First he noticed a red rose on his desk. And... a cigar. Then, a Spanish fan...
Beautiful.
Though, he smelled a rat... Waverly had called him in, unexpectedly and Illya... Illya had vanished into thin air.
"No, sir, I..."
Icy eyes sparkled through bushy eyebrows. "It's no use arguing, Mr. Solo."
"But... but I can't sing, sir! I can't perform opera!"
"Right!" Alexander Waverly leaned forward with an evil grin. "But Section 4 – Thanks to Mr Kuryakin – worked out the difficulty. They fashioned a wonderful device. All you'll have to do is..." Evil grin, again, " ... Miming... You'll be a great Don Jose..."
Thanks to Mr. Kuryakin... Thanks to Mr. Kuryakin... a fuming Napoleon Solo muttered as he was heading to his office. Leaning against the wall, Illya was casually playing with the fan, humming a vaguely familiar melody.
"Illya! What the hell..."
"The Flower Song, Napoleon... La fleur que tu m'avais jetée... The flower that you had thrown me... Don Jose.. Eeeeh..." He ducked when the pencil cup came flying at him. "A flower, Napoleon!"