It's 11-2-68 and the spies puzzle over a particularly inscrutable THRUSH code while grocery shopping.
NAPOLEON AND ILLYA DAY
11-2-1968
"Coffee."
The non sequitur startled Napoleon Solo out of his reverie. Mind still working the conundrum left behind at the office, he was driving automatically toward their apartment building. He forced his thoughts to solving the puzzle of the intercepted code. It was better than mentally reviewing a botched mission that had taken the life of one of their Section 2 agents.
The sobering news of Agent Song's death, the mystery of untangling an important cipher - both explained his partner's humming. Kuryakin's brain masticating complex enigmas. Often, the Russian muttered songs; one part of his mind distracted by music the other part searching for clues.
What was that tune?
Realizing Solo's distracted mindset, Illya Kuryakin "Name that tune. Oh, the market is still open! I used the last of your coffee this morning."
"Really? Tune? Beatles?" It was an educated guess. While it sounded familiar, songs from the Fab Four often played in Illya's head and tumbled out into the atmosphere.
Obligingly, Kuryakin softly sang, " 'Two of us riding nowhere, spending someone's hard-earned pay. You and me, Sunday driving, not arriving, on our way back home. We're on our way home . . . You and I have memories, longer than the road that stretches out ahead. Two of us wearing raincoats standing solo," he emphasized, "in the sun. You and me chasing paper, getting nowhere on our way back home, ' – "
"All right already!" The senior agent surrendered, then chuckled.
"One of his new songs on the album which will be released in a few months. Surprising how Paul has captured us isn't it?"
"Hmm. Almost as if he had a spy in the midst."
"Ha ha. At this hour your puns do not improve."
"Well, exhaustion is making you loopy." Slowing the Impala he checked out from motor pool, he scanned for a space at the curb. "I'm surprised you remembered the coffee. But then again it has something to do with recharging your energy."
Both so focused on their current assignment they reported in early at HQ early and left late for the last two days. So anxious to keep working the enigma, Illya had rousted him first thing from his apartment – making the coffee to expedite their exit. Tenacious in their dedication for victory against THRUSH, their success - the top UNCLE team in North America and much of the world - spoke for itself.
The self-congratulatory muse strayed to funereal thoughts of the late Agent Song . . .
"Sugar and caffeine has kept us going for two days and nights." A deep-throated growl emanated from the blond. "Otherwise I have no time to consider anything but this wretched riddle." As an aside he added helpfully, "Your shelves are low on tuna and crackers."
Pushing away the serious pitfalls of their profession Napoleon fell in with the distracting narrative of meaningless conversation. "Well, that's because someone keeps raiding the pantry."
"Because I spend too much overtime at your apartment attempting to solve this annoying cipher."
True, Solo conceded. Neither of them could let go of this knotty mystery. If they were not at their offices in HQ they were at one or the other of their digs. A simple intercepted code had turned into a monumental challenge.
Commonly, they would be in one apartment or the other in the early mornings or late nights. Basically a continuation of their partnership while working at HQ or traveling on assignment. Expediently possessing flats in the same complex, they efficiently worked on mission issues in their off hours - just as tonight.
Both were anxious to close in on the last chapter of their arch foes. Like racehorses running toward the finish line they were in the home stretch of crushing their enemies. Significant defeats of THRUSH strongholds and secrets in the last year sounded the death-knell for their rivals.
There was still plenty of evil left in the world so UNCLE's enforcement duties would not be rendered obsolete anytime soon. The two of them would hardly be unemployed. Anticipation of this vital win drove them with near obsessive fervor.
Illya scowled as he stared out the window of the Chevy. "It is raining!"
The Americans frowned. "Brrr, and cold. Unlike your song, we were so preoccupied with this maddening code the two of us are neither wearing raincoats nor standing Solo in the sun."
"Intelligence reports believe the new satrap is in the Southwest," was a hopeful aside. "If we are lucky, when we break the code it will lead us to somewhere warm and sunny."
Not missing an opportunity to tease his friend, Napoleon wondered why the Russian was unhappy with the inclement weather. So like his native country. To which a glower from blue eyes were the only response.
Shutting off the engine, Solo turned and smiled at the Russian. "You can't stand the thought of an unbreakable THRUSH code."
"There is no such thing," he refuted instantly. "We WILL shatter it!"
"Good. We need a win," Napoleon sighed. For a moment he stared at the learning raindrops sliding across the windshield.
He stared at his friend. "Song's death was ugly. You must not dwell on it. Closing down a THRUSH hideout will not change what has happened. It will exact a minor measure of revenge," the Russian vowed.
"Justice," Solo corrected.
Resolutely, the senior agent drew in a deep breath, sighing an acknowledgment. Gripping onto the nape of his friend's neck, he surrendered a curt nod. Commiserating and compassionate message received and accepted. Giving a shove to his partner's shoulder he bid they go get the coffee and get home for a decent night's sleep. And not get to the office before 6 AM again!
The small neighborhood market was limited in its goods, yet had the obvious convenience of proximity to their building. Plus, late weeknight hours - accommodating spies with irregular shopping habits.
Familiar with the layout of the store, Solo veered straight to the coffee aisle. Because of their inconsistent travel schedule or haphazard time at home due to assignments or – unfortunately - hospital stays - cupboards were stocked plentifully with nonperishable goods.
Deciding on the large can of his favorite brand of java, Napoleon turned to comment and realized his partner was not beside him. Food. The Russian must be hungry - he had gone in search of the consumables. A quick search of the canned meat aisle came up empty. The bakery aisle was where he found Kuryakin crouching next to the lowest shelf. On the floor were two cans of tuna and two cans of corned beef hash. One box of crackers.
Approaching, the senior agent noted his friend was shifting a box of Twinkies and a package of Oreos. Back and forth several times the items exchanged places.
Stopping beside Illya, he heard muttered whispers of numbers and letters.
Sighing, he ruffled the blond hair. "Well, that nimble mind of yours just cannot let go of this!"
"It is just out of reach, Napoleon! Why can't I see? It is a simple numeric cipher!"
Lowering to his haunches, Solo declared he admired the dogged attitude. It had won them triumph in their assignments. It had saved their lives. But hammering his agile brain would only fatigue him.
"Let it rest," he advised. "We'll get it."
Scoffing, the Russian glared at his friend. "You are as anxious as I am to get out in the field and destroy this satrap."
"True. Too many days at HQ makes us restless." With a smirk he wondered, "How is pushing around the sweets helping?"
"You see the prices. Using the desserts as a visual aid I cross the numbers as I move them along and –"
"Nevermind." He rose to his feet and tugged his friend with him by the jacket. "Time to go home."
Kuryakin handed his partner the canned goods while he picked up the Oreos and Twinkies.
At the front of the store and the lone clerk was shutting down the lights. Closing time. Illya glanced at his watch, commenting they had made it just in time. It was already 2 minutes after 11.
Chuckling, he showed his watch to Solo. "Eleven-oh-two. Solo and Kuryakin Day."
It took a moment to sink in, but the senior operative comprehended, snickering. 11 - his badge number at HQ. 2 – Illya's.
"You are punchy. You need sleep," he whispered censorious, yet still unused.
Surprisingly, there was one customer in front of them. Kuryakin huffed impatiently as the woman wrote out a check. Who writes a check for five-ish dollars? he whispered incredulously, irascibly, to his friend. Americans!
As they waited Napoleon's mind drifted. While he had chided his friend over the obsession with numbers, he couldn't get the puzzling cipher out of his thoughts either. Better than thinking about Agent Song. Code. They were missing something . . .
Illya coughed somewhere between a chortle and a cry! The Twinkies and Oreos dropped to the floor when the Russian spun and gripped onto his arms. "She just wrote the date on her check!" He seized a pen from the counter next to the cash register. On his hand he scribbled 11-2-68. "The way you Americans write the date!"
Well, obviously, yes. Europeans would write the date: 02NOV68. And yes, coincidently - 11-02 day.
Thoroughly pleased with himself Illya could barely speak around his Cheshire grin. "The mixing of numbers had me confused!" he confessed urgently.
Indicating they should pay for their goods and leave, Illya quickly retrieved his items and pushed the ones in Napoleon's arms onto the counter. Then he nabbed the car keys out of Solo's jacket pocket and dashed outside. Paying with a credit card, the senior agent rushed to the car whose engine was already running. Hunching over to protect the paper bag from the cold rain, he slipped into the passenger seat.
The windshield was fogged and Illya used it to draw the numbers in question. The sequence looked like chalk drawings.
III IIIII 33 II III
"We have received rumors of THRUSH cobbling together what is left of their leadership, yes?"
"Yes," the senior agent agreed with their established intelligence.
"Southern California being a favored hive of refuge for our feathered friends. Yes?"
"Agreed. We thought this code might be coordinates – "
"Not just latitude or longitude but name and day! Using your American method of writing the date. A space between each mark. To clarify thirty-three is set - unmistakable."
Below the lines he wrote out a theory based on rumors and instinct.
III IIIII 33 II III
San Diego 33 Nov 3
"Thirty-three latitude near San Diego and obviously the date is tomorrow."
Impressed, Solo nodded. "It's a stretch for sure but I like it. How confident are you in your theory?"
He glanced out the windshield at the pelting rain. "Enough to return home and pack polo shirts."
An answering smile of approval spread slowly across Napoleon's face. "Ah, I like your thinking, partner. November in Southern California. Temperate days and cool nights. Yes, pack : shirts in our bags. Then back to the office for possible locations for a San Diego lair at 33° latitude. Redeye flight to the West Coast. Well done, tovarich."
Pleased, Illya gave a nod of acceptance for the praise. "Spasiba. I could not have done it without the inspiration of Napoleon and Illya Day."
HAPPY NAPOLEON AND ILLYA DAY
