For Illya things were a little different. He moved into the apartment on Saturday. Olaf took his rent and gave him a key in the morning but he would be out most of the day. It wasn't until the evening that Illya met David Daniels. The guy seemed okay, but appeared to be a loner. First opinions could change as time went on though.
Olaf's warning that college life was one of late nights was an understatement as Saturday night seemed to be a never ending party with people coming and going and music till almost 4 in the morning. A strong scent Illya recognized as Cannabis—what the kids called pot, grass, or weed—clung to many of the visitors and soon filled the apartment. The pleasant summer air through the open windows dissipated a lot of the smoke.
Illya tried to remember as many of the names of the people he met as he could for background checks. His first night of observations gave him insight into a college lifestyle so different from his own experiences studying in Georgia under the watchful eye of his keepers. Back then he didn't have to drag a passed out female stranger from his bed to be able to go to sleep.
This might prove to be one of his more trying assignments. Doubts niggled in the back of his mind that this might not be the best assignment to start with after his recent difficulties. "Shut up," he snarled to that little voice which, not surprisingly, sounded a lot like Napoleon.
Monday morning, Alexander Waverly sat at his desk, relaxing with a freshly packed pipe, smoke gently swirling over his head. A new stack of morning reports were neatly arranged in order of priority for his review as he organized his day. THRUSH seemed to be coming out of a lull in activity and would require careful monitoring.
The head of U.N.C.L.E. New York had no qualms that Napoleon Solo could keep tabs on the reports and the agents on assignment. The man would also have full access to him on his trip to Europe for any communication if it was necessary and the other various Heads of U.N.C.L.E. would be in regular contact with Solo.
An hour and a half later Waverly called in the Chief Enforcement Agent for their daily meeting to go over the status of each field report and actions to be taken.
"Good morning, Mr. Waverly," Solo said smoothly on his arrival. He accepted the nod he received as a return greeting as he set his own stack of files near Waverly's station on the huge round desk.
The two men got down to work right away.
"Since this is my last week before my family reunion I'm going to let you take the lead more." Waverly explained the details of the role he wanted Solo to assume in changing from observer to actual interaction for the remainder of the time until he was to leave.
The first three agent reports and in person updates went smoothly. As they were about to begin the fourth review Lisa Rogers buzzed Waverly.
"Sir. You asked to be informed when Javier Ponce arrived," she told them.
"Yes. Quite. Send him in," he instructed her.
Napoleon immediately bristled but remained still. He discovered on Friday that this was the man Illya had dinner with and therefore the date Napoleon was jilted for.
Javier walked in smiling and stood at the end of the table wondering what Waverly wanted since he was leaving for Puerto Rico today. "You wanted to see me before I go, sir?" he said pleasantly.
"Yes, Mr. Ponce. I've spoken with your superior in the Caribbean and you are to be on loan to us here in New York for a while. I am to be out of the country for a time and I'm putting our Chief Enforcement Agent, Mr. Solo here," he said as an introduction to Solo as well as explanation, "in my seat while I am gone. You are to fill the absent space in our roster of agents during that time."
Javier raised his eyebrows in surprise. "Certainly, sir," he replied, pleased to have a new set of surroundings for a while. Besides, it would give him a chance to get with Illya again. The man was amazingly limber and had turned out to be an excellent lover. It had surprised him a little since people thought the Russian lived the existence of a monk. He now knew from experience that Illya might not jump from bed to bed like his womanizing partner, but the gorgeous Russian proved the idea that quality far outranked quantity.
Waverly passed the next file to Napoleon with the details of the back up assignment now that the College case was developing new information. "After some consideration, I decided you were right about Mr. Kuryakin needing a more formal backup. Please inform Mr. Ponce of the details of the case, Mr. Solo."
Illya pictured his school schedule in his mind so he could see where to go next. His first class of the day had been basic physics. He'd been bored to tears and had to hold his tongue quite a bit. The professor was knowledgeable enough and Illya had no issue with the material. It wouldn't do for a first year student to know the answers to all the questions, though. He would stand out and call attention to himself, the biggest rookie mistake an agent could make when undercover. He was no rookie.
His second and last class for the day started at 12:30, which was . . . he checked his watch . . . thirty minutes from now. Plenty of time to get to the correct building and room. He headed in that direction. Keeping an eagle eye on his surroundings was second nature to him and only took a small part of his mind to do. The rest of his thoughts turned to his past college experiences. Georgian Technical University, Sorbonne, Cambridge. All elite universities, all uniquely different. In some ways he looked forward to seeing how this American university stacked up next to those powerhouses.
He peeked into the door of the classroom where a Dr. John Stillwell taught Soviet History. The room was empty so he slipped inside and took a seat in the back. At least this was a small classroom as opposed to the auditoriums in which he'd attended some of his classes in the past.
Other students trickled in as the minutes ticked by. Illya lowered his head just enough to make it look like he was reading the textbook open on his desk while still able to see and catalogue every person that stepped through the door. Louise came in with a gaggle of girls and sat in the front of the class. His heart skipped a beat when he saw another familiar but expected face.
Damn! The nurse he'd known as Nancy from the psychiatric hospital where Kopf had held him captive stood just inside the doorway, looking for a good seat. He relaxed slightly when her gaze moved over him with no sign of recognition. She had so many patients, one that spent a few days under her care probably would register no more than a slight hiccup in her memory.
Her eyes widened and her gaze jumped back to him. A smile of recognition crossed her face. "It's you!" she cried.
Illya cringed as the entire class—all ten of them-quieted at the outburst and looked in her direction. They followed her line-of-sight until ten pairs of eyes focused on him. Yabat! "Mr. . . ."
Illya jumped up and hurried down to her. "Nancy!" he said before she could get his name out, all smiles and yanking her into a hug.
Nancy yelped at the unexpected gesture and tried to pull back. He held her tightly. "And none of that Mr. Grishuk stuff," he admonished. "I asked you before to call me Dima." He crushed her and her books to him, kissed her on both cheeks and then whispered, "I'm undercover. Please don't use my real name," into her ear.
Her breath hitched. "Ohhhh!" she breathed quietly.
Illya let her go and she self-consciously patted her hair back into place.
"Um, of course you did," she said. "Hello, M-Dima." She stumbled over the name. She smiled nervously. In her flustered state, the books in her arms shifted, slipping towards disaster. "Oh!" she yelped, making things worse as she tried to catch them.
Illya grabbed the top two books to keep them from falling, thus bringing even more attention their way. "Come sit next to me," Illya invited. He could stop her from saying something she shouldn't. Besides, her arrival on the scene of his first mission back from his mental distress caused by Kopf and his methods seemed a bit too coincidental. He hoped Waverly hadn't sent her in to keep an eye on him.
They took their seats and he glanced at her. "Why does a nurse need to take Soviet History?" he asked, hoping it sounded like he asked out of curiosity, not the flutter of fear he felt beneath his breastbone.
Her laugh sounded nervous. "It's all your fault, actually. When you were a . . ." She glanced around at the others, some of whom seemed to be listening in. "Um, a guest at our hotel, what I learned about you made me interested in finding out more. I was able to arrange my work schedule so I can be off on Monday and Wednesday to come here and take a couple of classes."
Any further conversation they may have had was aborted when a silver-haired man entered the room and closed the door. Illya put him at about the same age as Mr. Waverly. His shoulders were slightly stooped not so much from age as from scholarly pursuits. Illya saw the same sort of bad posture on many of his professors over his student years. They were usually the best teachers, too, because they had a passion for their subjects. He wondered if that would prove to be the case here. He felt a small surge of interest stirring in an area of his psyche recently on lock down.
"Good morning, everyone," the professor said brightly, a genuine smile on his face. The smile drooped a little when he spied Illya. "I haven't seen you here before. You must be Mr. Grishuk."
"Yes, sir," Illya answered, automatically using the term of respect as he might have for Mr. Waverly. He immediately berated himself for it. American university students had no respect for their elders and seldom used such honorifics as "sir" and "ma'am." He supposed he could hide behind his Soviet upbringing. Most Americans thought anyone from the Soviet Union was a savage, though, and, again, it might bring unwanted attention. He made a note to be more careful with that in the future.
"If you don't mind, I'd like to see you after class so I may give you the syllabus and other handouts," Stillwell said, smile brightening once more.
Illya nodded.
"Fine. Now, I'm sure all of you read the chapter I assigned and can tell me all about the rise of Lenin," Stillwell launched into his lecture.
Illya let the lecture wash over him as he thought about Nurse Nancy and what her presence might mean. Her excuse for being there was a rather flimsy one. Even if what she said were true, it was highly unlikely she'd be taking this class at this time in this university. Months had passed since his incarceration in the psych ward of her hospital. Surely if she were that interested she'd have taken this class before now.
Illya now knew this mission would have to be a rousing success. Failure was not an option. If he didn't pull this off to his superior's exacting standards, there was no telling what would happen. Waverly might pull him out of the field permanently. Worse, he might send him back home.
Much as he loved the Soviet people, Illya had come to truly hate the Soviet government and had no intentions of ever returning to that particular fold. If Waverly tried to send him back, he'd have to run. Of course he had planned for this eventuality the day he realized he would not return to the USSR if it ever came up. He had plenty of money stashed.
Napoleon always called him cheap and he was right. Illya Kuryakin was a very frugal man. But a stupid one he was not. The money he saved on inexpensive soaps, clothes, and the other things Napoleon lavished upon himself, he put into a safety deposit box under an alias. The money nestled right next to several sets of papers for other aliases.
The slamming of books and sliding of desk chairs brought Illya back to his present surroundings. He blinked, embarrassed and appalled that he'd allowed himself to drift off like that. What important bit of information might he have missed? Yes, it was doubtful he missed anything mission-related from the lecture. If this class had been an issue, Waverly would have ordered him to take it. Still, what if he drifted off like that when it could be important?
"Want to go have coffee and, um, talk?" Nancy asked him as she readied herself to leave.
He glanced at her. "No, thank you. I must speak with Dr. Stillwell."
She looked at the professor as he bent over his desk gathering some papers out of his briefcase. "That shouldn't take long. I can wait."
The last thing Illya wanted to do was spend time with the woman watching him for any psychological weaknesses. "I'm sorry. I have another class after this one," he lied.
Her face fell. Disappointed she wouldn't have much to report to the UNCLE psychiatrists, no doubt.
"Okay. Well, I guess I'll see you Wednesday, then." She picked up her books and marched out, head held high.
Illya sighed, relieved she was gone. He gathered his things and moved to Stillwell's desk.
Stillwell sat down and intertwined his hands, steepling his fingers in front of his face. "So, Mr. Grishuk. I can't help but wonder who pulled the strings?"
Illya kept a blank expression even as his heart threatened to beat out of his chest. Was his cover broken already? If so, he should start deciding exactly which crack in the world he wanted to slip into and hide. "I'm not sure I understand what you mean," he said, purposely thickening his accent to sound a bit more like the bewildered immigrant.
"The semester is two weeks old," he said. "Class enrollment has been over for a week, yet you still manage to enroll. Someone had to pull a few strings for that."
"Oh," Illya said, keeping the relief from his voice. He'd realized this might come up and already had an answer. He waved the question away. "My uncle owns many dry cleaning stores. Very rich. He want me to come to university and get degree so I may get good job."
Stillwell's lips pursed in disapproval. "I see. Well, Mr. Grishuk, since you're Russian, Moscovite from your accent, I have to wonder why you're taking Soviet history."
Illya shrugged. "I needed one more subject and, as you say, I am Russian, so the advisor thought I take this class as a . . . a . . ." He acted as though he searched for the proper word. "Filler, I think she called it." He flashed a smile. "She thought I could use easy class."
The furrow between the professor's brow turned downward and his lips flattened into a thin line. "Since this will be such an easy class, you won't have a problem catching up. I'll allow the late work you've missed so far." He gave Illya a sharp look. "This time and this time only. Here's the list of assignments. I expect it all to be turned in by Wednesday."
Illya looked at the list of assignments. So far it mostly had to do with the end of the tsars and rise of Communism. There were three assignments but he could get them done in two days easily enough. He smiled again at Stillwell. "Thank you. I will give to you Wednesday." He slipped the papers into his binder, gathered everything up, and headed out the door.
Javier's smile was his secret weapon. He employed a very different style than Illya. The Russian agent was a chameleon, able to change his appearance, his personality, his demeanor, become a completely different person at the drop of a hat. And that was without any kind of makeup. Add a disguise to that-and Illya's disguises left him in awe—and his handsome, blond-haired, blue-eyed Russian friend became a Mongolian warlord. Top it off with Illya's cunning, downright scary ruthlessness, formidable intelligence, and his knowledge of, well, everything, it seemed, and there was little wonder Illya Kuryakin had managed to rise to the Number 2 spot of North America even with the handicap of being Soviet.
Of course, Javier himself was no slouch. His style was as valid and effective as Illya's, just in a different way. He relied on his good looks, his charm, his wit, and his ability to think quickly on his feet to carry him through to successful missions. Very much like Illya's partner, Napoleon Solo. The man who held the Number ONE spot in North America. Napoleon's success fueled Javier's desire and goal to one day hold a Number One spot of his own, perhaps in Europe.
Not that he would mind taking over Napoleon's position, but only if it became vacant due to Solo's promotion to Section One and not because the CEA of North America was killed in action. He hated to think what that would do to Illya. Quite frankly, he wouldn't want to be the one to have to pick up those pieces. There would just be too many of them. Illya was a cold bastard, but when it came to his partner . . . well, partners were different. Just as the block of ice he portrayed, if something hit it in just the right place, he had a feeling Illya would shatter.
But no one was shattering at the moment and he had a job to do-keeping Illya Kuryakin informed and protected while in his undercover role. It was a dangerous game Illya played, more so than Javier's own as backup, and the Puerto Rican agent was determined to make sure they both made it out of this mission alive, injury free, and with a big success under their belts.
So he employed his secret weapon. He sauntered into a diner frequented by the university students within an hour of one of their servers calling in to quit. He didn't ask how or why U.N.C.L.E. managed to get the person to quit. He was always afraid the answer would prey on his conscience. But he had a job to do and he planned to do it with style.
He smiled at the older, harried looking woman behind the counter. The diner was full to capacity with people eating breakfast and the woman appeared to be the only one trying to fulfill every customers dreams of pancakes and coffee.
She gave him a strained grimace. "I hope you don't mind sitting at the counter," she said, indicating the only empty chair in the place. It happened to be right next to the register. "But we're all full up otherwise."
Javier gave her one of his medium-watt smiles. "You are very busy. You trying to take care of this crowd all by yourself?" he asked as he sat down. He saw her perk up at the sound of his voice. American women tended to love his accent.
She nodded. "I'm afraid so. My other waitress quit just this morning." She held up a pot of coffee in a silent question. At Javier's nod, she turned over the clean cup sitting upside down on a saucer and poured.
Javier pulled a stained menu card from the little metal holder on the counter. "Perhaps God led me in here today, then."
She paused in the act of putting the coffee pot back on the burner and turned to look at him. "What do you mean?"
"I was just stopping in here to have a little something to eat before I went out to look for work. The fact I stepped into the diner that is in desperate need of help seems like Divine guidance, does it not?"
The woman regarded him seriously, hand on her hip. "We've never had a man waiting tables in here before. Still, it might not be a bad idea to have a handsome man doing it. Bring in the working ladies, ya know?"
He turned up the wattage in his smile just a bit, pleased to see her melt a little. "There is a first time for everything, no? I used to wait tables for my uncle in his little place in Puerto Rico. I am perfect for the job."
She wavered as she looked around at the clambering customers. "Tell you what. If you can stick around until this crowd leaves, we'll talk about it."
Gotcha. Javier kept the triumph from his grin. She would be like putty in his hands now. "I will do you one better," he said, standing up. "If you have an extra apron, I will help take orders and deliver food. That way you can see what you're getting."
She stared at him hard before reaching under the counter and pulling out a pink bundle. She tossed it at him. "Here ya go." She waved him behind the counter. "Pads and pencils are under the register. Let's see what you can do. By the way, do you have a name? I would rather not be yelling 'Hey you!' across the diner all afternoon."
Javier sighed and put on the apron. Did it have to be pink? "I'm Javier," he said forcing a smile. He shook his head ruefully. The things he did for U.N.C.L.E. Illya would never let him hear the end of this.
With the majority of the day spent with Waverly, Napoleon didn't have much time to think about personal matters. He tried to avoid thinking too much about what was going on with Illya's mission although it nagged at him the whole time. Now that he was back in his own office doing reviews he had a moment to reflect on what was transpiring at the college.
Napoleon knew that Javier Ponce was in place at the cafe. If it had been anyone but that man, Napoleon would be happier. He considered telling Waverly that a personal involvement might be detrimental to the case but he felt a little awkward and didn't want to use that as an excuse-especially since Illya could cite chapter and verse of the times his American partner had done the same thing-although he felt that mentioning it to Illya may be a good idea.
The thought of being belted into a chair behind a desk while Illya was out in the field didn't sit well with Napoleon. He hadn't envisioned Illya being returned to field duty so quickly. Had expected to be out from behind this desk by the time Illya was released by the doctors. He imagined the two of them out there side by side. Napoleon wanted to be the one to give him comfort and support when the time came. He couldn't stand the thought of another man taking his place, at Illya's side nor in Illya's bed. That it was Ponce doing both made him grit his teeth.
Quickly Napoleon shook his head to try and focus on the job in front of him. He took a deep breath and moved the papers around on his desk to try and get back to what he was supposed to be doing. Why the ungrateful little Russian infuriated him the way he did was beyond Napoleon's comprehension.
Illya carried his books with him as he walked toward the apartment complex. The rumble in his stomach reminded him that he'd skipped lunch in favor of visiting the library. He thought of the multitude of pizza boxes and fast food wrappers in the kitchen of his new residence and decided that eating out might be safer. The local cafe seemed to be popular with the students and it was on the way to the apartment he shared with Olaf and David.
The place was quaint, almost as old as parts of the school. The facing of the sign out front was cracked with a small piece of the glass missing, exposing the florescent tube backlighting. The paint on the wood framed windows flaked, exposing multiple layers of green under gray under white. Once white mortar was dingy and chipping and the red-brown brick stained with time.
As Illya entered through the glass and aluminum door marked, "pull to open," he was greeted with the rich scent of real food. Even though Napoleon never failed to remind him that he was no gourmet, Illya knew food. He could distinguish the aroma of macaroni and cheese, beef pot roast, and fried chicken. Dishes that probably made the place such a Mecca for students away from home as well as the reasonable prices posted on the specials board.
While he glanced around for a seat, since it looked to be a find a chair and sit down yourself place, he spied a familiar form pouring coffee at the end of a booth. A lean but well-built Latino wearing, of all things, a pink apron. He refrained from smiling and moved over to the counter where a couple girls vacated the stools and leaving. Moments later, Javier came over with a cloth to wipe the counter down and remove the milkshake glasses.
"Welcome. Can I get you something to drink?" Javier asked and then slid the menu card in front of Illya. "I recommend the meatloaf."
It was hard to keep a straight face. Illya took the menu and glanced at it, but took Javier's advice. "Meatloaf it is. And hot tea please."
Javier wrote the ticket and slipped it onto the clip in the window connecting to the kitchen. After filling a stainless steel teapot with hot water, he returned to Illya with a fresh cup and saucer and a teabag on a string. He looked at the books on the countertop next to Illya's arm. His face scrunched as he spied the physics book on top of the pile. "Fun class?" he asked, indicating the subject matter.
Illya shrugged. "I have a bit of catching up to do. I registered late."
"Good luck with that," Javier said. "Are you staying on campus?" he asked making conversation that would sound normal to everyone there. The urge to flirt was strong but he resisted. They were on a case, after all.
"I was lucky. I found a room in an apartment nearby. It suits my budget."
Javier nodded. "I need to find a place too. What's it like there?"
"The place I'm staying is full," Illya said, "But I heard there are some empty places on the floor above mine."
"I'll have to check that out. Which complex are you living in?"
"In the Huntington Mills Apartments. I'm in unit 315. You should come see me if you move in. I could use a new friend."
Javier's smile reached all the way to his eyes. "I'll do that."
"Order up," came a voice from the back as a platter was placed on the pass through.
Javier moved to the window between the front and the kitchen to find Illya's meatloaf waiting. He brought the plate over to Illya and set it in front of him. It was a good sized portion with mashed potatoes, gravy, carrots, and a fresh roll. "I have to admit they have good food here."
Illya took a whiff of the steaming plate. It was nothing fancy but it smelled delicious. He watched Javier get back to work and ate his meal in peace. The quality of flavor and quantity of food was something he wasn't expecting. Normally food was just something to fill his belly and he cared not whether it was a fine grade of caviar or the humblest of canned spam. This, however, was good enough to remember. Unfortunately, he would probably remember it most when locked in some THRUSH cell with nothing to eat. Well, at least it would be a pleasant memory.