THE HOMELAND AFFAIR
By AJ Burfield
CHAPTER ONE
The flight had been relaxing, really. As U.N.C.L.E. agent Illya Kuryakin stretched his legs out in front of him he recalled a joke about how his boss. Alexander Waverly, known for his penny-pinching ways and acid comments on questionable expense accounts, probably rose to the level of head of the New York Command by only authorizing coach class for all agent travel. He wondered if Waverly followed these guidelines when he traveled, but doubted the man ever flew a commercial flight with all the aircraft U.N.C.L.E. had at its disposal. Illya sighed, made himself as comfortable as possible, and was grateful for his smaller stature.
He was also grateful that he was alone in his row of seats. Not one for chatting or idle talk, Illya took the opportunity during the trans-Atlantic flight to read some technical manuals. It was always a good idea to keep up on the latest trends in weaponry and other gadgets; you never knew when they might come in handy. It was dark outside, as it was the middle of the night, and most of the other passengers were asleep, making it wonderfully quiet; a rare thing a field agent's day. He adjusted his reading glasses and settled down with an inner sigh.
"Can I get you anything, sir? Coffee? A pillow?" The smiling stewardess labeled 'Darla' had managed to sneak up on him once again, the over-zealous smile making him feel nothing but irritated.
"No, thank you again," he answered civilly, even throwing in a small grin. "I'm fine." Napoleon Solo, fellow agent usual partner, enjoyed watching the Russian deal with the come-ons of the female species. Illya was constantly perplexed by the reactions he received from unknown women; he thought it was perfectly clear that he didn't want any attention. Napoleon kept telling him that is exactly what drew them in. The whole idea was filed under the subject of 'ridiculous' in the stoic agent's mind, and he usually just suffered through the contacts. He turned his head towards his manual. In his peripheral vision he saw the stewardess unconsciously pat her hair as she lingered a few seconds, then move on.
Illya sighed outwardly. He was glad that this assignment in Sapporo was one of research; he still felt some aches from his last field assignment, although he'd never voiced that feeling. He suspected Waverly may have known and sent him on this trek to let him heal up. The chief's powers of observation were much better than his curmudgeon appearance let on. Whatever the reason, Illya was looking forward to the exchange of ideas with the Japanese agents. Their take on miniaturization of components was intriguing.
Illya was near the rear of the commercial jet. He heard the quiet rattling of the stewardess in the small galley as she kept to her duties, then heard the intercom buzz in the area of the galley.
Illya heard the phone picked up. "Yes, Captain?" Darla said with a puzzled tone, making the agent's ears immediately perk up. "What?" she said in a dramatic whisper, followed by a long period of listening. "Yes, sir. Yes, sir. I understand." Her voice was quiet, Illya picked up the sense of fear. She hung up and walked briskly forward, meeting two other stewardesses as they came through the curtain dividing the coach section from first class.
One of the three was obviously the lead stewardess. She placed her finger on her lips, and motioned the other two to the back of the jet. Illya waited until they passed, then moved to the aisle seat to eavesdrop.
"You know the procedure," the calmer, lead woman said firmly. "Just make sure it's handled calmly."
"But it's Russia!" Darla said in a scared tone. "Most of these passengers, including us, are American! We can't land there!"
Illya sat up straighter.
"Either we land there or get blown out of the sky," the lead Stewardess hissed quietly. "If we follow procedure to the letter, we'll be fine. Now take a deep breath and calm down! These passengers will be relying on you!"
"Yes, ma'm," the other two women said respectfully.
"Just keep telling yourself that it will be all right. It will be. The Captain will make an announcement in minute or so, so start waking the passengers." The lead woman projected calm and confidence as she strode by Illya for the first class section.
Russia! Illya thought. Quickly he calculated the flight path and time traveled. They should be adjacent to western Russia airspace, not in it! His mind whirled. There were no U.N.C.L.E. contacts in Russia; and this end of the country was extremely paranoid what with Japan, China and the U.S. border of Alaska to keep an eye on. Since Illya had defected to America, and the KGB was well aware of his training and abilities, there was a standing warrant for his arrest as a traitor. A death sentence was attached to that arrest order. He simply couldn't be found here.
Darla and her partner had split up and were quietly waking the coach passengers, Darla from the front and the other one, Celia, from the back.
"Sir?" Celia addressed Illya with controlled fear in her eyes. "We are making an emergency landing. The Captain will explain in a minute. Please check your seatbelt and follow instructions." She moved on, not waiting for a response.
As soon as she passed his row, the blond agent got to his feet and entered the rearmost lavatory. He began removing all documents with his name on it as the Captain addressed the passengers over the intercom.
"Ladies and Gentlemen, we will be making an unscheduled landing at the request of the Russian military. Don't be alarmed by the jets you see outside. They are merely escorting us to the closest airstrip near Habarovsk. This misunderstanding will be cleared up upon our arrival, I'm sure, so please follow the Stewardess' instructions and stay calm. Thank you."
Habarovsk. Illya thought. Great. Right on the China border. He held his passport, U.N.C.L.E. identification and orders in his hand, along with his driver's license and any other papers containing his name. He had to get rid of them. Hopefully, it would give him a little time to get away if they didn't know who he was. He would rather they had his suspicions about him than his true identification. Now what to do with the papers?
He didn't even bother to eye the toilet; that had a holding tank that could be easily searched. As he looked around inside the lavatory, his eyes were drawn to the ceiling. Noting the rivets securing the walls to the ceiling, he saw the same rivets around the interior fan, which turned on automatically when the door was locked. He pulled out a pocket knife, climbed on the toilet and fell upon the rivets.
He didn't even react to the urgent rapping on the door. "Hello! We are on final approach! You need to be in your seat! Hello!" The rapping continued.
Illya spoke as he worked. "Yes! Alright! I'm .... sick ..."
"Please hurry!" the voice begged, then let him alone.
Illya worked quickly. The rivets were stubborn. He felt the sinking feeling in his stomach as the jet lost altitude, and there was a second of weightlessness. They're descending very rapidly, he noted.
As he worked he ran what he knew about Habarovsk through his mind. It was a very small city, with a military outpost on the outer edges. Illya doubted the runway at either place could handle a jet this size. He stopped running possible scenarios through his mind when they grew increasingly catastrophic.
"Crash positions, please," he heard over the intercom. Good. The Captain isn't taking any chances, he thought as he worked. Over half the rivets were popped. Just a few more....
He never heard from the Stewardess again. Apparently she had her hands full enough with the other passengers. Illya heard the wheels drop with a mechanical grinding, and the change of the air noise due to the flaps. They were slowing airspeed; touchdown wasn't far off. Illya worked with intense concentration, shifting his weight with the turbulence and sway of the jet to keep his feet. He heard and felt the roar of the engines. Too fast. Illya realized the desperation of the act the pilot had just committed; he was desperately trying to slow down. He must have noted the inadequate length of the runway on sight.
There! The final rivet popped the vent loose just as Illya heard the squeal of the tires on the runway. He wrenched the vent loose, trying to get the room to stash his papers.
The jet's engines roared in a desperate act to slow. Illya was hanging by his fingertips as the roughness of the reverse power threw him off the toilet. He scrambled for footing, gained it, and reached for his papers.
The jet swayed on the runway; the engines screamed; Illya braced his arms against the walls to keep from falling, making sure the papers stayed put in the vent opening. When he gained his feet once more, he worked at getting the vent back in place. He felt the aircraft slew left, and he was thrown against the wall. Dazed, he crumpled to the floor as the jet screamed and the sound of screeching metal reached his ears. The room bounced, and then it was dark.
Illya wasn't sure if he had passed out. When he became aware again, it was dark and very still. Acrid smoke touched his nostrils, and he shook his head. Instantly he was on his feet, and went to work on the vent. Smoke...fire...electrical fire! The idea struck him immediately. Feeling for wires in the vent, he didn't even notice the sticky substance running down his face. He did notice that the fingers of his left hand weren't working correctly, and there was a throb of pain in his wrist. Ignoring it, he pulled several wires and worked them loose. His fingers felt for the ends without success. Knife. He dropped to the floor and felt around in the darkness. His hand throbbed incessantly, growing more painful by the second. Finally he found the knife. At the same time he started hearing screams of the scared passengers outside the door. He leaped on the toilet again, his head swimming and causing momentary vertigo.
Desperately, he groped for the wires and cut several. He was greeted with sparks, which drove him faster. He touched several of the cut ends together until he re-created the sparks, then touched them to the stashed papers. Come on, he said, noticing feeling disappearing in his left hand. I wasn't a Boy Scout, but I know it'll work! Finally, he was greeted with a small 'Poof!' as the papers caught fire. He made sure they were fully engulfed before pushing the pile further into the opening, then positioned the vent back into place, coughing from the smoke collecting in the small room.
He opened the lavatory door and noted a layer of smoke on the ceiling, thanks to the emergency lighting. The aisle was crowded, as was the galley area where one of the emergency exits was. The jet was at an odd angle to one side. Coughing, Illya mentally commended the pilot on a successful landing. Any landing where you end up alive is successful, he heard Napoleon's voice say in his mind, and grinned to himself.
Cradling his injured hand and trying to avoid bumping his sore head, Illya Kuryakin melded with the panicked passengers as they left the jet via the emergency slide. He paused for a moment at the top of the slide and took in the dark, barren landscape in one glance as the frigid air of the dawn struck his face.
Welcome home, Illya said to himself as a chill coursed his body.
*******************************
The offices of U.N.C.L.E. take up the building fronted, in part, by Del Floria's Tailor Shop and Cleaners. There were several secret entrances, but the one used at this moment by Napoleon Solo was that of the Del Floria's. Old man Del, as Solo thought of him, gave the agent a nod when he entered. Solo made his way back to the dressing booth, and pulled the trick hook that opened the door to the offices.
Solo had his most becoming smile in place as he greeted the receptionist in training. The trim girl behind the reception desk became instantly flustered and pink in the cheeks as she fumbled for his tag.
"Napoleon Solo. I don't think I've had the pleasure," he began, leaning on the counter and catching her eyes.
"Napoleon, meet Angela Wesson; Angela, watch him carefully. Especially when he talks." The speaker was an equally trim brunette standing behind and slightly back from Angela, grinning knowingly at the agent.
"Nice to meet you, Angela." Solo acknowledged.
"Thank you, Mr. Solo," the girl replied pleasantly, regaining her calm.
"You can call me Napoleon," he said sweetly, leaning towards her. "All my friends do..."
"Mr. Solo, Mr. Waverly wants to see you," the supervising woman said with a grin. "So quit distracting my trainee!"
Napoleon straightened, adjusting his tie with a playful grin. "Certainly, Lizabeth," he said agreeably. "Don't mean to get you off schedule!"
"I don't believe that for a second, Napoleon. Now move along!" Lizabeth shooed him off with a wave of her hand and a smile.
Napoleon Solo whistled to himself as he walked the hallways to Mr. Waverly's office, bidding hellos to those he passed on the way. Being the number one enforcement agent in this Section made his face almost as well known as his exploits in the field.
When he reached the office of Mr. Waverly he was greeted with a smile by Greta, his secretary. "Go on in, Mr. Solo, he's expecting you," she said pleasantly.
"Thank you, Greta, and you look wonderful today." She beamed as he let himself in his boss' office.
Inside, was a circular table with the dowdy appearing Waverly sitting at the far end. Behind him were picture windows that framed the United Nations building in the distance. It always made Napoleon proud of his work when he saw that view.
"Have a seat, Mr. Solo. Look at this, please."
The table turned like a lazy Susan, and brought the file around to the Chief Enforcement Agent's seat. He picked up the papers as he sat down off to Waverly's right. The first paper was a photo of a commercial jet, with three other photos right after it of three smiling men in uniforms.
"TransContinental Airlines pilots Alfred Glenn and Gary Peters, and flight engineer Tony Chatham. Experienced employees on flight number 450 New York to Sapporo flight. There are three other crew members, Darla Walker, Celia Oliver and Marilyn Pothier, that are well trained and qualified stewardesses. Also in your file is a passenger manifest."
Solo picked up and scanned the manifest, stopping at the 'Ks'. "Illya? He's on this flight?" The dark haired agent was now serious and all business. "Something has happened, I take it?"
"Twelve hours ago, Flight 4504 was forced to land near Habarovsk, Russia. There was little communication, as transmissions were jammed from the Russian military's jets. It appears that the airliner strayed into Russian airspace, and was escorted by Russian MiGs to a military airstrip outside Habarovsk. There are no more details, but our intelligence shows that the only possible airstrips are inadequate to land a jet that size."
"Was it pilot error?"
"We don't know; the cockpit tapes may shed some light on that subject. All we do know is that there were some injuries, and the passengers are being detained on the base. Our government has just begun negotiating their return. There are no more details."
Napoleon's forehead furrowed as he thought. "I don't think U.N.C.L.E. is too welcome in that area of the world. And Habarovsk is rather back country. Does Illya know that area?" His partner never spoke too much of his life in Russia. All Napoleon knew was that Waverly had recruited Illya from behind the Iron Curtain, and suspected that he knew more about the Russian's background than anyone else in the organization.
Waverly paused as he tamped his pipe with tobacco, and proceeded to light it up. "I don't think so. What concerns me is who knows him."
Napoleon closed the folder. "How do you mean?"
"Mr. Kuryakin left his country under .. strenuous .. circumstances. He is considered a traitor. And being on a military base, especially in that part of the country, I fear for his safety."
Solo nodded, his lips tight in thought. "There's supposed to be a large Thrush satrap in that area, too."
"Yes. Our European and Japanese intelligence tell us that, but being isolated deep in the country and so close to China, we haven't been able to locate it. Strangers are quite obvious there. If our government isn't able to negotiate his release, we may need to have Mr. Kuryakin retrieved. We both know how resourceful Mr. Kuyakin is, and I have no doubt we will get him back. You will fly to the Sapporo office, monitor the situation, and be ready if any retrieval plan is needed. I have the U.N.C.L.E. jet standing by."
He really is worried, Solo thought. He doesn't offer the jet that easily! The agent stood. "I'll be ready to go within the hour, sir."
By AJ Burfield
CHAPTER ONE
The flight had been relaxing, really. As U.N.C.L.E. agent Illya Kuryakin stretched his legs out in front of him he recalled a joke about how his boss. Alexander Waverly, known for his penny-pinching ways and acid comments on questionable expense accounts, probably rose to the level of head of the New York Command by only authorizing coach class for all agent travel. He wondered if Waverly followed these guidelines when he traveled, but doubted the man ever flew a commercial flight with all the aircraft U.N.C.L.E. had at its disposal. Illya sighed, made himself as comfortable as possible, and was grateful for his smaller stature.
He was also grateful that he was alone in his row of seats. Not one for chatting or idle talk, Illya took the opportunity during the trans-Atlantic flight to read some technical manuals. It was always a good idea to keep up on the latest trends in weaponry and other gadgets; you never knew when they might come in handy. It was dark outside, as it was the middle of the night, and most of the other passengers were asleep, making it wonderfully quiet; a rare thing a field agent's day. He adjusted his reading glasses and settled down with an inner sigh.
"Can I get you anything, sir? Coffee? A pillow?" The smiling stewardess labeled 'Darla' had managed to sneak up on him once again, the over-zealous smile making him feel nothing but irritated.
"No, thank you again," he answered civilly, even throwing in a small grin. "I'm fine." Napoleon Solo, fellow agent usual partner, enjoyed watching the Russian deal with the come-ons of the female species. Illya was constantly perplexed by the reactions he received from unknown women; he thought it was perfectly clear that he didn't want any attention. Napoleon kept telling him that is exactly what drew them in. The whole idea was filed under the subject of 'ridiculous' in the stoic agent's mind, and he usually just suffered through the contacts. He turned his head towards his manual. In his peripheral vision he saw the stewardess unconsciously pat her hair as she lingered a few seconds, then move on.
Illya sighed outwardly. He was glad that this assignment in Sapporo was one of research; he still felt some aches from his last field assignment, although he'd never voiced that feeling. He suspected Waverly may have known and sent him on this trek to let him heal up. The chief's powers of observation were much better than his curmudgeon appearance let on. Whatever the reason, Illya was looking forward to the exchange of ideas with the Japanese agents. Their take on miniaturization of components was intriguing.
Illya was near the rear of the commercial jet. He heard the quiet rattling of the stewardess in the small galley as she kept to her duties, then heard the intercom buzz in the area of the galley.
Illya heard the phone picked up. "Yes, Captain?" Darla said with a puzzled tone, making the agent's ears immediately perk up. "What?" she said in a dramatic whisper, followed by a long period of listening. "Yes, sir. Yes, sir. I understand." Her voice was quiet, Illya picked up the sense of fear. She hung up and walked briskly forward, meeting two other stewardesses as they came through the curtain dividing the coach section from first class.
One of the three was obviously the lead stewardess. She placed her finger on her lips, and motioned the other two to the back of the jet. Illya waited until they passed, then moved to the aisle seat to eavesdrop.
"You know the procedure," the calmer, lead woman said firmly. "Just make sure it's handled calmly."
"But it's Russia!" Darla said in a scared tone. "Most of these passengers, including us, are American! We can't land there!"
Illya sat up straighter.
"Either we land there or get blown out of the sky," the lead Stewardess hissed quietly. "If we follow procedure to the letter, we'll be fine. Now take a deep breath and calm down! These passengers will be relying on you!"
"Yes, ma'm," the other two women said respectfully.
"Just keep telling yourself that it will be all right. It will be. The Captain will make an announcement in minute or so, so start waking the passengers." The lead woman projected calm and confidence as she strode by Illya for the first class section.
Russia! Illya thought. Quickly he calculated the flight path and time traveled. They should be adjacent to western Russia airspace, not in it! His mind whirled. There were no U.N.C.L.E. contacts in Russia; and this end of the country was extremely paranoid what with Japan, China and the U.S. border of Alaska to keep an eye on. Since Illya had defected to America, and the KGB was well aware of his training and abilities, there was a standing warrant for his arrest as a traitor. A death sentence was attached to that arrest order. He simply couldn't be found here.
Darla and her partner had split up and were quietly waking the coach passengers, Darla from the front and the other one, Celia, from the back.
"Sir?" Celia addressed Illya with controlled fear in her eyes. "We are making an emergency landing. The Captain will explain in a minute. Please check your seatbelt and follow instructions." She moved on, not waiting for a response.
As soon as she passed his row, the blond agent got to his feet and entered the rearmost lavatory. He began removing all documents with his name on it as the Captain addressed the passengers over the intercom.
"Ladies and Gentlemen, we will be making an unscheduled landing at the request of the Russian military. Don't be alarmed by the jets you see outside. They are merely escorting us to the closest airstrip near Habarovsk. This misunderstanding will be cleared up upon our arrival, I'm sure, so please follow the Stewardess' instructions and stay calm. Thank you."
Habarovsk. Illya thought. Great. Right on the China border. He held his passport, U.N.C.L.E. identification and orders in his hand, along with his driver's license and any other papers containing his name. He had to get rid of them. Hopefully, it would give him a little time to get away if they didn't know who he was. He would rather they had his suspicions about him than his true identification. Now what to do with the papers?
He didn't even bother to eye the toilet; that had a holding tank that could be easily searched. As he looked around inside the lavatory, his eyes were drawn to the ceiling. Noting the rivets securing the walls to the ceiling, he saw the same rivets around the interior fan, which turned on automatically when the door was locked. He pulled out a pocket knife, climbed on the toilet and fell upon the rivets.
He didn't even react to the urgent rapping on the door. "Hello! We are on final approach! You need to be in your seat! Hello!" The rapping continued.
Illya spoke as he worked. "Yes! Alright! I'm .... sick ..."
"Please hurry!" the voice begged, then let him alone.
Illya worked quickly. The rivets were stubborn. He felt the sinking feeling in his stomach as the jet lost altitude, and there was a second of weightlessness. They're descending very rapidly, he noted.
As he worked he ran what he knew about Habarovsk through his mind. It was a very small city, with a military outpost on the outer edges. Illya doubted the runway at either place could handle a jet this size. He stopped running possible scenarios through his mind when they grew increasingly catastrophic.
"Crash positions, please," he heard over the intercom. Good. The Captain isn't taking any chances, he thought as he worked. Over half the rivets were popped. Just a few more....
He never heard from the Stewardess again. Apparently she had her hands full enough with the other passengers. Illya heard the wheels drop with a mechanical grinding, and the change of the air noise due to the flaps. They were slowing airspeed; touchdown wasn't far off. Illya worked with intense concentration, shifting his weight with the turbulence and sway of the jet to keep his feet. He heard and felt the roar of the engines. Too fast. Illya realized the desperation of the act the pilot had just committed; he was desperately trying to slow down. He must have noted the inadequate length of the runway on sight.
There! The final rivet popped the vent loose just as Illya heard the squeal of the tires on the runway. He wrenched the vent loose, trying to get the room to stash his papers.
The jet's engines roared in a desperate act to slow. Illya was hanging by his fingertips as the roughness of the reverse power threw him off the toilet. He scrambled for footing, gained it, and reached for his papers.
The jet swayed on the runway; the engines screamed; Illya braced his arms against the walls to keep from falling, making sure the papers stayed put in the vent opening. When he gained his feet once more, he worked at getting the vent back in place. He felt the aircraft slew left, and he was thrown against the wall. Dazed, he crumpled to the floor as the jet screamed and the sound of screeching metal reached his ears. The room bounced, and then it was dark.
Illya wasn't sure if he had passed out. When he became aware again, it was dark and very still. Acrid smoke touched his nostrils, and he shook his head. Instantly he was on his feet, and went to work on the vent. Smoke...fire...electrical fire! The idea struck him immediately. Feeling for wires in the vent, he didn't even notice the sticky substance running down his face. He did notice that the fingers of his left hand weren't working correctly, and there was a throb of pain in his wrist. Ignoring it, he pulled several wires and worked them loose. His fingers felt for the ends without success. Knife. He dropped to the floor and felt around in the darkness. His hand throbbed incessantly, growing more painful by the second. Finally he found the knife. At the same time he started hearing screams of the scared passengers outside the door. He leaped on the toilet again, his head swimming and causing momentary vertigo.
Desperately, he groped for the wires and cut several. He was greeted with sparks, which drove him faster. He touched several of the cut ends together until he re-created the sparks, then touched them to the stashed papers. Come on, he said, noticing feeling disappearing in his left hand. I wasn't a Boy Scout, but I know it'll work! Finally, he was greeted with a small 'Poof!' as the papers caught fire. He made sure they were fully engulfed before pushing the pile further into the opening, then positioned the vent back into place, coughing from the smoke collecting in the small room.
He opened the lavatory door and noted a layer of smoke on the ceiling, thanks to the emergency lighting. The aisle was crowded, as was the galley area where one of the emergency exits was. The jet was at an odd angle to one side. Coughing, Illya mentally commended the pilot on a successful landing. Any landing where you end up alive is successful, he heard Napoleon's voice say in his mind, and grinned to himself.
Cradling his injured hand and trying to avoid bumping his sore head, Illya Kuryakin melded with the panicked passengers as they left the jet via the emergency slide. He paused for a moment at the top of the slide and took in the dark, barren landscape in one glance as the frigid air of the dawn struck his face.
Welcome home, Illya said to himself as a chill coursed his body.
*******************************
The offices of U.N.C.L.E. take up the building fronted, in part, by Del Floria's Tailor Shop and Cleaners. There were several secret entrances, but the one used at this moment by Napoleon Solo was that of the Del Floria's. Old man Del, as Solo thought of him, gave the agent a nod when he entered. Solo made his way back to the dressing booth, and pulled the trick hook that opened the door to the offices.
Solo had his most becoming smile in place as he greeted the receptionist in training. The trim girl behind the reception desk became instantly flustered and pink in the cheeks as she fumbled for his tag.
"Napoleon Solo. I don't think I've had the pleasure," he began, leaning on the counter and catching her eyes.
"Napoleon, meet Angela Wesson; Angela, watch him carefully. Especially when he talks." The speaker was an equally trim brunette standing behind and slightly back from Angela, grinning knowingly at the agent.
"Nice to meet you, Angela." Solo acknowledged.
"Thank you, Mr. Solo," the girl replied pleasantly, regaining her calm.
"You can call me Napoleon," he said sweetly, leaning towards her. "All my friends do..."
"Mr. Solo, Mr. Waverly wants to see you," the supervising woman said with a grin. "So quit distracting my trainee!"
Napoleon straightened, adjusting his tie with a playful grin. "Certainly, Lizabeth," he said agreeably. "Don't mean to get you off schedule!"
"I don't believe that for a second, Napoleon. Now move along!" Lizabeth shooed him off with a wave of her hand and a smile.
Napoleon Solo whistled to himself as he walked the hallways to Mr. Waverly's office, bidding hellos to those he passed on the way. Being the number one enforcement agent in this Section made his face almost as well known as his exploits in the field.
When he reached the office of Mr. Waverly he was greeted with a smile by Greta, his secretary. "Go on in, Mr. Solo, he's expecting you," she said pleasantly.
"Thank you, Greta, and you look wonderful today." She beamed as he let himself in his boss' office.
Inside, was a circular table with the dowdy appearing Waverly sitting at the far end. Behind him were picture windows that framed the United Nations building in the distance. It always made Napoleon proud of his work when he saw that view.
"Have a seat, Mr. Solo. Look at this, please."
The table turned like a lazy Susan, and brought the file around to the Chief Enforcement Agent's seat. He picked up the papers as he sat down off to Waverly's right. The first paper was a photo of a commercial jet, with three other photos right after it of three smiling men in uniforms.
"TransContinental Airlines pilots Alfred Glenn and Gary Peters, and flight engineer Tony Chatham. Experienced employees on flight number 450 New York to Sapporo flight. There are three other crew members, Darla Walker, Celia Oliver and Marilyn Pothier, that are well trained and qualified stewardesses. Also in your file is a passenger manifest."
Solo picked up and scanned the manifest, stopping at the 'Ks'. "Illya? He's on this flight?" The dark haired agent was now serious and all business. "Something has happened, I take it?"
"Twelve hours ago, Flight 4504 was forced to land near Habarovsk, Russia. There was little communication, as transmissions were jammed from the Russian military's jets. It appears that the airliner strayed into Russian airspace, and was escorted by Russian MiGs to a military airstrip outside Habarovsk. There are no more details, but our intelligence shows that the only possible airstrips are inadequate to land a jet that size."
"Was it pilot error?"
"We don't know; the cockpit tapes may shed some light on that subject. All we do know is that there were some injuries, and the passengers are being detained on the base. Our government has just begun negotiating their return. There are no more details."
Napoleon's forehead furrowed as he thought. "I don't think U.N.C.L.E. is too welcome in that area of the world. And Habarovsk is rather back country. Does Illya know that area?" His partner never spoke too much of his life in Russia. All Napoleon knew was that Waverly had recruited Illya from behind the Iron Curtain, and suspected that he knew more about the Russian's background than anyone else in the organization.
Waverly paused as he tamped his pipe with tobacco, and proceeded to light it up. "I don't think so. What concerns me is who knows him."
Napoleon closed the folder. "How do you mean?"
"Mr. Kuryakin left his country under .. strenuous .. circumstances. He is considered a traitor. And being on a military base, especially in that part of the country, I fear for his safety."
Solo nodded, his lips tight in thought. "There's supposed to be a large Thrush satrap in that area, too."
"Yes. Our European and Japanese intelligence tell us that, but being isolated deep in the country and so close to China, we haven't been able to locate it. Strangers are quite obvious there. If our government isn't able to negotiate his release, we may need to have Mr. Kuryakin retrieved. We both know how resourceful Mr. Kuyakin is, and I have no doubt we will get him back. You will fly to the Sapporo office, monitor the situation, and be ready if any retrieval plan is needed. I have the U.N.C.L.E. jet standing by."
He really is worried, Solo thought. He doesn't offer the jet that easily! The agent stood. "I'll be ready to go within the hour, sir."