Mary Grace felt a wave of anxiety as she entered the conference room. The tension was so thick you could cut it with a knife. It was her first week as a sec3 and she still felt awkward sharing the communal workspace with sec2s –all the more so with two legends like Napoleon Solo and Illya Kuryakin sitting across the round table from one another. She was still uncertain of the protocol of joining senior agents at the table. Should she say something before seating herself? Would it be seen as rude or presumptuous to simple seat herself at the table with them? But could it not also be seen as rude or presumptuous to interrupt them when they appeared to be involved in something serious?
She decided to chance the former rather than the latter and plopped herself down in the chair farthest from the two agents. The bump up to Section Three from Section Five had been highly flattering and completely unexpected. While she'd often fantasized about the glamourous lives of the Enforcement agents—she realized that in her heart she lacked the intrepid, confident nature that was an integral part of a field agent's toolkit. But when Lisa Rogers told her she was being offered the training opportunity, she'd tamped down her anxiety and said yes.
She'd settled in to write her first report on the training mission with Lisa Rogers and the other three trainees this morning—but the palpable tension between Solo and Kuryakin was difficult to ignore. Both men were intently focused on the computer monitors as if each of them was the only person in the room. It had to be something serious, she decided. Something bad. Something really bad. The churning feeling in her stomach returned with a vengeance and she knew she should take one of her anxiety pills—but the closest water fountain was one floor down.
She tried to remain focused on the report—but the tension was growing. Mr. Kuryakin's typing was getting faster—Mr. Solo was frantically scrolling through pages on the screen. Whatever they were working on was something bad, very very bad. She thought of her parents in their flat in Brooklyn and her grandmother in Brighton Beach. Were they in danger? She tried the breathing exercises her therapist recommended—breath out your worries, Mary Grace, breath in calm happy thoughts. It wasn't helping.
She looked across the table at Kuryakin—his jaw was clenched so tightly she thought his jugular vein was going to burst. She expected the alarms to go off at any second; her heart was pounding so hard she was surprised neither of the men could hear it.
What had she been thinking accepting this promotion? Heck, what was she thinking working for an organization like the UNCLE? She scooped up the file with her notes and walked directly down the hall to Lisa's office. She didn't have the stomach for this kind of work. She'd go back to her old job in ladies' foundations at Bonwit Teller. The world was a dangerous place and sometimes the only path to sanity was to not know what was going on.
Doug Hansen felt a wave of anger as he entered the conference room. The tension was so thick you could cut it with a knife. Something was up with Solo and Kuryakin. The pair sat across the table from one another working silently—certainly a far cry from their normal banter filled working chemistry. Perhaps they'd had some sort of falling out? Probably over some woman, he decided.
Solo made no effort to hide the fact that he was a notorious womanizer—it seemed every few months a spate of young lovelies from the support staff would be clamoring for transfers to other offices after becoming another notch on the CEO's bedpost. Being the organizations top enforcement agent had it's privileges and Solo didn't hesitate to cash them in.
Doug chose a seat halfway between the two men; neither bothered to look up and acknowledge his presence. Typical. He'd been passed over yet again for promotion to sec3 –the third pass in the past year. He'd been looking for someplace quiet to organize his resume and write his letter of resignation only to be nearly run down by the girl who'd been handed the spot that rightfully should have been his. Timid little Mary Grace Pennoyer—in what world did someone like her make the jump from support staff to sec3? Women had no business being field agents. They were fine for answering phones and taking dictation but field work was for men.
He looked across the table and saw Kuryakin's shoulders tense and jaw tighten as he pounded the keyboard. He recognized the body language: that was one pissed off Commie and he was pretty sure that Napoleon Solo was the target of that anger. Now he was sure it was over some woman. He remembered the woman Kuryakin brought to the fundraiser at the Guggenheim last month, an Irish doctor with a killer rack. Solo had been chatting her up all during dinner.
Solo must have done her and Kuryakin found out. Classic. Broads were ruining the world. He finished up his resignation letter and slipped it into the envelope. He'd drop it of on Roger's desk and take off. It was their loss.
Martine Archambault felt a wave of raw sexual desire as she entered the conference room. The tension was so thick you could cut it with a knife. This was the stuff of her fantasies—alone with the two hottest men in the entire UNCLE organization. She'd had a 'thing' for both men since she'd come to the New York office three months ago and had been sending out signals in both of their directions but neither man seemed to take notice.
She'd suspected the reason for some time; she'd heard vague rumors, but the tension between the two men now confirmed it for her. The way they worked together, the way they finished each other's sentences, and now the obvious sexual tension. They were lovers.
Ironically, she'd come to here to escape the scrutiny of Doug Hansen while she finished writing his personnel evaluation. The little prick had barreled into her as she approached the conference room, not even bothering to apologize. She flipped open the file and skimmed through the contents again. Nine complaints. Nine complaints in six months—she was pretty sure it was an agency record.
"Not a team player" "narcissist" "self-important" "anger issues" she circled each of the pertinent comments then moved on to the five complaints detailing his treatment of his female superiors and subordinates. "Chauvinist", "misogynist" "dismissive" "insubordinate" "patronizing" "vulgar" "insulting".
The last report was actually in some way the most worrisome. A member of support staff—she circled the name Mary Grace Pennoyer- with no prequalifications had been promoted to Section 3 specifically to "get Hansen's goat". She hoped no actual animal was involved—though her British English skills were excellent, she still occasionally struggled with the idioms of American English. Whatever Hanson's "goat" might be, promoting an unqualified person to Section Three to acquire said "goat" was unacceptable.
She marked Hanson's file for termination with a permanent nonrehire notation. She made a note to herself to speak with the woman who had approved the "goat getting" mission and to speak with Miss Pennoyer to find some diplomatic way to return the young woman to Section Five without embarrassing her. She added a third note to send a memo to Alexander Waverly to talk about having a reevaluation of the battery of psychological testing they were using for preemployment screening. Times were changing and men who didn't respect women had no place in the organization.
Gathering the last of the papers back into the folder she took one last look at Solo and Kuryakin. The growing tension between the two men was palpable, yet strangely arousing. Such a waste—though at least now she knew their lack of interest wasn't any reflection on her. She indulged herself in a momentary fantasy of a menage a trois on the round table, scooped up her file folder and walked back to her office.
Napoleon Solo stole a quick look up from the computer screen. The tension was so thick you could cut it with a knife. Kuryakin was typing furiously, his jaw clenched. How much longer was he going to continue the silent treatment?
"Thirty-seven blocks," Kuryakin said—his typing slowed but he didn't not look up. "Each way. Seventy-four blocks—four miles."
"I said I was sorry. There are plenty of delis in this neighborhood."
"Not with hand cured pastrami and tzitzle rye bread and pickled beet relish that tastes just like my babushka used to make."
"You left it," Napoleon protested. "I thought you were finished."
"I left it wrapped up in the icebox so I could finish it after I completed the report you neglected to finish and turn in to Mr. Waverly"
"Refrigerator."
"Excuse me?"
"No one says 'icebox' anymore it's a refrigerator."
"And my pickle-you ate my pickle! You know full well I save the pickle for last so I can enjoy it by itself."
"I said I was sorry, and I got you a package of cheese crackers from the vending machine."
Kuryakin flashed him a murderous glance. "Were I less of a gentleman I'd tell you exactly what you can do with your vending machine cheese crackers."
"Okay, how about I take you to that little Ukrainian place on 86th street the place with the latkes and that chicken with the butter inside? You love that place. My treat."
"I have dinner plans this evening."
"With Moira?"
"Yes."
"Perfect, it can be the three of us, on me."
"Perhaps some other time but my plans for this evening are only for the two of us. I haven't seen her since the brunch at the Waverly's."
"Trouble in paradise?"
"Scheduling conflicts. She has her teaching schedule and her work with the UN and the WHO. You and I had that Affair in St Louis and then Jacksonville. I may be looking to pick up some overtime when my long-distance phone bill arrives."
Kuryakin stood up, checked his watch, then handed Napoleon the files he'd been working on.
"So, I'm forgiven?" he asked flashing his most contrite smile.
"You're going to be in at seven tomorrow and finish these reports. I'll be in at noon."
"Noon?"
"Yes, noon. And there will be a pastrami sandwich on tzitzle rye with picked beet relish from Zeilenski's on my desk when I get here—with two pickles."
He started to protest but thought better of it. He wondered if Martine Archambault was free for dinner tonight?