The building was old, the stone structure partially exposed beneath the weathered mortar that covered it. By contrast there was a door that still boasted a vivid teal color, almost in defiance of its age. Napoleon Solo was watching that door, hoping to see his partner emerge. Illya Kuryakin had been sent inside to meet with a THRUSH chief whose primary business was as an arms dealer. In an age where presidents were assassinated and conflict became a word for war, there was a demand for weapons that could defend a nation, a tribe or an individual. Illya understood that world, and in his capacity within the Soviet Union's network of spies he had even helped it evolve.
Napoleon was starting to get concerned, this meeting was taking too long in his estimation. Illya had been inside for well over an hour, and it didn't take that long to strike a deal with someone selling death; they were generally fast talkers. Just as the UNCLE agent was thinking of barging in on whatever was happening inside, Illya came out of the building with his arm around the neck of Luther Vanmetre, the Danish mercenary turned empresario. Napoleon could see that Illya was holding a knife that could be easily shoved into VanMetre's gut, probably the reason he was coming out alive. Something had obviously gone south on this mission and the only compensation was the exit being made by the wily Russian. That thought made Solo smile because that reference was usually corrected…Ukrainian. Illya was Ukrainian, and he always corrected his friend as though it would be a necessary thing to know one day.
Napoleon got up from his crouching position, grateful to stretch and more so that Illya wasn't dead or wounded. The mission had been to imbed Kuryakin within the organization, but it didn't look like that was going to happen. It wouldn't hurt to bring in the kingpin of this operation, but it wouldn't solve the problem that THRUSH had initiated. Someone else would take over, but VanMetre wasn't a bad consolation prize. He could at least detail how things were designed and who the possible contacts would be as it progressed. He might even be turned; the man hadn't always been a pawn of the megalomaniacs of THRUSH.
Illya guided his captive to where Napoleon now stood. Together they escorted VanMetre to the waiting vehicle commandeered from an unsuspecting soldier. That man was now dreaming of unpleasant things that included a piercing pain in his neck. The three men got into an enclosed Jeep, better for hiding the mercenary gun dealer. With Illya behind the wheel and VanMetre handcuffed to the roll bar above his head they pulled away from in front of a few diners at an outdoor café. Even in this sleepy little village someone provided food and drink, a constant in nearly every culture.
It took three hours to reach a site where an UNCLE Section III agent was waiting with a helicopter to fly the group back to Barcelona; the UNCLE HQ there would process VanMetre, with thanks to the agents from New York. One of their own had been killed in pursuit of this man, making his capture of even more importance to that office. With exchanges of mutual admiration and thanks between the New York team and the Barcelona office, Solo and Kuryakin were anxious to board a flight home. After the weeks that had led to today's meeting, all of it seemed a letdown to both of them. Sometimes the mission brought great expectations to fruition, while today was one of those with some measure of accomplishment, but the lingering impression that they would meet with a rebuke at failure to finish the thing. Waverly would have something for them to mull over, no doubt about it.
"I need a drink. Maybe two." Napoleon had an idea of what was waiting for them in New York. He didn't like failure, and although they captured the mercenary VanMetre, the THRUSH operation still existed. He cut his eyes to the left, Illya's were closed as he spoke.
"I need a bottle." That made Napoleon laugh out loud. They would have one later, no doubt about it.
"I say dinner at Luigi's and a pair of blondes for dessert. You in?" Now it was Illya laughing, a nervous laugh fraught with tension and fatigue.
"I don't have the energy for women, but I'll take that bottle on ice. Then maybe…''
"A blonde?"
"Or a redhead." Napoleon considered that, redheads meant it was serious.
"So, what's the worst part of this affair? Catching VanMetre or not stopping the gun running? I can't decide." Ilya took a deep breath; his mental fatigue was causing a headache to gain momentum.
"I am not sure, because having VanMetre is a positive thing, he can provide much information regarding the operation. But that wasn't the assignment, and that makes me think having the man without the machine he was driving is a bad thing. What Waverly will make of it I haven't a clue. That my friend is the worst part of this affair."
Napoleon agreed, the Old Man could go either way on this, or a different way entirely. He decided to enjoy the flight in spite of his concerns. It wasn't as though he'd lose his job over it, but no one liked to displease the chief. Oh well, he rebuked himself and decided to just take it like a man.
"A friend of mine in the army used to always say "they can't take your birthday". Illya sat up a little straighter at that. He hated the obtuse and Napoleon was full of it.
"What exactly does that mean. I need an aspirin and you're quoting someone who makes no sense." It was aggravating to the blond, this habit his friend had of saying things like this. Then again, he did want to know what was meant by it. Napoleon saw the sliver of curiosity, so proceeded.
"It was a friend from Mississippi, and he'd say that whenever someone got in trouble or, whatever. Anyway, it just means that people can say or do anything or all manner of things, but in spite of it all they can't take your birthday. Those people won't really change anything of value in your life or accomplishments. Life happens and there's sometimes a pile of crap in the road, but no one can take you or cancel you. You're here and they just need to accept it and move on." It was a mouthful, and perhaps not truly what was meant by the pithy saying, but it's how he interpreted it, and Napoleon would stand by it. No one was going to take away his birthday, his integrity or commitment to the job.
"Okay, I will accept that, although I don't completely understand it." Illya reached into his jacket pocket and withdrew a flask filled with bourbon. He offered it first to Napoleon, a gesture of friendship, fraternité.
"You had this all along? We've been talking about liquor, and you had this in your pocket?" A sudden ire put a lump in Napoleon's throat. What did it matter? Illya produced the flask, and he should be grateful for it. That showed the American that his reaction to the day's events went deeper than he had admitted to himself. "Thanks, where did you get this?" Illya smiled at the accomplishment of lifting the flask from a customer at the meeting he'd been in behind that blue door. And then it hit him, he recognized that man and could identify him when they reached Headquarters. The name he'd used was an alias, but this flask had his fingerprints on it. He explained all of that to Napoleon who had a renewed enthusiasm, less of a sense of failure.
"So, we don't drink out of it, just to be safe. Illya, well done. Your thieving ways may save us from a brutal mission review." The two settled back into their seats, more content now than when they boarded the plane. The mercenary VanMetre was in custody and one of his primary associates would be identified using his flask for fingerprints. It was better than expected.
As though speaking to a chauffeur, Napoleon uttered the command… "Home James!" Even Illy smiled.
