THE COUNTDOWN TO ANNIHILATION AFFAIR

Chapter 4

"Must be the Russian 'Welcome Wagon'"

POW!

Even as the sound of the sniper rifle reached their ears, two over-the-hill U.N.C.L.E. agents hit the ground and pulled their Walther P38s while the Russian sniper scrambled to his booted feet in order to vacate his rooftop location.

"Did you see?" asked Napoleon Solo, Walther P38 held tightly, as both he and Illya Kuryakin took cover behind their parked ex-Soviet military jeep.

"No. But it had to come from up there. See?" said Illya while gesturing with the muzzle of his pistol toward the gradually defusing gun smoke atop the multistory building across from the U.N.C.L.E. safe house.

"Hm," hummed Napoleon with a quick nod. "Five will get you ten that the sniper's no longer up there."

"Agreed, but he hasn't had time to make it down just yet."

A groan emanating from the vicinity of the safe house doorway caused both to half-turn in that direction. Until that moment, neither knew that someone had been hit by the sniper's bullet.

By the time Illya, as Napoleon covered him from behind the jeep, made his way to the body lying partially inside the doorway, it became clear that, whoever the young man was, his life's blood was now flowing toward the dirty Russian gutter.

Illya knelt next to the profusely bleeding body of an about-to-die young Russian man in his twenties. About the same age Illya Kuryakin had been when first he began his career with U.N.C.L.E.

"Just lie still. I'll get some…," Illya started in Russian, even as the young man breathed his last. "Dead."

After scrambling back to Napoleon, both hurried across the street in order to make their way into the building wherein, somewhere, a Russian sniper was lurking. Their U.N.C.L.E. pistols at the ready, the two out-of-retirement operatives cautiously made their way up the stairs inside a building whose rickety old elevator had been posted, in Russian lettering of course…

Из службы

Out of Service…

"Damn. I knew I should've started my exercise program last week," said Napoleon amidst heavy panting as he and Illya moved higher into the rundown structure.

"Unless he jumped, he's got to still be here," said Illya, as he and Napoleon moved past yet another floor's level. "Somewhere."

Just as they had done with the previous three floors, Illya and Napoleon came out onto the fourth in order to search in two different directions along interconnected hallways in for a Russian sniper.

Finally, Napoleon Solo finds him. Sort of.

"Illya. Come in, Illya," said Napoleon into his pen communicator.

"Illya here. Come in, Napoleon," came Illya's hushed voice. "What have you found?"

"I think I may know where our 'friend' is hiding," said Napoleon quietly. "Come on around the end of the hall and we'll tackle him together."

"On my way. Out."

By the time Illya Kuryakin stealthily trotted up to Napoleon Solo's side, the latter gestured with his gun hand toward the bottom of a slightly ajar apartment door and the dirty print of a size 14 boot that remained as mute testimony to the fact that the shooter inside the Kazakhstan tenement.

Using hand signals only, Illya told Napoleon to ease open the door, as their forefingers poised on the triggers of their respective guns. Then…

"Freeze!"

That single word, spoken in both Russian, from Illya, and English, from Napoleon, fell on horrified ears as an elderly couple, lifelong residents of Aqtau, Kazakhstan, sat in frozen fear on a modest, time-worn sofa. A small black-and-white television, a Russian soap opera playing out via tinny speaker, with rabbit-eared antennae forming a lopsided right-angle on top, had once held their aging attention.

It was clear that the reason for the old couple's apprehension had nothing to do with the two armed U.N.C.L.E. agents and everything to do with whoever was hiding in the adjoining bedroom.

As Illya covered Napoleon, the latter swiftly-yet-silently swung around to stand to one side of the closed door. Illya did the same on the other side.

Without saying a word, the two agents used eyes and expressions to signal one another in regards to rushing the bedroom on three…

"Drop it!"

"Hands up!"

The shouted commands, in English and Russian, overlapped one another in a manner that seemed to create an entirely new language.

The two men from U.N.C.L.E., Illya on one knee and Napoleon pressed against the wall, trained ready-to-fire Walther P38s at their rough-looking quarry which, in turn, had the intended effect.

Slowly lifting his arms, the Russian sniper gradually dropped the Russian KSVK so it clattered heavily onto the worn wood floor. After which the surrendering sniper did as Illya, harshly speaking to him in Russian, instructed: he dropped to both knees, while interlocking the fingers of his gloved hands behind his dark-haired head.

For all the sniper knew, he was about to be professionally executed.

"Ask him who he's working for?" Napoleon said as Illya kicked aside the sniper rifle. "Ask him if he's with THRUSH?"

Before Illya could translate the double query, the sniper spoke up in Russian-accented English, "I do not vork for THRUSH. I vasn't trying to assassinate you."

Napoleon and Illya glanced at one another, but never wavered in their combined aim as Illya said, "You could've fooled us. You shot and killed a young man who…"

"Who vas at the safe house to kill more agents of U.N.C.L.E.!" said the kneeling Russian with a snarl. "If I had not shot him, both of you vould now be dead! And the stolen plutonium vould still be at large. Ve could not allow that."

Once again, Napoleon and Illya shot puzzled glances at one another, as the latter said, "What do you think, Napoleon? Should we trust him?"

"Seeing as how you and I have the guns, Illya, I'd say a little trust might actually go a long way," said Napoleon with a half-smile. "All right…on your feet. Slowly."

"And keep your hands behind your head," added Illya, even as the Russian sniper planted one booted foot before his kneeling form, pushed himself upward, until, at last, he stood straight and tall between the two armed men. "Who are you? Talk!"

"My name is Dmitrij Zhamanklov. I vas sent by the Russian PSS to look after you," explained the sniper. "To make certain that your deaths did not become a…how do you say?…'international incident'. Especially since U.N.C.L.E. represents our people as much as those in the Vest."

"Russian PSS?" puzzled Illya with recognition, maintaining his aim on the now-standing Dmitrij, even as Napoleon lowered his weapon while allowing playful sarcasm to dominate face and tone.

"Well, Illya. Must be the Russian 'Welcome Wagon'."

END OF CHAPTER 4