Illya, lugging the folded kennel cage along with his valise, watched as a small crowd gathered around the dog and his partner as they headed for the departure gate. He put everything down and prepared himself, just in case this might be the attempt to take Hans.
He gave a sigh of relief when the dog-fans finally drifted away, and the trio were able to head to check-in. Arrangements had been made with the airline for Hans to ride in the rear of the plane, rather than stowed in the luggage hold. The dog was considered too valuable an asset as well as being the most famous dog of his breed in all of Switzerland and therefore a source of pride to the Swiss.
Napoleon stopped for a moment, chatting up a dark-haired stewardess named Greta who welcomed them aboard. She winked, knowingly at the handsome America, having been briefed before the flight regarding the special arrangements to transport Hans, as well as about the two men traveling with the dog.
"I hope Hans will be safe on the flight," she whispered to Napoleon. "The passenger manifest seems in order.
"Thanks you Miss...Greta, but I think we will be the judge of that. Might we have a copy of it once we have become airborne?" Illya asked firmly, but politely.
"But of course...umm," she looked at her list. "Mr. Van Leeuwenhoek.
"Thank you, that would be most helpful." The Russian continued past her, carrying the cage to the back of the plane, cautiously eyeing his fellow passengers...noting a few looked vaguely familiar, but nothing that set off any red flags to him. He continued to the back; he set up the cage, allowing some space between him and Hans by making a beeline for his window seat as Napoleon walked the dog down the aisle.
A stainless steel bowl of water was put into the cage, the muzzle removed and Hans was settled in by his new American companion. He gave the dog a couple of treats and a good scratch behind the ears before safely locking the pooch up for the flight.
"You take it easy Hans, and I'll be back to check on you later...and don't mind my grumpy old partner. He's a good guy."
The dog tilted his head, wagging his tail and staring at Napoleon in a quizzical fashion, making the American wonder for a second if it could really understand him. He never had a dog growing up in the Hamptons, as his father forbade pets, but most of the neighbors had them, purebreds of course and many show dogs, so he had been around them as a child, and to him dogs were no big deal.
He returned to his seat, but a few rows away from the kennel cage, and sat next to his partner who already had his head laid back.
"Sleeping already? We haven't even taken off."
Illya popped open one eye, staring at him. "No, just resting my eyes and trying to relax. You do not understand how tense I become when around dogs, and I need to relieve myself of that tension before a migraine sets in."
"I do understand more than you think. We'll have a nice flight and after we safely deposit the dog at show...I'll treat you to a nice dinner and drinks at the 21 Club. Just relax, Hans is safely locked away in his cage and won't bother you.
"Thank goodness for small favors, and thank you for the offer of dinner but that is really unnecessary."
Napoleon contorted his face at his partner. "You must really not be feeling well if you're turning down a free meal."
Illya didn't respond, and just closed his eyes again. Solo shrugged and followed suit, as he jet-lagged himself.
The flight was turbulent, not permitting the agents to catch up on their sleep after all and following several sudden drops, Illya began to pale. To his embarrassment, the Russian became air sick and retreated to the lavatory, not wishing to use the bags the airline provided for just such a problem.
When he returned to his seat he was looking flushed and even more uneasy.
"You okay chum?"
"Do I look okay? I am an experienced pilot and never get air sick; this is not like me." Illya snapped, losing ones lunch was not a pleasant feeling, especially for one enamored of his food as the Russian was.
He took Dramamine and asked the Stewardess for ginger ale, and that seemed to take care of things, and was asleep within minutes inspite of the rough flight, and nearly slept right through dinner.
Though they were traveling coach, the stewardesess saw to it the UNCLE agents received a meal from the first class menu, this however, was only because they were escorting Hans. So they in essence had a dog to thank for their bounty.
For Hors d'oeuves they had imported Malossol Caviar, Melba Toast, and slices of Foie Gras de Strasbourg. Soup was a cold Vichyssoise. The main course for Napoleon was a Swiss speciality of Minced Veal with Button Mushrooms in Cream Sauce, Spaetzlis in Butter, and a salad Salad. Illya opted for the veal steaks, Swiss-Italian Style, with thin Layer of Swiss Cheese, Noodles in Butter, Braised Lettuce with Chipolata.
"I thought you were air sick?" Solo laughed as he saw his partner dig into his food with relish.
"I took the medication, and the ginger soda settled my stomach, so as you can see I am more myself now, "the Russian grinned.
Napoleon stepped back to check on Hans and found the dog laying down, seemingly unaffected by the turbulence, He guessed the animal was accustomed to flying, traveling to shows around the globe.
"Hi there Hansi boy, you doing all right?" He reached inside the cage, giving the dog a hearty pat, and a few more treats. "So are you going to be the one to cure my partner of his fear of doggies? If you're extra-nice to him, there's a T-bone steak in it for you."
Hans sat up, pawing Napoleons hand, and gave a small yip. It was if the dog was agreeing to the agents terms. Solo shook his head," Noooo," he muttered to himself, though he half wondered if the dog really understood this time.
He returned to his seat, settling in to watch the in-flight movie, this time it was something more interesting...a Steve McQueen film called "The Great Escape."
Solo dozed off again, missing most of the movie, and when he awoke, he peeked over at his partner, still sound asleep. That was the best thing for the Russian at the moment. Napoleon, stood, feeling like stretching his leg and just as he did, he heard a commotion coming from the first class section. There was a scream and he charged from his seat, ready to pull his Special. Illya woke instantly and was right behind him.
A thin blond man suddenly appeared in the aisle, brandishing a Luger and had the barrel pointed straight at the stewardess' right temple. He had his left arm wrapped around her, and the fear was evident in her wide brown eyes.
This had to be it, Napoleon guessed. They were hijacking the plane and going to take the dog.
He moved his hand away from his gun, assuming Illya was doing the same thing; though he had sleep darts in his magazine, his partner tended to favor live ammo. If there were any wild shots fired in retaliation by the hijackers, the cabin could decompress and if any windows were shattered that could create even greater problems...not to mention, there were too many innocents who could be hit.
"Return to your seats now!" The man ordered with a heavy German accent,"Or I will kill her, and she will be just the first if anyone tries to be the hero." He tone was menacing and no doubt he was serious about his intentions.
Illya backed towards their seats with his partner right behind him.
"They did not seem to react to us, perhaps they do not know we are the ones escorting the dog?" Illya whispered. "Though they would have surely seen us board with..."
"I know chum," Napoleon cut him off. He was listening as the other passengers began to whimper and cry.
"I want all your passports out as well as your valuables," the hijacker shouted in English and repeated himself in German and French.
The sounds of fear rose in the cabin. "Silence!" It became eerily quiet as the passengers clung to each other, now afraid to make a sound.
"One of my men will be coming around to collect everything. If you do not cooperate, you die. It is as simple as that."
The UNCLE agents discreetly undid their shoulder holsters and ducked them with their guns under the seat cushions.
"Our passports are under our cover names, so they shouldn't attract any undue attention," Napoleon whispered, removing his UNCLE ID from his wallet and handing it to Illya; the Russian ducked it along with his into one of the magazines in the holder in front of him.
Another brown-haired man, also armed with a gun, appeared in the aisle, and carrying a trash bag, he held it out for each of the passengers to deposit their belongings into it.
"You, lady...off with that gold ring now," he ordered a white-haired woman..
"Aber ... aber es ist mein Ehering_but...but it is my wedding ring," she pleaded in German." Es ist alles, war ich von Meinem verstorbenen Ehemann Verlassen Haben_it is all I have left of my late husband."
The hijacker raised his hand to strike her, but his comrade called out, stopping him.
"Otto nein!" He shouted in German.
"Aber Rolf_but Rolf?"
"Leave it! Sorry, old mother but my companion is a bit too enthusiastic. You can keep your marriage ring, but please empty your purse into the bag," he said, seeing the woman was very well dressed.
She overturned her brocade hand bag, dumping a jewelry roll and a substantial amount of cash into the plastic bag.
When he reached Solo and Kuryakin, he eyed them suspiciously. The agents deposited their wallets and watches, but Illya had already removed the thin gold ring from his finger and tucked it in his sock. He was not one to plead like the old woman, and the ring was the one last object he possessed tied to his father, and would not part with it.
Both he and Napoleon had hidden their communicators in with the magazines, keeping their fingers crossed they'd be safe along with their UNCLE ID.
"Let me see your passports and travel papers you two," the man ordered ...