Napoleon Solo stood at the Cliffs of Moher on the West coast of Ireland, taking in a breathtaking view as he climbed to the top of O'Briens tower.
Though sunny where he stood, a darkness was rolling in from the Atlantic, the gusting winds blowing his neatly combed hair straight back.
His eyes searched along the cliffs, spotting only Puffins and gulls. His partner was out there somewhere, that's what Illya's message said.
"Meet me at the Cliffs," nothing more.
Solo had walked up and down along the well tread path used by manys the tourist coming there to take in the sights. There was nothing quite like it, except the Cliffs of Dover in England, though Napoleon had never been there, so he wasn't sure the comparison was apt.
He was beginning to become concerned as there was no sign of Illya, and told himself the Russian was fine.
A familiar voice spoke out from behind him, startling the American for a split second, as he hadn't heard anyone approach.
"The cold smell of potato mould, the squelch and slap
Of soggy peat, the curt cuts of an edge
Through living roots awaken in my head.
But I've no spade to follow men like them.
Between my finger and my thumb
The squat pen rests.
I'll dig with it." *
"Seamus Heaney," Napoleon smiled. "I didn't know you were familiar with Irish poetry Illya."
"I know many things my friend," Kuryakin stepped up beside his partner, taking in the view of the cliffs." This particular poet is a favorite of mine...he has a remarkable range of work, from love poems, epic poems, poems about conflict and strife, odes to nature, poems addressed to friends, poems for the dead, poems that make marvelous use of the English language. They are filled with myths, images of the Irish landscape that call to ones soul...much like the great Russian poets," Illya smiled mischievously.
Together the two U.N.C.L.E. agents looked out again to the sea; Kuryakins blond hair blowing wildly as the rain finally began to fall.
"Illya why did you tell me to meet your here?" Napoleon asked as they headed down the steps and into the small tower for cover.
"For once, just to take in the view. I located the microchip and it is now winging its way to London via courier. Tonight I think we relax in Doolin, perhaps have a few pints and listen to music...maybe some poetry too," the Russian smiled in earnest.
It wasn't often they had the opportunity to stop and smell the roses, but tonight they would.
"Hmm, maybe I might meet up with a fine Irish lass," Napoleon grinned.
"Please, give it a rest will you?" Illya pleaded.
"All right, just for once I will, for you tovarisch."
"As the locals would say, go raibh maith agat mo chara_thank you my friend," Illya winked, speaking in Irish.
"I didn't know you knew Gaelic," Napoleon said as they prepared to dash down the path in the rain to their waiting rental car.
"As I said...I know many things, some that might surprise you." This time the Russian grinned.
"Illya, when it comes to you, I have learned to expect the unexpected." Napoleon turned up his jacket collar as the rain poured down on them.
"You once said I was predictable, so I have endeavored not to be so..."
"You're only predictable when it comes to food my friend, everything else is an unknown."
"Da," Illya grinned with an air of satisfaction as they hopped into the car, heading out for the short drive to Doolin...
.
* from,"Death of a Naturalist" by Seamus Heaney.
Authors note: yesterday Seamus Heaney, the Nobel winning, poet laureate of Ireland passed away at the age of 74.
Ar dheis Dé do raibh a anam_ may he sit at the Right Hand of God."