THE PROTECTING THE PAST AFFAIR
Chapter 3
"Well, what d'ya know…the devil is in the details"
1964
LONDON, ENGLAND
Sir James Harold Wilson had just recently celebrated his rise to power as the Prime Minister of England when it happened.
"It" being the seemingly magical emergence of a mysteriously, menacingly masked man in the protected privacy of his politically-provided dwelling, at 10 Downing Street, with a very strange-looking, largely plastic, pistol in his singularly black gloved hand.
"Who the hell are you?" demanded the man meant to be Prime Minister not only in 1964, but to serve as such twice more. "And how the hell did you get in here? Speak up, man!"
Even the evil Darien Driscoll, sent back in time to that seemingly magical year and decade and physically sent to Merry Old England rather than New York City, wherein existed United Network Command for Law and Enforcement, was especially impressed by this salt-and-pepper haired aristocrat-turned-politician.
Still, the self-named Master of THRUSH, Technological Hierarchy for the Removal of Undesirables and the Subjugation of Humanity, had an important, to him, task to do…
"Sir Wilson," snarled Darien via his mask's mini-speaker system as a single solitary eyehole allowed that singular remaining eye to narrow forebodingly, "I'm afraid you won't be able to fully assume your position as Prime Minister. At least…not until we've taken a little trip to the United Kingdom's THRUSH headquarters. Though I do have very specific plans for you…such still wouldn't stop me from putting a bullet through that thoroughbred head should you resist."
Though more brave than the average middle-aged member of the Monarchy, Sir Harold Wilson still desired to stay alive, so…
"What exactly do you want with me?" insisted a still-resistive Sir Wilson. "And what the hell is…THRUSH?"
That last wasn't at all unanticipated by the masked man from the future, silencer-affixed Glock 18 still steady in its vague aim. After all, only those highest in the British bureaucracy, such as a post-election Prime Minister not a just-settling-into-office PM, were aware of the vilely evil super-secret organization.
Though such was well hidden by the mask of metal, gems, and ivory, the half-face of Darien Driscoll slowly and sinisterly half-smiled…
"It is where you, my British friend, shall undergo a proper 'reorganization' of your reasoning processes and your personal as well as professional loyalties. Heh, heh, heh, hehhhhh!"
NEW YORK CITY
Stepping out of the shower and dressing area of U.N.C.L.E. Medical, Napoleon Solo was met by a fast friend and fellow man from U.N.C.L.E….
"Well, my American friend," almost laughed Illya Kuryakin, long since showered and dressed in a Sixties-style suit as designer-like as possible for such a backward era, "the Rubber Finger Of Fate seems to not have hurt your overall ability to appear presumptuous in any century."
"Maybe you don't mind being 'violated' by a doctor with too-large digits, my Russian friend," said a sarcastically half-sneering Napoleon while still straightening his silken necktie, "but I prefer to remain…relatively untouched."
The two over-the-hill/out-of-time reactivated agents, still extremely handsome and suave by any time-period's principles, shared an instant of exceptionally close camaraderie due to decades of consistent service in a linear time not yet in established existence.
"While you were prettying yourself up," half-jokingly said Illya, but with a certain seriousness in his blue eyes and largely unlined-by-time countenance, "we were sent for by Mr. Waverly. It would appear…"
"That we have our first mission affair in the past?" Napoleon hopefully finished as his hazel eyes and slightly larger lined-by-time features formed a crooked grin.
"Yes," Illya said with a knowing nod as the two turned to head toward the antechamber area wherein sat a beauteous secretary/receptionist, thank God!, that awaited to allow them easy access into Alexander Waverly's singular state-of-the-art, for 1964, office suite. Then Illya added somewhat more contemplatively, "You know, Napoleon, now that we are 'trapped' in the past, it might make good sense to start referring to it as our present. As 'now', in other words."
"Don't worry, my blonde-headed buddy," Napoleon Solo said with an ingratiating grin, "by the time I've wooed a woman and had a single glass of single-malt whiskey…it'll feel like home."
Having gone through the ritualistic stop-at-the-outer office-desk-for-sexual-by-play-prior-to-the-entering-of-an-inner office, two secret agents, numbers "2" and "11", stepped past said blast-proof, super-dense door and…
"Have a seat, gentlemen," said Alexander Waverly while puffing on a pipe and sending a sweet aroma into the interior air.
Causing these two men from U.N.C.L.E. to mentally compare past and future taboos in direct relation to the 21st Century proscription against inside smoking.
Illya truly believed such to be a good idea, while Napoleon, no longer a smoker as he had been his first time through this time-period, actually liked this little island of true personal freedom.
"As you no doubt suspect," said Mr. Waverly with a little more personal concern than usual, "a situation has just arisen that I believe can only be successfully solved by the two of you. How much do you, uh, remember in regards to British statesmen of 1964?"
Napoleon, like always, kept quiet, being more a man of action than thought, while Illya readily rattled off what Mr. Waverly would logically come to consider as supremely important in regards to his respective birthplace.
"Sir James Harold Wilson was chosen by public election to assume the position of Prime Minister of England. An important political position, especially in respect to overall world view."
"Has something happened to Britain's newest Prime Minister?" Napoleon was quick to ask, suddenly serious. Though, in truth, the salt-and-pepper haired man from U.N.C.L.E. was simply more than a little eager to get started.
"Has he been assassinated?" anxiously asked Illya in regards to a rather important man, historically speaking, in relation to England as well as the overall folds in the tapestry of Time.
"No," swiftly said Alexander Waverly with a stiff shake of his head. "At least…not yet. Which is where you two come in. Now, if you will loan me your unmitigated attention for the next ten-to-twenty minutes…"
Having activated, via the solid pressing of the proper control button, so primitive in comparison to the touch-sensitive desktop squares such as the dearly departed, most especially in respects to Illya Kuryakin and his unrequited potential for Love, Allison Hall of said 21st Century…
…the wall directly to the rear of Waverly's seated position, on the opposite side of the circular desk of polished oak and stainless metal, slowly slid open to reveal that Sixties-style television screen from which would be visually displayed…
"Now, gentlemen," began Alexander Waverly with a scholastic intonation, "just in case you have forgotten more than you might realize in regards to this time-period, let us go over certain specific items of interest, shall we?"
Though such was expected, and appreciated, by Illya Kuryakin, Napoleon Solo sighed inwardly over yet another obstacle tossed in his overly eager path to agent action.
Though not at all loud enough to be understood by his Russian-born partner nor their British-born Number "1"…
"Well, what d'ya know…the devil is in the details."
END OF CHAPTER 3