," he says.
Napoleon hasn't actually thought through how he learned to throw the Pluto Platter; it takes him a few dry runs, feeling how his muscles work, to describe what to do.
On his next throw, Illya manages to get the Frisbee to hit almost the exact same spot on the far wall as Solo had earlier.
"Hmph," says Gaby, and takes the disk from Illya when he comes loping back again. Her toss isn't elegant, but it's serviceable enough to move the Frisbee almost the length of the ballroom. She smiles, pleased that her first throw didn't flop as badly as Illya's did.
Illya returns from yet another retrieval jog across the room. "This could be useful for delivery of information," he says. "In certain situation."
Gaby scoffs. "That doesn't sound very fun." She gestures imperiously, and Illya hands her the Frisbee. She takes careful aim, more graceful this time, and tosses the disk. It sails over to the far wall in an arc almost identical to Illya's second throw.
After five more minutes of Gaby and Illya taking turns throwing the Frisbee (with Illya on permanent retrieval duty), the two of them have created a complicated point system that involves the Frisbee touching a dent on the wall, or below the second wall sconce, or striking the chair rail between the third and fourth wall panels.
Napoleon loses to both of them.
He's vigorously consoling himself over his loss in the arms of a wiry waitress from the hotel restaurant when the idea blooms into existence.
Gaby and Illya have worked together on two missions. They're either both oblivious to how much the other is attracted, or they're deliberately not acting on it. Either way, given the stifling tension that builds up between them when they're near each other, Napoleon knows it's only a matter of time.
In the meantime, though, he has a window of opportunity. A chance to win at Frisbee and enjoy watching the two of them suffer. He'll be in close proximity to the secretive glances, blushing cheeks, and lingering touches, but this time he'll be orchestrating that tension instead of just putting up with it and wishing they would get on with it with already.
Implementing the plan the next morning requires a visit to the hardware store, a hunt for appropriate attire, and finally a trip to the beach to scope out the site of their upcoming defeat. Then he practices whenever possible, and waits for the right moment.
