Gun shots ring
Are you listening
In the lane
Snow is glistening
A beautiful sight
But trouble tonight
Stalking in a winter wonderland
Gone away is the bluebird
Here to stay is a THRUSH bird
He's singing death's song
As we go along
Stalking in a winter wonderland
In the meadow we can see a snowman
He looks a lot like good ol' Parson Brown
He used to be a spy for UNCLE Alex
But now he's dead and THRUSH is still in town
Now it's time to conspire
As we jump into the fire
To face unafraid
The plans that we'll make
Stalking in a winter wonderland
The night was mild, and the sky a clear cloudless one atop the snow covered ground. New York City was lit like the proverbial Christmas tree, and if anyone could see it from above there would be no doubt as to the time of year, or the holiday that was only days away.
New York's Central Park remained, within the sprawling cityscape, a refuge from progress. Tonight, as on many others, people were strolling through with friends and family, sitting to enjoy a casual meal or, like two agents of the United Network Command for Law and Enforcement, doing their part to save the world.
Napoleon Solo and Illya Kuryakin were waiting to meet a sometime courier named Parson Brown, a fellow who often played alto saxophone in the house band at Whittles, a little hole in the wall joint that catered to jazz and bourbon lovers. Using the occasional civilian was a practice that was gaining acceptance within the Command, although the inherent risk meant that the jobs tended to be mostly benign in terms of importance.
Tonight's courier run was an exception because someone, in an act of negligence or contempt that was yet to be determined, had messed up.
Parson was handing off a 'package' he'd picked up, a little bit of intelligence that should have required the expertise of a more experienced agent. Parson was capable, but he was of an undefined rank within UNCLE; he was a capable civilian who picked up extra cash by doing quick runs for The Command.
The kind that wouldn't get you killed.
As Solo and Kuryakin waited for their contact to arrive, they hoped that the talented musician/courier hadn't attracted any of the feathered foe they often had to deal with. That hope was squashed by the sound of a gun being fired just beyond the clearing where they stood.
Without a word the UNCLE agents took off at a run towards the sound of the gunfire. The season did not guarantee that their enemies had any semblance of peace in their hearts, or their intentions. The gunman was rummaging through Parson Brown's coat pockets when he heard the approach of someone running towards him.
There were two someones, and in a flash he was up and on his way, the trophy in his hand and the lifeless body of Parson Brown in a pool of his own blood.
