Steven Shields had performed well in Survival School. His scores had been adequate in Cutter's opinion, but something about him had indicated he was capable of more than that if given the opportunity. It was unlike the surly commandant of the UNCLE training facility to promote a candidate who couldn't post results like the two agents whose legacies had begun on the private island. Not very many men had results like Solo or Kuryakin, though, at least not on every survival skill.
Something about Shields impressed Jules Cutter, and his recommendation to Alexander Waverly had been to let the young man start in New York, under the tutelage of the great man.
Sitting in the Canteen, Shields was still trying to formulate his plan for the assumption of top spot among the New York agents. He knew what it would take, and harbored nothing like regret at the prospect of eliminating one or both of his targets. Success was the only option for him, and whatever it took to attain his goal would be his path.
In the little town of Angieville, Tennessee, morning arrived with the softly cadenced greeting of a creek that ran behind the little motel in which two UNCLE agents were staying. Illya was vaguely aware of the chinking sound of water against rocks and twigs, as well as a chill in the air signaling the arrival of autumn in this mountain hamlet.
"Napoleon, wake up."
It was just loud enough to penetrate the still sleeping man's dreamy countenance. Napoleon took a deep breath before completely breaking away from a very pleasant image of Heather McNabb smothered in gravy…
"What? Oh, oh… wow. I think that catfish caused me to have some strange dreams…"
Illya raised an eyebrow, doubting that it required catfish to entangle his friend in a strange dream. He was fairly certain that Napoleon had been dreaming of a woman.
"Yes, well I'm willing to bet breakfast that you'll dream whether you eat catfish or oatmeal. Either way, my friend, you will dream."
Napoleon shot his partner a wicked smile, acknowledging the truth of that sentiment.
"Shower?"
Illya was already gathering his kit and heading for the bathroom.
By seven o'clock, both men were ready to head out of their room and directly to the café across the street. There was a frost still evident even as the sun was beginning to warm the landscape. Illya had on jeans and a heavier than normal turtleneck sweater. Boots and a heavy parka insulated him against the near freezing morning air. Napoleon also wore jeans, with a thermal tee beneath a plaid flannel shirt. His raincoat was heavy enough to ward off the chill, and boots would serve him well as their journey led them into the hills. But that would be after breakfast, something Illya had made quite clear.
The little restaurant was buzzing with locals when the two walked in. Nods of greeting were permitted, although no one actually spoke. The individual circles of men quickly resumed conversations that covered everything from the rising cost of fuel oil to the last radio broadcast of the Grand Ole Opry.
Many of those present would be heading off to work in the Thrush mine. The cover story concocted by Illya and Napoleon as writers would be their only entry into this world. For now, sitting down to a country breakfast was what fueled the Russian's interest.
A different waitress was on duty this morning, a slightly older and considerably plumper version of the girl last night. She had a smile and cheerful demeanor that defied the early hour and amount of work she was handling.
"Good mornin' gentlemen.'
She poured coffee as she inquired of them…
"What are y'all havin' today?"
Illya was almost giddy from the anticipation of the biscuits and gravy he had decided on last night.
"I see that you have something called sausage gravy. What is that, exactly?"
She smiled at him, wondering how anything this cute and with that accent had arrived here for her to enjoy.
"Well, let me see… The sausage is fried up, then cook makes a white gravy out of milk and flour, and some of the drippin's. After that gravy is all bubblin' and seasoned up just right, the sausage gets broken up into it and ladled over your biscuits. I recommend some eggs to go with it."
Napoleon was pretty sure the woman winked at the blond, but he was very sure that she was having some fun with him.
Illya's eyebrows rose to the middle of his forehead as he considered this information. It certainly sounded simple enough.
"I shall have that, then. Two eggs, over medium, please. And, thank you for your excellent explanation."
And he winked back.
Napoleon ordered the same. WheninRome…
Forty-five minutes later, breakfast was a fait accompli, and for Illya, the dawning of a new appreciation for what a morning meal could be. Satisfaction didn't begin to describe his state of being. The two paid their bill and left the restaurant to the classic exit line.
"Y'all come back!"
Illya was counting on it.
"All right, Illya, who plays photographer today?"
Napoleon almost always played the writer to Illya's photographer role. Still, it seemed to suit them better, and today was not the day to explore new alter egos.
"I will, as usual. At least I will possess the obvious weapon should it be required."
Napoleon nodded. He had overheard a few of the men talking about today's projected schedule, and it seemed to indicate that they were close to a deposit of sapphires. He had no previous knowledge of gemstones being mined in this region. Surprises were a part of this profession on a daily basis.
"I have directions to the mine. It still amazes me that this has been in operation for a year, and no one outside of this region knew about it. That seems like good planning on Thrush's part.''
Illya agreed.
"Good planning from Thrush means trouble. I just hope they aren't expecting us."
As Steven Shields closed the folder he had been reading, the phrase came to him…
'Hide in plain sight'.
That's what he was doing, and the information in this folder contained everything he needed to know in order to eliminate the only thing that stood between him and success with UNCLE.