THE COUNTDOWN TO ANNIHILATION AFFAIR

Chapter 3

"Welcome to Aqtau"

Having touched down at a private airport in the Russian Province of Mangghystau, financed by not only U.N.C.L.E. but the CIA as well, two dressed-downed agents took possession of an ex-Soviet military jeep, retrofitted, Napoleon noticed, with yet another GPS OnStar device. Naturally, this meant Illya would drive.

Just as well since, clearly, the Russian knew more about this former-Soviet Union region than Napoleon.

Too bad the two had such a long, bumpy drive ahead of them before reaching the seaport Slavic city, because Napoleon knew that Illya would be less talkative than normal.

It would be all the graying U.N.C.L.E. agent could do to maintain even the most rudimentary of conversations.

"So," Napoleon said amidst meek attempts to chat about the weather, which wasn't exactly balmy, or the scenery, which was bleak, "the KGB's been replaced by the FSB."

"Yes, the Federal Security Service of the Russian Federation…in Belarus, however, it is still known as the KGB. A garbage heap by any other name still stinketh."

Napoleon chuckled for the first time since beginning this, their second mission affair, "Well, well…the dry-humored Illya Kuryakin's still in there somewhere, isn't he?"

Also for the first time since the beginning of this mission affair, Illya allowed a half smile upon his face. "Sorry if I've been a little closed off this time around, Napoleon."

"You?" quipped Napoleon. "'Closed off'? Perish the thought!"

The half smile on Illya's face soon became a full one, until he glanced down at the GPS' moving map in relation to their position. Then, disappointingly, allowed that look of impending doom to dominate his features again. "We should reach the city's limits in about five or six minutes. Better contact U.N.C.L.E. and let them know. We're due for a mandatory check-in anyway."

Heaving a sigh of returning frustration, Napoleon reached into the pocket of the cheap jacket, worn by both agents, concealing not only their shoulder-holster carried Walther P38s, but the attached-behind-the-back accessory pack containing everything needed to turn a pistol into a carbine.

Finally Napoleon pulled out an ordinary-looking pen that, with practiced hand movements, he transformed into one of only two in-use pen communicators.

"Open Channel D," Napoleon said officially into the combination microphone-speaker of the cylindrical device held by the fingers of one hand, "open Channel D."

"Channel D open, Mr. Solo," the voice, a man's this time, answered huskily. "Report, please."

"Mr. Kuryakin and I should be entering Aqtau in five minutes or less. Will report back when the THRUSH operatives have been neutralized and the illegally obtained plutonium located. Until then, I suggest radio silence. Solo out."

As Napoleon reconverted the communications device back into an innocuous-looking ink pen, placing it back into the pocket of the casual jacket, he glanced over at the still sullen Illya and said, "Smile, my friend…we're about to stop THRUSH maniacs from holding the world hostage…again. Not bad for our first couple of weeks out of retirement."

"That's all very well and good, Napoleon, but once that has been done…with or without your help…I'm killing Vladmir Sorkenvek," Illya said gravely as the eastern edge of the Slavic city rose into view.

Napoleon started to argue, then thought better of it and remained silent. For the time being.

First things first. Stop THRUSH, then…stop Illya.

Russian was one of few languages that Napoleon Solo never mastered, unlike French, Italian, or even German, and reading it was even harder. A fact made all the more obvious when he saw a sign just before the jeep bounding along the rough roadway.

Города Актау

"It says 'Aqtau city limits'," Illya deigned to decipher for a questioningly staring Napoleon.

Морской порт города

"Seaport City," said Illya by way of continuing to translate.

Население : 175000

"Population: 175,000."

"Yeah, well, I deciphered that last for myself," Napoleon said with a scoff, then pondered the number for a moment. "I thought that was the population for Aqtau a year or so ago."

"Yes," Illya replied, "they haven't gotten around to officially changing it yet."

"Yeah? When will they 'officially' change it?" Napoleon quipped in a last-ditch effort to lighten an otherwise disconsolate mood.

"Probably in a year or so," was Illya's deadpan response as they continued deeper into the Slavic city. "That's Russian bureaucracy for you."

No sooner had the two U.N.C.L.E. agents, dressed in by downgraded clothing and driving an aging ex-Soviet jeep, continued on than they were observed by a Russian sporting a very heavy five o'clock shadow and uni-brow. Someone who promptly lifted a hand to his ear, making certain the Comm device therein properly transmitted and received.

"They are here," he said in guttural Russian, "both of them."

He listened to an unseen someone, while maintaining visual contact with the two aging agents in the jeep. He then nodded curtly and said, still in Russian, "Yes. Understood."

"So where is our safe house here in beautiful downtown Aqtau, Illya?"

"Here we are," said Illya while bringing the old military jeep to a brake-squeaking stop before killing its engine. Then, after slipping the keys into his casual pants pocket, Illya and Napoleon head for the door of an antiquated brownstone. But considerably more rundown than those in New York City.

"Lovely," was Napoleon's sarcastic remark as he followed Illya's lead.

Little did they know that, on the rooftop of the building directly across from the U.N.C.L.E. safe house, a second stubble-faced mystery man was peering at them through the telescopic sight of a Russian KSVK bolt action long sniper rifle, like those used by Russian Special Ops in Checnya in the 1990s.

His black gloved forefinger professionally poised next to its trigger.

With a twisted grin on his rugged features, the man grunted in Russian, "Welcome to Aqtau."

END OF CHAPTER 3