"I'm not interested. Period. Over and out."
The room was dimly lit and the two men who occupied it were a study in contrasts. The one vehemently objecting was an American, and his obvious good looks were not much disturbed by the shabby surroundings and what appeared to be a blooming purple spot on his left cheek. Dark hair and eyes blended into the gloomy, ill lit room, making it difficult to discern just how angry he was simply by looking at his face.
The other man, the one who had caused the outburst, was blond and slightly built. Even in the darkened room his hair stood out like a beacon, nearly as much as his eyes that were a shade of blue usually reserved for Caribbean waters. He was shaking his head, obviously unhappy with the American's response to whatever had been said.
"Napoleon, it is such a small thing, a favor for me. I am merely pointing out the rather obvious fact that you …"
Napoleon Solo could have, at that moment and with very little more provocation that had already been supplied, throttle his Russian partner. As it was he might need him when it came time to escape this THRUSH cell.
"I am what, Illya? The resident sacrificial lamb? Why should I be the one to …. Sshhhh, I think someone is coming."
Both men scurried to their meager bunks. A guard approached the door and peered into the darkness beyond an iron gate. Leave it to THRUSH to furnish their cell with a garden theme.
"Hey, what's all the hollerin' about? I could hear you two all the way up to the kitchen."
Illya stood up and approached the gate. As he did so he let his shoulder slump a little, accentuating the difference in his size from the towering man on the other side.
"You have food for us, comrade? I would like something, anything.'
As Illya spoke in an exaggerated Russian accent, he opened his arms, making a large gesture to invite inspection.
I am so skeeny, da? You bring me food, I tell you strange secrets to get you promoted. You do that for me, for tovarisch?"
The guard wasn't sure how to take this. He'd heard about the Russian, been warned too. Maybe he'd better take this to his superior… Then again, maybe there was a promotion in it somewhere.
As Illya was engaging the man with his conversation Napoleon crept around the room's perimeter to arrive at the gate, just out of view in the dark. He was standing close enough to smell garlic on the man's breath, an indication that dinner was already served.
Napoleon used hand signals to try and speed things up, indicating to Illya to talk more, get the man to lean in closer.
"You have wodka in that keetchen, da. You and me, we sit down and drink like Russians, see who is left standing. I win, you let me out of this stinking cell. You win … I give you secrets. Da? Tell me your name, Mr. Guard, then we drink. And don't forget the food."
The guard was thinking about it. This little guy couldn't outlast him, he was sure of it. What would it hurt anyway? This place was boring as hell, and no one would be the wiser. It wasn't as though he'd actually let him go.
"Mike, and I know yours, Kuryakin. Yeah, we have vodka. First we drink and then you can eat… if you're still standing, that is."
With that he turned and headed back down the hall towards the kitchen. Napoleon faced Illya and threw his hands up in the air.
"What? Why not just lure him in right now and be done with it? Now he's liable to bring back more of his friends. I swear Illya, sometimes…"
But the Russian was smiling. He was hungry, and he wouldn't mind a drink. Napoleon could just wait and enjoy the show. They'd get out, but a little entertainment wasn't going to slow them down that much, after all they weren't in any danger in this outpost. It was strictly low-level stuff going on here, and the man in charge had gone on ahead with the idea of sending for the two UNCLE agents at a later date. From what they had gathered, a much later date.
"Indulge me, Napoleon. It is just a little joke, something to amuse me. And you, just wait and see."
It was fifteen minutes before Mike returned with three bottles of vodka. He knew he could drink this one under the table, something he'd done numerous times with other challengers. Drinking just happened to be a specialty of Mike Dougherty's, and vodka wasn't likely to be more volatile than the whiskey he was used to.
"Okay Ruskie, here's the vodka. Now, you stand on your side and I'll stand on mine."
Mike handed Illya a shot glass through the iron bars and poured the clear liquid to the very top.
Illya shrugged his shoulders and smiled back at the guard.
"Not very friendly, but … perhaps you will change your mind little by little. Very well … payékhalee." (let's get started)
"Nazdaróvye."
Illya made a face at that.
"No, no my friend. That is not Russian toast. You feed me and then when I say spacibo, you can say to me nazdaróvye."
Mike was surprised by the correction, but found it welcome. If he was to rise higher in THRUSH, it might be helpful to know another language.
"Thank you… may I call you Illya?"
Illya grinned like a lunatic, feigning the effects of the vodka as he raised a second glass.
"Da, da. Zatvajó zdaróvye! To your health, Mikhail."
"Da! Zata… What you said."
Napoleon decided to sit down and watch this exhibition. He already knew his partner's capacity for vodka, and without being familiar with the big guard it seemed wise to conserve his strength.
By the fourth shot Illya had toasted the war dead and was working on a fifth round in which he hoped fervently that he would not become shot. Or something like that. Mike was leaning into the bars now, an obvious affection for the skinny Russian beginning to manifest as he giggled and grinned. Napoleon was amazed that no one had come to check on them by now.
"Say, um… Mike."
"Yessir, I am."
Illya cut his eyes towards Napoleon, caught the half grin on the American's face.
"Yes, well… be that as it may … Mike, is there anyone else here in this building with us tonight? It seems awfully quiet."
The big man looked around conspiratorially, and then leaned in a little closer, beckoning to the two agents to do likewise.
"Not a sh..hic..soul… jez me. And youtwo."
As the last two words came out joined into one, Illya and Napoleon both straightened up and came to a singular conclusion.
"So, Mikhail, is time for supper? I am so hungry, tovarisch, and you said first we drink and then we eat."
Mikhail … Mike, decided it was only fair to feed his new friends. And, since no one was around to see him do it, he unlocked the gate and with a grand gesture pointed Illya and Napoleon to the kitchen.
"Spacibo, Mikhail. We will not forget this act of kindness."
Mike straightened up and turned towards the Russian.
"Hey, tovart-ish, where's your accent? And … what the …"
Napoleon hit Mike on the back of the head with one of the vodka bottles, spilling him and the contents onto the cement floor.
"I don't have an accent, Mike.' Illya turned to his partner. "Now, shall we?"
Napoleon nodded towards the big guard sprawled on the floor.
"What about Mike? He did let us out, after all."
The blond canted his head to one side, the question in that motion all that was needed.
"I mean, do we leave him to deal with the consequences?"
Illya shook his head at that, not wanting to appear callous in spite of his instinct that leaving the man was the wisest thing to do.
"Clean up crew? They could take him into custody. But, I suggest we first vacate this location and then call it in."
And that is exactly what they did.
Forty-eight hours later found them in New York, back at UNCLE Headquarters embroiled in the same debate that had sparked Napoleon's vehement objections while imprisoned in the garden-gate cell.
"Illya, I told you already. No. Not me, not now… no."
The blond was shaking his head again, sending the overly long blond hair into orbit around his face. He hadn't had a haircut in over two months and it was longer than anyone at HQ had ever seen it. Some of the women were hoping to keep it that way.
"Look, Napoleon, it's only one date, and with a very lovely young thing. You're always trying to set me up, I just want to return the favor."
Napoleon smirked at that. Yes, he did try and set up his friend periodically. But then, look who had the little black book. Illya's attempt to play matchmaker was suspicious at best.
"Will you be insulted if I say I don't trust your judgment concerning the kind of woman I should date?"
An expression of pure innocence passed over the Russian's face. If blue eyes could shame Napoleon into acquiescence…
"Oh all right. Damn it Illya, who is she and when do I have to do this?"
That brought a smile to Illya's face that seemed somehow disproportionate to the situation. Still, Napoleon would help out his friend by double dating with him. What he did for détente.
"Can you give me a hint please? Hair color, name…"
"Oh, yes by all means. Her name is Sophie. She's a redhead, slender build and a personality that just begs for affection. I think you two will be very well suited for one another. I'll bring her by around seven o'clock on Saturday evening. Don't dress up."
That struck Solo as odd, but he decided to go along with his friend's peculiar instructions.
On Saturday evening Napoleon had a selection of canapés and crudités on his counter top, with champagne chilling close by. A slim redhead named Sophie… He had decided it sounded promising after all. When the doorbell rang, Napoleon was ready to receive a stunning woman with whom to spend the evening.
"Hello… "
Illya was standing in the hallway with an Irish Setter at his side. Napoleon started to close the door but a large hand stopped it just as the Russian started begging for mercy.
"Please Napoleon. When have I ever asked something like this of you? Her mistress would not go out with me unless someone could sit with Sophie. As it is, she's slightly agitated to not meet you herself, but I convinced her that it would be easier for … the dog if I did this. You're my only hope for romancing this woman."
Napoleon was weakening, and Sophie was smiling at him, he was fairly certain.
"Why didn't you just ask me, Illya? I might have said yes."
"And you might not. Think of Madame Grushenka, Napoleon, and I believe you will concur that this might possibly make us even."
Ah yes… the Russian matron who cooed and called his partner Illyusha darling. Napoleon laughed at the memory, and at the little scheme that had brought this lovely setter to his door. He opened it wider and invited them in.
"All right, tovarisch, you're right. But, don't think this type of thing can become a routine for us. I can't have you leaving me with the dogs on a regular basis."
A light tap at the door announced the arrival of someone new. Standing there smiling was a lovely redhead of a completely different complexion.
"Oh, Natasha darling, you found me. This is my friend Napoleon… Napoleon, this is Natasha Petrova."
Napoleon took her hand and kissed it, understanding fully why Illya had gone to such lengths to make this evening possible. Natasha was a beautiful woman.
"Well, it is a pleasure, Natasha. And now, Illya, we each have a beautiful redhead with whom to spend our evening. I'm certain that Sophie and I will have a wonderful time, and I hope that you two will as well."
Natasha was beaming. Finding an acceptable dog-sitter was not an easy task, and Napoleon seemed to be perfect for her Sophie. In fact, he seemed to be perfect on all counts.
"Napoleon, you are so kind to keep company with my Sophie. I know…'
Natasha was a woman used to employing her wit in pursuit of her desires.
"We shall bring back something and spend the end of our evening with you, to thank you for your generosity."
That caught Illya completely off guard. Spending part of his evening with Napoleon is not what he had planned. Suddenly, his little ruse seemed less amusing than it had just minutes before.
Napoleon felt the unease developing with Natasha's bold plan. Common sense was yelling at him to stop it before there were blows exchanged. Illya had seemed truly smitten by this woman; enough to engage in a little mischievous game playing.
"Oh, no I don't think so, Natasha. That's kind of you to think of me, but … no. I'll be turning in as soon as you come to pick up Sophie. I, um… I have an early meeting tomorrow… Golf. Bright and early."
A pouting expression marred the pretty features, and for Illya the evening was already over. He would go through the motions of escorting Natasha to the ballet and dinner, come back for Sophie and then take the redheads back to their apartment. Napoleon sensed the change in his friend's demeanor, and was instantly angry with the woman responsible.
The departure was quick and, between the two friends, slightly tense. Not because of anything either man had done, but in response to the unthinking actions of an obtuse woman. Napoleon considered it in their absence while Illya endured it alongside Natasha. He regretted conning his friend into this evening, regretted even more having romantic feelings towards someone so obviously unsuitable. A deep sigh punctuated the Russian's remorse even as he found himself thinking back on the drinking bout with Mike.
That had turned out exactly right. Why was it that his instincts about dealing with THRUSH were better honed than his relationships with women? He had followed that bit of humor until it led them to freedom. Somehow, Illya would have to develop the same type of humor when dealing with women and romance.
A sense of humor might lead him to being more sensible. He snickered slightly at that, causing Natasha to question him about it.
"Oh, I was just remembering something.'
He decided to try it out now.
"Natasha darling, do you want to see this ballet or would you like to take me back to your apartment and make love to me? Either way I will do what you prefer, but you can dance with me in the dark or sit here watching… What is his name? Nureyev? Tell me now… him or me?"
Natasha was stunned. Stunned into action so swift that their seats popped up in the wake of their departure.
When Illya went to collect Sophie, his tuxedo was missing both the cumberbun and the bow tie. Napoleon immediately recognized the signs of post-coital lethargy, something that seemed conspicuously pungent on the blond.
"Oh, well … So, how was the ballet? You look as though you might have had quite a performance yourself."
A tisking sound was all he got in response. Illya held out his hand to Sophie, retrieving the leash from the little hall table by the door. As he watched the blond attach the leash, Napoleon relayed news of a work related nature.
"Waverly has summoned us. We have a meeting at eight a.m. and a flight at ten."
Illya rolled his eyes, but a smile crept onto his face nonetheless.
"Pick me up?"
"Your place or Natasha's?"
"Mine. My sense of humor with humorless women is waning."
Napoleon's expression went quizzical at that. Sometimes he really didn't understand his Russian partner very well.
"O-kaaay. Seven-thirty?"
"I shall be there. And Napoleon… thank you."
"Hey, you got me fair and square. Out-witted but not out done."
"No, never that. Good night, my friend. See you in the morning."
"Good night, Illya."
~~~~~:
Common sense and a sense of humor are the same thing, moving at different speeds.
A sense of humor is just common sense, dancing.
William James