Prologue: The St. Regis Hotel
The St. Regis Hotel bar was crowded with guests. There was a private event booking and, to make matters worse, the regular bartender had called out at the last minute and his replacement, a young, blond man, lacked something of his alacrity behind the cherry wood bar. A dark-haired guest in a well-tailored tuxedo waited, tapping his empty glass impatiently against the bar top.
"Another of the same," he ordered.
"Yes, sir. Scotch and soda, was it?"
The bartender accepted the used glass and coaster and set them aside behind the bar, then passed the man a fresh drink. He dropped the dirty glass into a bin of dishes and moved on to the next guest. Only a very careful observer would have wondered why the bartender had slipped the used coaster into his pants' pocket.
The woman didn't appear until well after midnight, when the party was winding down. The bartender was sure of that; tall and elegant in a deep red dress, she was the kind of woman people noticed, even people like him.
"I'd like a Brandy Alexander please, dear."
"Alexander's not working tonight, I'm afraid, but I can get you a brandy."
She laughed without warmth, "Aren't you a funny one!"
"I beg your pardon," he stalled, "it's just gone last call."
"Nonsense, it's only one-thirty."
"Really? My watch must be broken. What was it you wanted then?"
"A Brandy Alexander."
"Yes, right." He picked up a glass. "Are you quite sure?"
"Yes, don't worry, I'm no Kirsten Arnesen."
"Hmm?"
"Days of Wine and Roses." She smiled in a manner he supposed was intended to be charming.
"What?"
"The film. You haven't seen it?"
"No, I rarely go to the movies. Look, I haven't got the ingredients for the drink you wanted."
"A Brandy Alexander."
"Right, I haven't got that. How about a Manhattan?"
"That would be fine." As he proffered her drink, she grabbed him by the wrist and held it for a moment.
"Say, when do you get off?"
The bartender hissed and dropped the glass. It rolled across the bar top, spilling a semicircle of liquor over the wood. Behind the bar, the bartender went limp and slid out of sight, head hitting the tiled floor with a sharp thud. Quick as an adder, the woman slipped behind the bar and knelt beside him, she patted down his pockets until she found what she was seeking, an ordinary-looking cork coaster. She secreted her prize in her clutch and disappeared.
Opening Theme
Somewhere in the East 40's
It was late, or maybe early, to be in the office, around three in the morning or so, but I didn't mind. After all, it wasn't every day (or, better, night) that I was called in to consult with our field agents. What Mr. Waverly had told me was this: there was going to be a live drop of a micro-disc from a source imbedded deep within Thrush. Napoleon and Illya, that is, Mr. Solo and Mr. Kuryakin, were handling the exchange, and they'd been promised the technical details of all security systems in place at Thrush's New York headquarters. Mr. Waverly had requested that I be on hand to interpret the specs as soon as they came in, so the field team could plan an assault before Thrush even realized they'd been compromised. And so there I was in Mr. Waverly's office, long after I would normally have toddled off to bed, drinking coffee and reviewing everything we knew to date about Thrush's systems. I was tired, sure, but looking forward to action in the day ahead.
The door slid open, and Napoleon came in, looking dapper as usual in a splendid tux, but he was closely followed by his partner, Illya Kuryakin, who was wearing an icepack on his head and a scowl on his face.
"Sir. George." Napoleon greeted us both.
"Gentlemen." Waverly turned towards the pair of them, an eyebrow raised.
"We, ah, we don't have it, sir." I'd known Napoleon was brave, but you'd sure have to be, to admit something like that to the Chief.
"I see. What happened?"
"It was my fault," Illya ground the words through his teeth, "I was incapacitated with some kind of injection, then they stole back the micro-disc."
"Curious. How did they recognize you? You did leave your weapons and communicators in the office as instructed, did you not?"
"Yes sir, we weren't carrying anything that would have sent out a signal or shown up on a scan."
"Hmm."
"But, ah, there was one problem, sir." Napoleon cast a glance at his partner, who sighed and slumped into a chair. "The operative who presumably took the disc was a young woman, and Illya says she ordered a drink that he wasn't familiar with. It's possible that his, ah, lack of expertise might have tipped her off. I mean, the St. Regis is a very well-regarded establishment."
Illya glared back. "You think you could have done better, with no recipes and people shouting things at you and waving glasses in your face from all directions. How about you do an honest night's work next time, Mr. Big Shot No-Tipper, and I will be the bourgeois party guest, hmm?"
They sure could bicker, Napoleon and Illya, but once you spent some time with them, you realized pretty quickly that they didn't mean anything by it. They were like brothers that way – squabbling like cats and dogs sometimes, but you could tell they'd each have other's backs at the end of the day.
Waverly cleared his throat, "Gentlemen."
Illya looked at him from under his icepack, suddenly looking rather pathetic and a whole lot less intimidating. "I'm sorry, sir, for spoiling the operation. It's no excuse, but I am trained as a secret agent, and not as a barman."
Now, to be clear, I'm not exactly proud of what happened next, but that's when I had my bright idea. Or, maybe to put it more accurately, that's when I got a little carried away. I'd been looking forward to working with them, and all I can say is, I guess I let my disappointment get the better of me.
"I am," I blurted.
"You are, what?" They all seemed to only just remember that I'd ever been in the room.
"I'm trained as a bartender; I went through a licensing exam and everything, though I can't say I ever got much use out of it and I'm sure it's expired by now."
Mr. Waverly never did have much patience for rambling. "And the significance of this, Mr. Dennell? You can hardly be suggesting that you should have been deployed on this mission?"
"Of course not," - I swallowed hard - "but maybe I could give Mr. Kuryakin a few pointers. If you'd like, Illya?"
Waverly picked up his pipe from his desk and toyed with it, evidently thinking my suggestion over. "A capital idea. Mr. Dennell, as you have undoubtedly surmised, there is rather less need for your security expertise at the moment than we had hoped." Napoleon and Illya exchanged faintly abashed glances. Waverly continued, "Mr. Kuryakin, I'm going to dismiss you to Medical. I imagine that shortly thereafter I will receive a memorandum from them forbidding me from assigning you to field duty for the time being, so there is no reason why the two of you should not begin these lessons as soon as possible, on the understanding, of course, that they will in no way detract from or take precedence over your primary job duties."
It took me a moment to parse Waverly's statement into a 'yes.'
"Thank you, sir. Illya, how about we meet at my place tomorrow, say around five?"
Illya grunted in a manner that I chose to believe was affirmative and heaved himself out of the chair. He stood for a moment, looking about twenty times more exhausted than I felt. Then Napoleon clasped him warmly by the shoulder and Illya seemed to relax under his hand, leaning into Napoleon just a little.
"Good night, George." Napoleon left me with a nod and steered his partner gently out of the room, to Medical, I guessed. I followed them out and watched their backs as they went down the hall, pressed lightly against one another. I heard Napoleon's voice, but couldn't make out the words, only Illya's tired chuckle in response. Beaten this time, but not defeated, not our field agents. I watched them until they turned the corner, then dragged myself home to catch a few winks before daybreak.
I had only just set down my burden of gently tinkling paper bags when the buzzer rang. I disarmed the security system and buzzed Illya up, waiting for his knock before I threw the deadbolt. I'd been in Illya's apartment, just like I'd been in that of every agent with a security clearance level four or higher, for his annual security check, and so I knew that his wasn't so far off from mine in terms of size and bachelor bareness. Still, I felt self-conscious as he took in the cramped kitchen and the cheap Formica card table.
"Sorry about the place," I offered, "it could probably use a woman's touch."
His gaze shifted from my cabinets to me. "What? No, it's…" he looked around again. "We can't all have Napoleon's facility with interior decorators."
He was right about that – Napoleon's place always looked like it had come straight out of a magazine.
"You mean 'interior decoration'?" I asked, although Illya's English was better than mine, as far as I could tell.
"Not quite." He caught my eye and smiled wryly, then nodded towards the paper wrapped bottles on the table. "Shall we begin?"
"Of course, now this is called…" I cast my mind back to what the man at the liquor store had told me, "…an Aviation. We'll start with a… um… 'jigger' of maraschino liqueur." I splashed some syrup into a measuring cup.
Illya eyed the purplish liquid in his glass with something that looked, charitably, like apprehension. I couldn't say I was too thrilled at the prospect of downing the drink in front of me either.
"Right." - I cleared my throat - "so now we garnish with a cherry, and down the hatch."
I lifted the glass to my lips and took a cautious mouthful. It was overpoweringly sweet, and the violet flavor combined with the faint scent of rot put me in mind of my Grandma Irma in her later years – heavy perfume and slow death.
Across the table, I heard Illya choking on his own sip. "George," - he coughed - "that's absolutely vile."
I looked thoughtfully into my glass, as though I wasn't so sure. "Hmm, the floral notes aren't to everyone's taste; it's more of a ladies' drink, really," I extemporized. "How about another lesson? We can try something a bit simpler this time."
"Look, George, I appreciate the initiative, but I really must go…"
Suddenly, inspiration hit. I cut him off. "You're right! What can we accomplish here with cheap stuff and no equipment? We've got to go and learn from the experts. You know, the professionals, the really top shelf guys."
He looked at his watch. "I suppose I could go for one drink. Where do you suggest?"
I took another sip of that awful Aviation in an attempt to stall for time. I couldn't go down to Mort's, that much I knew. Mort was a sure hand with a can of Schlitz, but I'd never seen him mix anything more complicated than a handful of potato chips into a bowl of pretzels. I asked myself the question that had a way of bouncing around in my head a lot in those days: what would Napoleon Solo do?
"We'll begin with the best. The 21 Club, of course."
He raised his eyebrows. "Are you planning to expense that?"
In for a penny. "Sure," - I nodded - "don't worry about it."
"Lead on, then." He swept a hand towards the door, snagging his cocktail glass along the way.
"It isn't good," he must have noticed the involuntary look I'd given him, "but that doesn't mean it should go to waste." He downed the dreadful concoction in one go, proof positive, I supposed, that deprivation early in life could do terrible things to the psyche. Manfully, I managed another couple of gulps. The smell of Irma's perfume lingered in the back of my throat until it was replaced, for better or worse, by the unique bouquet of the New York City Subway.
The 21 Club
"Sirs," the man's voice was emotionless, somehow conferring the impression that we were beneath even his disregard, "a necktie is required at this establishment."
I looked down, startled, and found my tie right where it had been since I'd dressed for work that morning, every blue and grey stripe of it. I turned to Illya, a half step behind, and took in the dark turtleneck under his suit jacket. It didn't look informal on him, exactly, and I certainly wouldn't have called him underdressed. Still, rules were rules, and the maître de was glaring impatiently at the both of us. The little ceramic jockeys looked down from their niches with apparently equal distain.
"Oh, um, I'm sorry." I stammered and turned away with my eyes to the pavement. I was half a block down 52nd St. when I felt a hand at my elbow.
"George, where are you going?"
"Oh, I…I'm sure there's someplace else around here that will be alright."
He dropped my arm. "George, we're professionals."
I wasn't quite following. "So?"
"So, we can't be deterred by a small-minded functionary. It's unbecoming."
"Is it?" I supposed he had a point. I couldn't imagine what Waverly would have said, had he been appraised of our situation, although he may have felt somewhat vindicated, never having been known as an admirer of the newer styles of dress.
"Follow my lead." And with that, Illya strode off down an alley.
We paused about halfway down. The air wasn't too fragrant, and I didn't like the look of some of the shadows I saw slinking around at ankle level.
"What are we doing here?"
Smiling, he shushed me and looked at his watch. "Just wait." We stood there about fifteen minutes until a door opened a dozen yards in front of us, and a tall, slim, Black man in a tuxedo slipped out, along with a striking woman in a royal blue dress and a permanent wave.
"Now, walk," Illya whispered to me, setting off, "and remember, you're a trumpet player."
The man was deftly rolling a cigarette, and Illya strode up in perfect time to light it for him. "Al. Annette." He nodded to the couple, still smiling.
"Sergey, baby." Al grinned back. "What's doing?"
"Nothing good." Illya scowled. "My friend, George" - he hit me lightly in the chest - "and I got a gig down the street, but the regular manager's off and this kid they've got in for him is a real square. No drinking 'till the last set's over, and if he gets even a whiff of grass…" Illya drew a finger across his throat in an ominous gesture.
"Poor doll." Annette laughed and passed over the cigarette. I noticed that the smoke didn't smell quite like I'd been expecting about the same time I realized that I'd never seen Illya smoke before. He handed the cigarette along to me and I took a puff, just to be polite. My tongue dried out instantly, leaving a taste like I'd been sucking on aquarium gravel. "Thank you," I gasped.
"Yes, thank you." Illya spoke over my coughing. "But, really, what we are is parched, and, unfortunately, broke as well. Would it be alright if we just slipped in for a quick drink? We're on again in twenty."
"What's ours is yours, babe. Bernie'll fix you something. Just don't let on to Mr. Allens we let you in here."
"Of course. You're lifesavers, the both of you." Illya bowed to Al and kissed Annette on the hand, and we followed them into the back of the club.
They left us in some kind of storage room, the sounds of music and laugher drifting in under the closer, louder clatter of dishes in the kitchen. Illya leaned nonchalantly against a shelf stocked with jars of maraschino cherries and canned pineapple.
We were alone for the moment, and I couldn't hold back my curiosity any longer. "How do you know those people?"
"Fellow members of the Local 802." He shrugged. "If you go under as a gig musician as often as I do, it saves trouble to have a legitimate union card, and it helps to show your face on the scene every so often."
A tuxedoed waiter, Bernie, I guessed, breezed through the swinging doors with a pair of martinis on a tray. He passed one to each of us.
"Ah" - Illya took an appreciative sip. "You're a hero, my friend."
I'd never really liked martinis, but I tried to put on a gracious face, since Al and Annette, and now Bernie, had clearly gone out of their way to get me one.
"Hey, don't worry about it," the young man replied. "Any friend of Al's is a friend of mine." He grinned and tucked the tray under his arm. "Just do me a favor, will you? Make sure you go out the back way – if you're seen front of house without a tie, Allens will boot you back to the Village before you can say 'Jack Robinson.'"
Given our cover story, we couldn't stay long, and we soon found ourselves out in the alley again, although not before I'd pressed Illya for some war stories about his varied lives and times as a bassist and horn player – just the kinds of adventures I'd hoped to hear. Unfortunately, though, as I pointed out to Illya, we had yet to actually see anyone fix a drink. I had an idea, though, Bernie's parting warning ringing in my head. The Village – that was where all the really happening places were these days – wasn't it?
The White Horse Tavern
I'd never actually been to the White Horse, although, of course, I'd heard plenty about it. I peered into the dim lighting, hoping I might spot a Clancy Brother or two.
"Say, Illya, do you think anybody famous is in here tonight?"
"Undoubtably." He nodded towards a group of serious-faced youths huddled around a spread of pamphlets. "They almost certainly will be someday, provided they accomplish their goal of overturning your government. And that man" - he gestured imperceptibly towards a hollow-eyed inebriate in a shirt with a soiled collar - "is a very well-respected critic for the Village Voice."
It's funny what a change in scenery can do for your perceptions of a person. For instance, somehow, I'd never really noticed Illya's accent before. I suppose in the office I'd always just seen him as one of us, and so I hadn't really thought of it. I felt a bit badly now though, realizing I'd never thought much about what it all must be like for him.
I looked at the rows of bottles arrayed behind the bar and realized with a sinking feeling that I hadn't a clue what to order.
"So, what do you like to drink?"
"Hmm, red wine, martinis, sherry, I'm not especially particular so long as it does the job." He gave me a wry look, "You were expecting something exotic, perhaps?"
I looked back at the bottles to hide my embarrassment, then cleared my throat and ordered us a pair of sidecars since I'd always liked the name.
To my surprise, Illya kept talking. "I will confess that when in Eastern Europe I have a tendency to indulge in slivovitz. A sentimental loyalty to one's first liquor is to be expected, I suppose."
I shuddered. I, for one, still couldn't look at port since Benny and I had gotten into our uncle's wine cabinet one summer night in 1940.
"That, uh, hasn't been my experience."
"No? Just a taste and I can almost hear my grandmother, 'Come now, Illyukha, drink up if you want to be well.'"
"Illyukha?"
"A familiar version of my name"
"I see… like 'Benny,' for 'Benjamin'?"
"Not quite – it's not that the name should be shorter. It's just, family and friends don't call each other by their formal names. It would be, I don't know, as though your own grandmother called you 'Mr. Dennell'."
I wouldn't have put it past old Irma, but I was intrigued. "So, every name has one? What would my name be?"
"Not only one. Georgy – that could be Gosha, Gorya, Gulja… and so on, you get the idea."
I sounded the words out in my mind while the bartender arranged our drinks on coasters in front of us. I wondered how long it had been since anyone had called Illya by his familiar name. Although, come to think of it, maybe Napoleon did when I wasn't around. It seemed like the kind of thing he would do – he had a knack for making people feel comfortable. It must be nice, I thought, to have such a simple way of knowing where you stood with people – friend or colleague, insider or outsider.
"I suppose it must have taken some getting used to, coming here?" I ventured, "I only moved down from Maine, and I still sometimes think I'll never get the hang of New York."
"Yes, it did. Although" - he smiled in a kind of private-looking way, as though he was thinking of some joke he was sure I wouldn't understand - "it has not been without its rewards."
"I'll say," I agreed, "some days on the weekends I go down to the Museum of Natural History and just spend the whole afternoon looking at the dinosaurs and meteorites and all…"
I got the sense that Illya wasn't paying much attention to what I was saying. He nodded along, but between one sentence and the next his gaze had drifted towards the door. I followed and found it fixed on the group who had just come in, a small knot of people centered around a petite, blonde woman with an unbelievably thin waist.
"She's cute," I offered, knowing I would never be bold enough to take the same advice, "you should go talk to her."
He didn't bother to pretend not to know who I was talking about, as I probably would have done. "No, I definitely…"
Just then, she happened to turn towards us, and a mask of displeasure fell over her delicate features. Illya downed his drink in a swallow, pulled four dollars from his wallet and set them on the bar, standing as he did. "We have to go, now."
"What is it?" My heart pounded. "Is she Thrush?"
"No," he laughed weakly. "She's…um… it's… it's complicated."
"Okay." I got to my feet, "Let's go."
"I'll see you tomorrow, good night." Illya said.
"Oh, but we still haven't…" Not wanting to end on a sour note, I floundered to suggest just one more stop, but, my mind, like a sieve, had dribbled out the names of every bar I'd ever known in New York – all except one.
"We still haven't made it to the St. Regis."
"What? Back uptown?" He pulled a face. "We were less than half a mile from there two hours ago."
"Yes, but I was saving it for last because it's…" Inspiration struck, "…it's the final test. We have to go back and make sure we can identify what went wrong yesterday. We'll have to make a report."
Back to the St. Regis
We made it back to Midtown in not-quite record time, slipping into the hotel bar a hair before ten. The earliest members of the elegant late-night set were just arriving, people who I imagined had come from fabulous parties, or fancy, multi-course dinners.
Still, it was a weeknight, and it wasn't too crowded. We took a seat at the bar, and I briefly lost myself in the lush colors of the King Cole mural on the wall before the bartender roused my attention. He didn't comment when Illya ordered us a pair of Brandy Alexanders, though I thought I saw him smirk.
I thought my 'Alexander' was pretty nice, actually, but when Illya tried his, his brow wrinkled in evident dismay. "What is this, milk?"
"Cream, I think."
He took a distracted sip, eyes wandering around the room with a slight frown on his face.
"Do you think she could have followed us?" I asked.
"Who?"
"That woman."
He laughed again, for real this time. "Marian? Marian's not Thrush and she's not in the business. We were off and on for a bit and right now we're very definitively off, that's all."
"Oh." I supposed I'd let my imagination get away from me, but somehow it seemed easier to believe that we'd run into a Thrush operative than that we'd bumped into one of Illya's ex-girlfriends. I grasped for something to say. "No woman I've been out with has ever cared enough about me to hold a grudge."
God, that sounded pathetic, not at all like the cool, easy-going, fun-to-spend-time-with George Dennell I'd wanted to take for a spin that night.
Illya raised his glass to me. "I can't say I recommend it. But" - he paused - "you're a good man, George. I'm sure you'll find someone - maybe where you least expect it."
There was that strange little smile again. Could it be that he was making fun of me? It wouldn't surprise me, but I'd hoped, well… Whatever Illya's expression meant, I didn't have time to figure it out. As soon as it had come, it disappeared, and he turned back to his drink.
"Now then, if you'll excuse me a moment." He slid down from his stool and wobbled. I jumped to my feet, but as I straightened, I realized I wasn't feeling too sprightly either, and by the time I'd sorted my legs out, he'd already steadied himself against the bar top and was looking down at his fingers, frowning.
"I'm sorry, George… I don't… It's been a long couple of days, and I think I'd better call it an evening."
"Yes, quite." Disappointment and relief, along with brandy, cognac, vodka, and gin, fought it out in the pit of my stomach.
I settled our tab, hoping I really would be able to expense all this somehow, while Illya went to use the facilities. As he came back across the room, I saw that he was still, well, weaving slightly. I was surprised, watching him – it wasn't what I expected, given some of the stories I'd heard. I remembered how rough he'd looked the night before though, that morning, really, with his icepack and all, and realized that maybe I'd been a little overeager, taking us out tonight.
A little bubble of concern formed in my chest – it didn't feel right sending him off on his own like that, but I was suddenly so tired that the thought of getting back on the subway and taking the A train to Brooklyn Heights just to turn around and catch the F home made me want to cry. I could offer him a lift from my place, but maybe that wasn't the best idea, not when I wasn't feeling too steady, myself.
Aw, hell, Accounting would be on my back about the drinks anyway. "Let's get a taxi," I suggested, "my treat."
Luckily, a cab pulled up right away. That's the kind of service you got in a ritzy neighborhood, I guessed.
I slipped into the back seat with Illya, letting him give someplace near his address (you never know who might be listening, and it pays to be careful) to the driver. The cab pulled out into traffic, and I relaxed into the worn vinyl. It had been a good night, or at least, not a bad night, I thought, all told. Illya and I had had a chance to talk, and I thought he'd had a good time. An okay time, at least. Not the most terrible time. I eyed him, slightly worried still – his color wasn't what you would call good, and I hoped he wouldn't hold it too badly against me if he had a hangover the next day.
Come to think of it, I wasn't feeling too wonderful either. It was stuffy in the cab, and I was beginning to feel pretty lightheaded, not to mention a little nauseated. I went to wind the window down for a breath of fresh air, or what passes for fresh air in New York, but my fingers couldn't find the crank, and when I looked, I saw that it was broken off.
"Excuse me," I said, "would you mind opening up your window up there? This one's not working."
The driver ignored me.
"I'm sorry," I tried again, "it's just, it's a bit close in here and I'm afraid I'm not feeling very well."
"я тоже" Illya muttered something incomprehensible, then slumped forward and vomited into the footwell. I felt a brief stab of panic at the thought of expensing the cleaning fee, but then my vision swirled, and I didn't feel much of anything at all.
I woke up with a chilled, sweaty kind of feeling and the godawfulest headache I'd ever known. Opening gummy eyes, I found myself on a thin cot in a cold, grey room, open on one side with a lattice of bars in place of a wall. A cell - that was the term. My shoes and socks were missing, as were my tie and my suit jacket. When I stood up to make a more thorough investigation of the space, my pants made an alarming bid for the ankles, and I found that my belt had been removed as well.
I tested the door, to predictably little avail. A locked cell – I'd be damned. But, I reminded myself, Napoleon and Illya had to break out of dungeons and worse every other week or so. If I was in a tricky situation, at least I was in the company of an expert.
Said expert was lying on a cot opposite from the one where I'd woken up, stripped to the skivvies and apparently dead to the world.
"Um… Illya?" There was no response, but, he did at least appear to be breathing, chest rising and falling under his white t-shirt.
"Illya!" I hissed, whispering as loudly as I dared. He let out a little moan and threw an arm over his eyes, protecting them from the light with the crook of his elbow.
"Illya, it's George. I think we're in trouble."
"Huh?" He came to with a grunt, "George? Wharyoudoinhere?" He blinked, hard, and looked around, eyes not quite tracking with each other. "Oh."
He sat up and groaned again, settling his head in his hands. "Sorry, spinning. Drank… a lot more'n I think?"
"Not so much" - well more than I was used to, I privately admitted, but still, not really so much. Not enough to pass out. I remembered the smirk the bartender had given me and felt foolish –I'd been worried he'd found our order unsophisticated, when really… "I think we were drugged. Then they must have been waiting for us with the cab."
"Cab?" Oh dear.
I shifted uncomfortably from my position kneeling by the cot. It seemed less and less likely that Illya was going to effect an immediate escape for us, and in the meantime, the effect of a night's drinking was making itself known to my bladder. I eyed the bare, steel commode in the far corner of the room. It seemed rude to use it in company, but, then again, maybe it wasn't so different from chancing a urinal in the office, where, as long as the Old Man didn't pop in (rare, but disastrous), I'd never minded. And field agents were often held for days in conditions just like these. Surely, they wouldn't hesitate. Maybe it was even one of those male bonding experiences that forged partners together, made them closer than brothers and all that?
Illya didn't move at all for what felt like twenty minutes (to my annoyance, whoever had stripped us had taken my Accutron), and finally the cocktails pressed the issue.
"Look, do you mind?" Acutely aware that I was blushing, I nodded towards the john.
"By all means," Illya waved a loose hand in permission. I was relieved he didn't meet my eye, although to be honest, it didn't look as though he could have raised his head to do so even if he'd wanted to.
I could think a little straighter once I'd finished. There's nothing like the desperate need to relieve himself to distract a man from the important details of his environment, the key fact being that we were trapped in a cell with what appeared to be a fairly standard electronic locking device.
Now, I didn't know much about escaping from nefarious persons unknown, but (not to toot my own horn), I knew a whole heck of a lot about electronic locks, and I reckoned that whatever they were using to keep us in was just the inverse of what I used to keep folks out of the restricted areas back at HQ. There was a fair chance I could override the system - I just needed some tools and a good chunk of uninterrupted time to work.
Unfortunately, that was when the guards came for us.
At first, they just stood on the other side of the bars and stared, talking about us as though we were animals in some kind of a zoo.
"Do you think this one is Solo? Maybe he's dressed all nebbish-ey as some kind of disguise?"
"Nah, Solo's taller."
"No, he's not. My cousin saw him once and he said he wasn't more than five foot nine or so."
"Records says he's six foot."
"Who are you going to believe, Records, or me? 'Records says,' Jesus Christ."
"You, sure I'll believe, but Jack's a loudmouth and you know it, even if he is your damn cousin."
"Well fine then, who's the guy?"
"Hell if I know, but we'll find out soon enough." I didn't like the sound of that one bit, and, sure enough, guard one held us at gunpoint through the bars, while numbers two and three grabbed us and hauled us from the cell.
The guard shoved me into a chair and pulled restraints – tight as you please – around my wrists and ankles. Out of the corner of my eye, I could see the other guard manipulating a limp Illya into a chair of his own, and I cursed myself that I hadn't had the idea to make things similarly difficult for my manhandler.
Illya slumped in the chair. It looked like his bonds were the only things keeping him from sliding to the floor, and it belatedly occurred to me that he might not be playing possum.
Illya's guard slapped him across the face, hard, it looked like, and he jerked upright, blinking.
"Don't damage him!"
I jumped. I hadn't realized there was anyone else in the room. A woman in a white lab coat came up to me and peered into my face, holding my eyelid open with a cool, latex touch, and shining a little light in my eyes like they do at the doctor's.
I summoned all the bravado I could find. "It's not worth your time. We'll never talk!" I felt myself blushing, and I'm sure the mad Thrush scientist (what else could she be?) saw it too, at close range, no less.
She walked away from me without comment and knelt in front of Illya, holding his head roughly in place by the chin and repeating her examination.
The doctor turned towards the guards. "You fools - you gave them the serum without me?"
The guard nearest me took a step back. "I didn't give them anything, I swear. Douglass must have let them have too much juice at the bar."
The guard nearest Illya, who, now that I looked at him, I recognized from the St. Regis, sputtered a denial.
"I'll let you tell that to Walker." The woman shook her head and walked towards the door.
"Wait," another of the guards called out, our cab driver, if I wasn't mistaken (I always did have a knack for faces), "aren't you going to dose them?"
"What would be the point in that? We need them suggestible, not insensible."
"But then, what…?"
"That's Walker's call now. I expect he'll do it the old-fashioned way."
Now, I really didn't like the sound of that.
We were left alone with our guards for just a few minutes before the door opened to admit a tall, cadaverously thin man, his suit and tie, with a small silver bird on the tie tack, making it clear that he was a real Someone. The guards arranged themselves behind him, a wall of menace.
He paused close to me for a moment, and I caught a whiff of some kind of astringent cologne. Then, he moved on to where Illya, his chin resting on his chest, appeared to be taking a nap. I clung to the increasingly dim hope that, actually, he was concentrating hard on some devious plan to spring us before the interrogation got underway.
"I see they're responding to the formula." The man's voice was course and thin.
"N…" one of the guards was about to speak, but the other, Douglass, elbowed him sharply in the gut, and he finished in a cough.
"Yes, sir," Douglass answered, "they're ready, sir."
Oh. I thought back to the tapes I'd seen of the agents' biannual drug resistance assessments and did my best to look glassy eyed and disoriented, not, upon reflection, that it took much of a stretch.
"Oooooh, yes," I moaned, "that horrible woman… she… I don't think I can resist it."
Illya, still slack in his chair, slurred a few words, "Tha's right, George. Jus' hold on."
The Thrush man opened an attaché case. While he was riffling through it, I caught a hint of movement and a flash of blue in the corner of my eye – I'd swear Illya winked at me.
"Now, then," the man set a micro tape recorder and a thin cardboard folder down on the table between us, flicking the recorder on as he did so, "where is the security protocol disc?"
"I don't know," I said, "honest." And I meant it, sort of.
"Security protocol disc?" Illya panted, sounding as though each word hurt like anything.
"Yes, Kuryakin, the reason for which you were at the St. Regis tonight and the night before – the hand-off of a confidential disc to your thieving and disreputable organization, from a disloyal rat who, incidentally, has been dealt with." He paused to let his final words take effect.
"We know that you received the disc yesterday and hid it somewhere in the bar; you came back this evening in order to retrieve it. So, I'll ask you again, where is the disc? Or are you going to tell me there's some other explanation for why you just happened to be in the St. Regis bar, two nights in a row, at the same time as the traitor?"
Illya's face pinched in evident confusion. "Heard there would be Thrush activity… routine surveillance mission."
Our interrogator sighed through his nose and took a photograph out of the file. "What do you know about this woman? Who is she? Where is she?" He held the photo up and I saw a picture of a pretty brunette in a red dress. Somewhere, deep inside, a little chiming bell went off. I couldn't have said what it meant if I'd wanted to, but I sure was glad I wasn't actually truth-serumed. As I've said, I don't usually forget a face, and I'm pretty sure I wouldn't have forgotten that one, if you know what I mean.
"Nothing." I answered. "What has she got to do with anything?"
"And you?" he turned towards Illya, gesturing fiercely with the picture. "You were seen speaking with her at the St. Regis last night, don't deny it."
"Okay." Illya smiled, equal parts dopey and menacing, "Won't."
The Thrush man, Walker, tapped his foot. "And?"
Illya's head dropped back to his chest, a picture of exhaustion. "Was customer... is all. Don't know her."
Apparently, that pushed Walker past some kind of edge because the next thing I knew he'd yanked Illya towards him by the collar of his t-shirt and was shouting hoarsely and incoherently in his face.
"But… how… she… you." He shook Illya like a rag doll and shoved him back into the seat, hand still clenched in the bunched fabric of his shirt. "If, somehow, you are lying, I will find out, and I will ask you again, and I will not bother with the drugs."
He let go. "Guards, take them away."
Once we were back in our cell and the guards had left us, Illya turned to me.
"That was quick-thinking," he said in a low voice. And I was tired and frightened and a bit sticky-headed feeling still, but damn if it didn't feel good to hear that. I didn't crow about it or anything though, just carried on, like I thought an agent would. "You know," I said, "I've been wondering one thing…"
"If we thought Thrush had it, and Thrush thinks we have it, then who has it?" Illya finished the question for me. I didn't mind; I knew he and Napoleon talked over each other all the time. "I would be very interested to find that out, once we get out of here."
With that, he started walking circuits around the cell, looking for vulnerabilities, I supposed. He seemed quite a bit clearer than he had been, but I couldn't help noticing that his pacing still lacked the easy grace I normally associated with field agents on the job.
Four eyes being better than two, I started my own examination of the cell door.
Illya suddenly paused in his study of an air vent outlet (not much larger than an index card, unfortunately) and looked at me.
"What are you doing?"
I had worked my hand through the lattice of the cell door. The openings immediately surrounding the lock were lined with wire mesh, but if I could just… My elbow gave a warning twinge.
"This type of lock," I explained, "I looked into them when we last updated the weapons' storage in headquarters. They come factory programmed with a default code that's the same across all the units. Of course, you'd have to be seriously incompetent not to update it during installation, but I thought it could be worth a try. If only my fingers were a little longer – and it would help if my arm bent the other way, and I could see through steel like Superman."
"That, I cannot do. The others…" Illya shrugged and staggered towards me, "Move over."
He crouched beside me. "Now, stand over there and watch for anyone approaching."
I did as I was told while he shifted and strained, shoulder twisting in a direction it made me wince to look at. "Code?"
"One-oh-seven, three-two-six." I supplied and held my breath.
Beep. I grinned, exhaling. "The coast is clear."
Illya eased the door open without a sound, beckoning to me to follow. Barefoot, we made our way down a long, overlit corridor.
Our luck could only hold for so long, and there was a guard stationed at the end of the cell block. Before I had time to worry though, Illya exploded in a burst of violence. He was beside me, and then, suddenly, he was flying through the air towards the Thrush, bringing him down in an awkward heap.
They struggled on the floor for a moment before Illya managed to get the guard in a headlock, though not without earning an elbow to the face and a kick dangerously near the groin.
I located the Thrush rifle that had fallen to the ground in the melee. Dodging flailing legs as best I could, I picked it up off the floor. I knew immediately that it was useless in my hands, I was no marksman, and I didn't dare shoot at the guard while he and Illya were so closely entangled. Still, I reminded myself, there was no reason to suppose the Thrush knew that. I took aim.
"Freeze!"
And, to my mild astonishment, he did.
Illya took advantage of the pause in their skirmish to slam the unfortunate (though, I thought, not undeserving) man's head against the cement.
Illya disentangled himself and sat up, slowly, bracing himself with both hands against the concrete. Then, he knelt over the unconscious guard and unzipped his jumpsuit.
"Very timely intervention, George, thank you." He wiped a trickle of blood from his nose on the sleeve of his t-shit. "Will you help me undress him?"
I knelt and joined in the struggle of forcing heavy, muscled limbs out of snug fabric.
"Now put this on."
"Me?" I eyed the limp jumpsuit that Illya held out to me. Of the two of us, I'd figured he needed it more than I did.
"It's too large for me, and they know my face too well for me to pass for Thrush personnel. You'll have to be escorting me somewhere."
I finished doing up the snaps as we walked. We passed a few people, but it seemed to be a skeleton crew. It must be very late at night, I decided, assuming we'd been unconscious at least an hour or so. I nodded curtly to the handful of people we passed, doing my best to project business-like calm as butterflies fluttered beneath the zip of my borrowed uniform.
Finally, we entered a hallway that ended in a loading dock, with a long sentry desk along one side. We pressed against the wall, watching before attempting an approach. The desk was staffed with three men, facing out in a half-circle arc. I couldn't imagine how we were going to reach the door without being caught.
With that gloomy thought still in my head, things then went from bad to worse. An alarm began to shrill. Someone must have finally noticed our empty cell, or the unconscious guard, or both.
"Apprehend me," Illya whispered, "it's your best chance to win their trust – then you might have a shot at the door." I'd come close to forgetting it earlier in the evening, when we were just two bachelors having a night on the town, but now it was impossible to overlook: Illya was a real Section Two agent alright, prepared to give himself up for my sake if need be.
I quietly determined that need wouldn't be, not if I had anything to say about it.
"Let go of me, you ogre!" The shout took me by surprise; apparently Illya was implementing his plan whether I liked it or not. I seized him by the arms, and, not seeing any alternative, frog marched him towards the desk.
The men there stood and hurried towards me, surrounding us. "Report," one of them said, and it took me a moment to realize I was supposed to say something in response.
"Prison break down on the cell block," I panted, trying to sound as little like myself as possible, "I caught myself this here UNCLE agent." I gave Illya a little shake, for effect.
"Big deal," one of the Thrush muttered, looking at Illya's face, "he looks like someone beat you to him – and beat him" - he paused, waiting for his friends to chuckle. "I bet he wouldn't have gotten far, anyway."
"Maybe not," I felt a flicker of hope, "but I heard him and his partner killed everyone on that whole level, and, as far as I know" - I leaned towards them for emphasis - "the partner's still at large. That's what the alarms are really about.
Yup, if I were you boys, I'd sure keep on my toes. I hear he got a knife somewhere, and he's liable to sneak up behind you and clean cut your throat. What I saw down there…" I made myself shudder. "Well, it doesn't bear discussing. But, the good news is, you boys are in a prime position here to catch him. If he's looking to get out, this is the first door he'd come across, isn't it? And then it's bonuses for you all, most likely. I'm jealous – I wish I could get in on the action, I do, but I'm burdened with this little twerp here, ain't I? Got to take him to Interrogation."
"You know what?" One of the sentries looked nervously around, "I could take him down to Interrogation for you."
"Really?" I hesitated, "I don't know – I mean, I found him."
"You said yourself, he's clearly not the main event."
"Alright," I didn't have to feign my reluctance, "take his arms here, and whatever you do, don't damage him. I'm under orders he needs to be intact for questioning."
The flighty Thrush came and took Illya from me. He marched him off down the hall.
"Hey," one of the others called after them, "I'll come too, in case he gives you any trouble. You'll be fine with the new guy here, right Robertson?"
Robertson swallowed hard - "Sure thing."
And then Robertson and I were left alone. My mind raced. I couldn't imagine leaving without Illya, but, as he'd said, this might be my best chance – alone at an exterior door with only one guard and the element of surprise in my favor. If I got out, I could bring back reinforcements – a whole troop of enforcement agents would be better than anything I could accomplish by myself. I didn't like to think of leaving Illya, though, I really didn't, or of what Napoleon would say if I showed up without his partner. Too much hemming and hawing, however, and I would squander the chance he'd sacrificed so much to give me.
Taking a deep, steadying breath, I hefted my Thrush rifle and brought it down on Robertson's head. I couldn't have called it an elegant, or especially sporting, attack, but it did the trick. I settled him behind the sentries' desk and took a seat, surveying the switches and buttons built into the console there. Surely, some combination would open the loading dock.
I'd finally cracked it, and the door was just starting to winch open when I heard pounding footsteps coming down the hall. The door inched up impossibly slowly and I stood, frozen at the controls.
A bolt of white turned the corner, and there was Illya, sprinting towards me.
"Come," he yelled, and without breaking stride he threw himself through the growing gap at the bottom of the door. I followed, breathless.
We emerged into what looked like an ordinary loading dock attached to any warehouse in New York, or anywhere else, for that matter: rectangular brick buildings on all sides, broken up by shadowed alleyways. Illya picked a direction and we plunged into the shadows, still running.
We ran for some time, taking turns apparently at random. I let Illya lead and focused on keeping my lungs from popping. I vowed that, as long as we survived the night, I would spend more of my mornings in the UNCLE gym before work and fewer pouring over the crossword puzzle in the canteen.
Finally, I saw salvation ahead. A flashlight beam shone up and down the warehouse walls, leading back to a cop on beat. I struggled for enough breath to call out, but a large hand came down over my mouth, half smothering me, and I felt myself dragged into a darkened doorway.
"Not a sound," Illya hissed into my ear. He relaxed his hold over my mouth.
"But, don't we need help?"
He snorted, lightly, "Think for a moment – if you met us in the meatpacking district in the middle of the night, and you were a not very imaginative officer of the law, what would you do?"
I thought. "I would arrest us for vagrancy, maybe public intoxication."
"Not to mention public indecency and, quite possibly, solicitation," Illya finished, looking ruefully at his lacking attire. "I've already spent more time than I ever cared to in an NYPD drunk tank."
I took his point, and we waited in our doorway until the bouncing flashlight beam faded from view, then took off running once more.
Suddenly, it appeared, glowing like a beacon of peace and safety: a telephone booth.
Illya sagged against the wall of the phone booth. He looked flushed and sick again - whatever animating spirit had carried him through our escape fading quicker than invisible ink. I knew the feeling.
I rooted through the Thrush man's pockets for a dime and slipped it into the coin slot. I dialed the UNCLE main line, completed the requisite security checks, and was surprised when a familiar, masculine voice came through on the other line.
Illya must have recognized it, too, because he perked up and held his hand out for the receiver. I handed it over and leaned against the wall beside him, willing my eyelids to stay open as a wave of drowsiness broke over me.
"Napoleon?"
"Illya? Where are you?" I heard Napoleon's tinny voice through the receiver held between us in Illya's unsteady hands.
"Thirteenth and Washington. Please, send a car. Gorya is here, too."
"'Gorya…George is - Jesus, are you drunk?"
"Yes," Illya answered, simply. "We went for cocktails."
"You know being off duty is no excuse for not answering your communicator. And George does, too, he wrote the damn check-in protocol. We got unsubstantiated chatter that you'd been picked up by Thrush, went by George's to confirm, no one there, door locked, entry booby trapped—" I winced at that – probably I should have told someone at the office about my experimental security modifications, only I hadn't quite got all the kinks tweaked out yet – "…neither of you answer our hails, half of Section 3 is out searching for you, and you're telling me you were getting plastered at some cocktail bar?"
"Several cocktail bars." Illya leaned his head back against the wall of the booth and closed his eyes, apparently exhausted by the conversation.
"But, you're not being fair." I flushed, surprised at how much I sounded like the kid brother I'd been long ago. "We really did get picked up by Thrush. And… and… we have intel. Important intel."
I heard Napoleon sigh through the phone.
"What 'intel' do you have, George?"
Illya, who had evidently been following along better that I'd credited, jumped back in. "Thrush doesn't have the disc. And they don't know who's got it."
"But we do." I said, the niggling feeling I'd had since seeing that photograph finally evaporating into glorious clarity.
"We do?" Illya echoed.
"They showed us pictures of a woman, someone they thought was with us. I've seen her before. She lived in Thomas Stafford's building, from Research and Development, back when he had that place in Hoboken. Security checked her when he moved in. Her brother-in-law was suspected of connections with the Jersey City Family, but we couldn't tie anything to her at the time."
"So, we don't have the disc, and Thrush doesn't have the disc, but the mafia have the disc?"
"I guess your informant was shopping it around."
Illya let himself slide all the way into a seated position on the phone booth floor. When he spoke again, he sounded firmer, as though it was easier to talk without also having to keep his feet under him. "Please, Napoleon, the car."
Napoleon's voice instantly softened, or it might have been static and wishful thinking that made it seem that way. "Of course, don't go anywhere. Someone will be right there."
The UNCLE cab pulled up with Napoleon in the driver's seat and I swear I'd never been so glad to see anybody in my life—not my folks picking me up from summer camp, not my brother when he came home on leave from Korea, not anybody. Illya laid himself down in the back seat and I staggered my way into the front. And then I guess I must have closed my eyes for a minute, because the next thing I knew Napoleon was rapping on my window from outside of the car.
Napoleon opened the door for me and then went around to haul his partner out of the back. He kept one arm around Illya's waist, steadying him down the front steps of Del Floria's. Wanda was on duty in reception, and if she noticed the condition we were in, she was professional enough to act as though she didn't. I got my badge clipped on after two tries and a couple of finger sticks. Napoleon pinned Illya's on for him, batting his fingers away when he tried to help.
He escorted us all the way to Medical, and then stayed, leaning against the wall in the corner of the examination room as the doctor drew blood samples. I sat there on the cot and tried to keep myself awake. The cool, sterile air was perking me up a bit, but I thought some conversation might help to keep me more 'with it.'
"Say, Napoleon, that was swell of you to come pick us up yourself. I was expecting one of the regular drivers."
"Any time, George." Something in Napoleon's tone didn't quite match the words and it was only then I realized he looked just about furious. I didn't open my mouth again except to answer the doctor's questions, and, aside from a few moments when he ducked out to make his report, Napoleon kept glowering at me the whole time. I suppose I deserved it.
Lisa was waiting when we were released from Medical with instructions to drink lots of water and stay away from the hair of the dog, plus an earful for Illya about the synergistic interactions between concussion, the residual effects of repeated knock-out drugs, marijuana, and alcohol. We followed like condemned men as she led us to the empty briefing room. "Wait here, He wants a word with you."
The door slid shut behind Lisa, and Illya slumped bonelessly into a seat, forehead resting on the table. Spotting a fresh pitcher on the sideboard, I filled two glasses with water, set one beside Illya's left ear and finally sat holding the other between my sweating palms.
"You haven't really got a bartender's license, have you?"
"No," - I took a gulp of water - "I registered for a correspondence course once, but they took my fees and never sent me anything. I won't fall for that one again."
"George, I'd hate for you to take this the wrong way, but whatever possessed you, then?"
"No, I know, Illya, I owe you an apology." Illya grunted into the table, and I couldn't quite tell if it was a sign of anger or forgiveness, but I pressed on. "I guess, it all started back when I first joined UNCLE; I was green as grass, and Napoleon was already making waves in Section Two, but he must have seen something in me. I couldn't quite believe it; he was… well, you know how he is, he was smart and charming and popular, and I was, well, me. I'd… um… I'd lost someone recently, then, and… well, I guess you probably know that he had, too. His friendship really helped me put the ground back under me, those first few years. And when we both ended up in the New York office, it was nice, having a friend, and then you came along and it's not that I mind that you're his best friend, but I just thought maybe if you and I got to know each other a little better then we could all… Forget it. It was silly."
"George," Illya picked his head up and stared me dead in the eyes. He suddenly looked much more sober and much more dangerous. I felt a chill down my spine – God knew I more than deserved whatever was coming. He wouldn't want to fight me, would he? No, I quickly dismissed the thought, he was too much of a professional for that, but I was sure he'd never speak to me again, and sooner or later he would tell Napoleon everything, and Napoleon was already upset with me. Technically, I only reported to Waverly, but I had no doubt Napoleon could have me transferred to Fairbanks in a heartbeat if he wanted.
Illya went on, ignoring my nervous fidgeting, "I'm only going to say this once and it cannot leave this room, do you understand?"
I nodded, swallowing through my dry mouth.
"Napoleon and I are not exactly friends."
"What do you mean? Everyone knows you're insepara…"
Illya cut me off, "George, we are not only friends. We," he paused, as if searching for the English word, "fuck."
Oh. Oh.
"I see," I cleared my throat, "well, good for you, I suppose. You're a… he's a…well, you're both very lucky men."
"Thank you, George," Illya's voice softened, and he was looking at me with something like a smile, "that's kind of you to say."
I meant it, I really did. To know Napoleon is to love him, even just a little bit, and I was happy he had someone, happy for them both.
Maybe Illya could tell what I was thinking, because he looked at me for a long moment and then went on, "You know, there's no reason why you and I cannot be friends. I just have one request."
"Yes?"
"Let's never again be drinking companions."
End Notes:
All three of the drinking establishments featured in this story are real places in New York. You can still visit the (heavily remodeled) St. Regis Hotel and the White Horse Tavern. The 21 Club closed in 2020 after ninety years in operation.
New York AFM Local 802, established in 1921, is the largest professional musicians' union in the world.
My own uncle, who grew up in New York in the 40's and 50's, reports that his Ukrainian-Jewish grandparents gave him slivovitz as a young child to promote appetite, vitality, and general health. I do not know whether or not this was a widespread practice at the time.
George is a bit of a tech geek, so I thought it would be fitting to give him an Accutron, one of the first commercially available electronic (as opposed to mechanical) watches and a bit of a nifty gadget.