The Merrick Affair by InFabula
Chapter One: Capture
Disclaimer: I do not own Illya, Napoleon or any part of the UNCLE universe: I just borrowed them for a bit.
A/N This was published as part of a File 40 anthology a few years back. Thought I'd post it here too.
Illya Kuryakin's eyes fluttered open as he struggled back into consciousness. As he tried to ignore the thumping pain in his head that told him he had been knocked out for the nth time in his life, he took a look at his surroundings.
He was not surprised to find himself strapped into a chair—that was par for the course. The sterile sunlit room was unusual, however, more like a dentist's surgery or a hospital—he caught himself. The deepest, darkest Thrush prison would hold less terror. A nagging thought caught at the back of his mind; perhaps Thrush had learned of his aversion for all things medical. He didn't like where that was leading and distracted himself by studying his bonds.
Leather, he noted, strong and tough, holding his wrists and ankles firmly in place. Another strap was buckled over his thighs and yet another around his chest. Illya tested each in turn—all of them secure, all of them tight. He wasn't going anywhere.
Sighing, he went over the events that had led to his capture. The day had started innocently enough. A briefing with Mr. Waverly, the usual banter with Napoleon over which of them would follow up the lead on the warehouse and which of them would pursue the beautiful Countess…the new assignment couldn't have had any bearing, surely. He hadn't even got near the warehouse.
From what he could recall, he had walked out of Del Floria's and crossed the road to collect a paper. Then his world had gone black. He frowned. It took some nerve to abduct him in broad daylight right outside U.N.C.L.E. H.Q…nerve or stupidity. Still, it had worked…
He saw that his captors had relieved him of his watch, suit jacket and shoes and socks. That meant that he was minus communicator, explosives and anything else that would have been useful. Plus he had no idea of the correct time and cold toes. He flexed them nervously. There was nothing he could do but wait and he hated waiting.
In another part of town, Napoleon Solo's sixth sense told him all was not well. He had thought nothing of Illya breaking their lunch date—he knew his partner did not always work to the same clock as everyone else.
However, the sight of a dossier relating to their current assignment lying unopened on Illya's desk started the alarm bells ringing. Whilst he himself had been known to wing it on occasion, his partner was nothing less than thorough in his preparation. No way Illya would have gone off without checking this material.
Napoleon tried to raise him but there was no answer. With a furrowed brow, he pushed the picture of the attractive Countess to one side; memorizing her favorite hobbies would have to wait.
No one in Communications had heard from Illya; no one had seen him since first thing that morning. He checked with Jerry in Del Floria's.
"Mr. Kuryakin? I saw him come in early as usual. I haven't seen him since he left about eleven-thirty."
Straight after the initial briefing. Napoleon racked his brains. They had left Waverly's office, Illya still complaining about being given the less glamorous end of the assignment and they were heading up the corridor…what else had happened? They had arranged to meet up for lunch and Illya had muttered something about buying a paper. That was the last time they had spoken.
A paper…that would have been from the stand across the road. Napoleon set off to investigate.
The paperboy was singularly unhelpful until a five-dollar bill was waved under his nose; then his memory came flooding back.
"Blond gentleman? About so big?" He waved a hand somewhere near Napoleon's elbow.
"Mmm-hmm," Napoleon agreed, making a mental note to tease Illya when he caught up with him.
"He bought a paper off me and then I had a couple of customers but I saw him driven off in the back of a car. He looked like he was sleeping." His eyes flicked down to the cash.
Napoleon added another five-dollar bill.
"A description of the driver? A truthful one," he warned, noting the gleam in the boy's eye.
Crestfallen, the boy shook his head. "I didn't really see much. A guy, dark hair, dressed in a suit. That's it."
"What about the car?"
"Black. Ford Sedan. New York plates." Without hesitation.
"Any more detail on those plates?"
"It began with BR and it definitely had a 56 in it."
Napoleon raised his eyebrows.
"I'm a baseball fan," the boy said by way of explanation.
"Of course." And it did make sense. It wouldn't have done so to Illya but Napoleon recognized Babe Ruth's initials and the fabled hitting streak of Joe DiMaggio.
He gave the boy the money and headed back across the road deep in thought. Illya abducted. He sighed. The Countess was going to have to wait a little longer.