Author's Note:

This is one of seven interwoven stories based on the 60s television series The Man from U.N.C.L.E. I wrote in the very early 90s rescued from old floppy disks I found while cleaning out my studio. I loved the series when it originally aired and rekindled that love when my local PBS station ran all of the episodes in the late 1980s. As an added bonus my nieces fell in love with the series as well and I wrote a series of stories for them thus securing my place as "favorite aunt" in perpetuity.

While pretty much all of the original elements of the series remain, the universe has been "time shifted"—so all events in the original series canon took place, just later than in the original series so this group of stories occurs about 7 years post series and are set in the late 80s and early 90s. I like to think they capture the feel of the series and the sense of adventure, and witty, urbane humor that made the series so enjoyable.

While each story can be read as "stand alone" they will make much more sense if read in order as there is an overarching larger story playing out in the background.

The Queen of Ireland Affair

The Fun and Games Affair

The Express Checkout Affair

The St Stephen's Day Murder's Affair (Crossover with Homicide Life on the Street)

The Managed Care Affair

The Fat Tuesday Affair (brief crossover with The X Files)

The Phantoms of the Past Affair

All stories are completed though the migration from text to Word means they have to be reformatted and I'll be posting as I get them finished.

The Managed Care Affair

Napoleon Solo studied the two women warily as they got into his car. Although he couldn't explain it, they seemed eerily familiar, as if he'd perhaps known them somewhere long ago. The younger of the pair was particularly distinctive looking, her hair colored a garish red he felt certain had no counterpart anywhere in nature. Her incessant chattering wasn't giving him any information serving only to exacerbate the pounding headache that had been plaguing him for...for how long? Strange, but he couldn't seem to remember when the headache started.

"We sent him downtown to my husband's club," she explained. "We thought he was a talent scout for MGM."

"Your husband's club?" he asked stopping for the red light, and rubbing his throbbing temples. "What kind of a club?"

"It's a night club, Mr. Solo. It's called the Tropicana. It's very popular. Perhaps you've been there?"

"No, I don't think so. Your husband is an entertainer of some sort?"

"Her husband is Ricky Ricardo, the band leader. You must know who Ricky Ricardo is?" the older woman answered eyeing him suspiciously. "Everyone knows Ricky Ricardo."

"So, your friend Mr. Kuryakin isn't the talent scout from Hollywood?" the redhead asked.

"No, I'm afraid not. He's my business partner."

Napoleon was puzzled. The women certainly didn't seem like Thrush operatives, but of course, he of all people knew that was the whole point of working undercover, to seem like something other than what you actually were?

"Take a right at the next traffic light," the redhead directed. "It's just a few more blocks after that." Napoleon felt his stomach tighten. Something about this scenario seemed off and he felt certain he was walking into a trap. But what choice did he have? They had Illya. He parked in the deserted alleyway behind the night club. As the three of them approached the darkened club, he instinctively unfastened the buttons of his suitcoat, and brushed his fingers against the weapon in his shoulder holster.

"I wouldn't do that if I were you, Mr. Solo." Cold metal pressed into the back of his head. The redhead had dropped the scatterbrained facade, and her eyes were cold and merciless. "Get his gun, Ethel," she snapped at her companion.

The blond woman quickly relieved him of his weapon and his pen communicator. The pain in his head continued to gnaw at him. The pressure of the gun against the back of his neck coaxed him to move forward. She produced a silver key and unlocked the stage door.

"Did you bring the handcuffs, Lucy?" the blonde asked.

"Right here." she replied fishing them from the pocket of her slacks.

"Over here please, Mr. Solo." She prodded him toward a table in the front row. Deftly she threaded the handcuffs through the back of the chair and then fastened them to his wrists. "We only told you Mr. Kuryakin was at the club to lure you here. I knew who you were the moment we saw you."

"You did?"

"It was obvious."

"It was?"

"Of course," she smiled, "You're the talent scout from Hollywood."

Ceala stared intently at the show on the television in the clinic waiting room, desperate to focus her mind on something besides the growing knot of anxiety in her stomach. It appeared to be to be a comedy show of some sort; something older, she determined, as it wasn't in color. Though it had been eleven years since she'd left Dublin to live in New York, she had never developed an appetite for American television. It was too fraught with cultural implications, particularly American humor, and often she found it tedious to figure out what was going on. The children in the waiting room were laughing with obvious enjoyment as the two women onscreen hatched some strange plan.

"I need the person with patient Solo at the desk," a young man called out.

"Here," she responded getting up and walking to the desk.

He heard a soft familiar voice off beyond the darkness of the stage.

"I don't know. I called the number on the card and this was where they told me to bring him."

It was a woman's voice, the accent foreign, musical, Irish. Ceala, Napoleon was certain it was Ceala Kavanagh's voice he was hearing. But where was she?

"No, the delirium didn't start until after we got here."

There was another voice, decidedly male, though he didn't recognize the speaker and couldn't make out the actual words. Could it be Illya? No, he analyzed the slightly strained tone in Ceala's voice. The man she was talking to was clearly a stranger to her. But where were they? The club was dark now, and he labored vainly to free himself from the handcuffs binding him to the chair.

"No! It most certainly is not drugs. I told you that before." He could hear Ceala speaking again. Her voice was becoming sharp, indignant. "I told you, we were painting and he fell off of a ladder."

The man was speaking again but Napoleon still couldn't make out what he was saying.

"I called and left a message for his friend, Mr. Kuryakin. He should be here soon and can answer your questions."

He felt suddenly hopeful. If Ceala had spoken with Illya that meant the two women didn't have him. The two women? Though he didn't see them he could still hear them talking in the distance. He had to warn Ceala, about the two women. Desperately he tried to form the words. but found himself unable to speak. Had the women gagged him? He struggled to remember but came up with nothing. Then a strangely comforting darkness began to overtake him, and one by one the voices faded away.