THE COUNTDOWN TO ANNIHILATION AFFAIR
Chapter 1:
"Trouble in Paradise?"
"Well, Illya, come for the coffee or the ambiance?" Napoleon Solo said with a quirk of a smile as he sat across the table from Illya Kuryakin.
Illya sipped his white chocolate mocha coffee, with added vanilla bean powder sprinkles, while eyeing his friend and fellow agent as though trying to peer deep into Napoleon's memory of nocturnal events from a week ago.
"What can I get for you today, hon?" asked an auburn-haired young woman in hip-hugger jeans, open-toed sandals and midriff cut short-sleeve T-shirt, whose silk-screened words and images were hidden by the Starbucks' green bib apron.
Napoleon wasn't sure, but he thought the young waitress might've been flirting with him.
Illya figured she probably saw a father-figure in the graying U.N.C.L.E. agent and found himself amused by Napoleon's unflagging belief in his own sensuality.
"Uh, well now, let me see," Napoleon finally puzzled, as his hazel eyes danced in a contemplative circle, then said, "I'll have a Guatemala Casi Cielo with a sprinkling of both maple and pumpkin spice and, if possible, jack up the caffeine level for me, sweetie, it may end up being a very long day."
Looking a little lost, the gum-chewing waitress, young enough to be Napoleon's granddaughter, nodded and replied, "Uh, I'll see what we can do."
As she quickly left, Illya couldn't help but be even more amused, as Napoleon casually, by way of changing the subject, said, "Well, Illya, aren't you going to ask me about the young lady at JFK when we returned from our first mission affair in…how many years?"
"No," said Illya with a shake of his blonde head, while sipping more of his rather tasty coffee concoction, "I was too busy explaining to our new 'boss' why you'd decided to forego standard debriefing procedure which, if you'll remember, is required immediately after any mission affair. Much less this one. By the way…she wasn't pleased. Perhaps you'd better have that Guatemala Casi Cielo served with a shot of vodka on the side."
"You know, Illya, jealousy is an ugly thing," Napoleon said with playful sarcasm. "It's not my fault the lady didn't have a friend interested in past-their-prime Russians with blonde hair and blue eyes. How do you keep your hair color, by the way? Doesn't look like a dye job."
Illya simply said, "It isn't," and left it at that, just as Napoleon's requested coffee concoction was brought by the auburn-haired beauty, whose swift smile was followed by an even swifter departure.
"Thank…," Napoleon had started to say, only to have his parting salutation left dangling like an unwelcome flower in the hand of the only guy at a dance with no female takers. "Well…cheers, my friend."
"Cheers."
Roughly a half-hour later, both men made their way into the supply area in back of the storefront, tugged firmly on a fake section of supply racks, which swung open with ease, in order to reveal the flush metal blast-proof top-secret U.N.C.L.E. entrance.
"You first, my American friend," Illya said to Napoleon.
Both pulled their wallets from inner coat pockets of expensively tailored suits, then used top-secret keycards to zip through the recessed card-reading slot. Immediately after, there came the audible humming sound preceding a click signifying the opening of magnetic locks.
As it opened and closed automatically, the two agents stepped through, past unseen sensors, with the false supply shelves hiding the entrance from prying eyes closing and securing itself as well.
And not a moment too soon, as the gum-chewing young waitress stepped into the area to grab some cups, lids, and various other official Starbucks' supplies, less than a second after the secret U.N.C.L.E. ingress became hidden from view once again.
"I could've sworn," she said under her breath with a puzzled scowl, then shrugged. "Huh. Guess I need a coffee break."
After a brief walk along the entrance hall, where a variety of male and female U.N.C.L.E. operatives were coming and going, crossing before and behind them, until…
"Good morning, gentlemen," the pleasant-sounding young man said with a smile even as he took two upside-down triangle badges, numbered "11" and "2" respectively, in preparation for attaching them to the suit coat pockets of two over-the-hill U.N.C.L.E. operatives.
"Uh, that's all right, I, uh, prefer to do it myself," Napoleon Solo said with a hint of homophobia, taking his badge and attaching it to his own coat pocket.
"Very well, Mr. Solo," said the strictly heterosexual male receptionist/secretary as he turned his attention to the more sexually secure Russian-born U.N.C.L.E. agent. "Mr. Kuryakin?"
"Uh, certainly, uh, Number 14, thank you," Illya said politely as badge Number 2, Section 2, was clipped onto the fair-haired agent's suit coat pocket.
Number 14 nodded affably, then returned his attention to the myriad duties which included far more than simply handing out badges to incoming operatives as he pressed the necessary touch-sensitive button to open the door to the inner office.
"Good morning, agents," greeted Ms. Hall, though not at all pleasantly in connection with Napoleon Solo, while simultaneously gesturing to the same two ultra-modern chairs before her desk. "Mr. Solo, I trust you have…"
"An explanation for not reporting for debriefing when Mr. Kuryakin did?" Napoleon smilingly said. "My apologies, Ms. Hall, I was unavoidably…detained. I have, however, since met with…"
"Mr. Solo," said Ms. Hall with more than a little irritation, "perhaps the man who sat in this office a few decades back…"
"Alexander Waverly," Napoleon said with a bemused half-smile.
"Yes, Mr. Solo, I am aware of the various U.N.C.L.E. heads that have come and gone through these hallowed halls. I think you're missing the point. I insist on all my agents, not just the younger ones or the polite Russian ones, to report for debriefing within 24 hours of the successful completion of a mission affair," sternly said Ms. Hall with a barely audible sigh of rapidly growing exasperation. "Mr. Kuryakin did so. You, however, Mr. Solo…"
Before she could continue and before Napoleon, still sporting a smile bordering on a full-blown smirk, could interject, Ms. Hall pulled a computerized pad from the neat pile arranged just so on her oval desk's smooth metal surface.
"According to U.N.C.L.E. surveillance, which I just happened to have on hand at JFK upon your return, you left with a young woman…very young…whom you then took, via taxi to a passable three-star hotel called…"
Blessedly the chastising of Napoleon by Ms. Hall was interrupted by the signal-beep of whoever was currently manning the U.N.C.L.E. communications center, whereby she tapped a button with one beautifully manicured, though still quite businesslike, forefinger.
"Control, com. What is it?"
"Control, we just received an interrupted incoming text message from U.N.C.L.E. agents 48 and 57 from Kazakhstan," said the voice of an attractive woman, or so Napoleon imagined, via unseen speakers. "At last report…Aqtau."
Slightly perturbed by the interruption, and not yet concerned about what has happened to these two U.N.C.L.E. agents, Ms. Hall snappishly said, "I know, I'm the one who sent them there! What did they report before transmission was interrupted, com?"
Napoleon noticed Illya not only scowling, but scooting to the edge of his seat with concerned interest etched into his relatively line-free face. There was something regarding the Slavic country of Kazakhstan that clearly disturbed Illya. Something personal.
Napoleon now sat forward, too, his ears taking in the conversation between Ms. Hall and the unseen beauty, from her voice, in communications. His eyes, however, narrowed and fixed upon the deepening glower dominating Illya's features.
"This is the transcript of their last text messaged report," com said. "'Have located the package. Buyers in play. Preparing to crash party.' That was it until what sounded like a partial live transmission requesting immediate 'egress'…cut short by what appeared to be gunfire."
The communications operative, located far from U.N.C.L.E. control in, never bothered to finish. She didn't have to.
Attempting to alleviate the sudden heaviness settling over this understandably tense moment, Napoleon lifted both eyebrows, inclined his salt-and-pepper head and half-jokingly asked, "Trouble in paradise?"
END OF CHAPTER 1