JUST ANOTHER BIRTHDAY
by
gm
November
22, 1964
Readjusting his wide-brimmed hat,
Napoleon Solo folded his arms across his chest and fought against the chill.
Cold November rain slithering down the back of his neck kept him as miserable
and cold as possible on this damp and unforgiving night in northern California.
A barely audible groan of self-pity escaped, hardly discernable above the
pelting drips splashing around him, pounding the soaked trench coat, hat and
clothing of the forlorn agent.
Stake-outs during inclement weather were part
of the nasty side of his job -- that was to be expected once in a while.
Staying on his feet for five hours in a grungy, soppy alley in San Francisco --
well, he had endured worse. After a grueling mishap in Hong Kong that caused
him to lose a Chinese arms dealer, he was a little sour. Well, it hadn’t
really been his week. So, to make up for the mistake in the Orient he had
high-tailed it back to the mainland, via Honolulu (without even enough time to
call his old friend Steve McGarrett). Then on to San Fran to
intercept the Chinese dealer named Ling before he made contact at the Golden
Dragon bar. So, the wet clothes, the miserable cold and the feeling of
guilt were all in penance for his original error. Okay, he could accept that.
The self-pity part came in because on top of everything else, he was spending
his birthday here in this despicable condition. So what, he sighed bitterly. It
was just another birthday.
If the assignment would have gone correctly
he would be in Honolulu right now, convincing McGarrett to treat him to a wild
night on the Waikiki strip. In the Navel Intelligence days the two former
officers had enjoyed some reckless nights and misspent days in the Orient. Solo
was hoping to do the same in McGarrett’s new home base.
Sighing through the drizzle Solo regretted
there would be no fun and games on this trip. If he managed to somehow rectify
his errors in Hong Kong, and nab the Chinese agent here tonight, he would spend
most of the rest of the night dealing with the red tape of jailing the enemy
spy in a local Federal lock-up. Too bad Alcatraz was closed down, that would be
perfect for the cretin who was putting him through this. On
his birthday.
Usually Solo loved birthdays -- another
excuse for a party -- but he never liked the reminder of growing older. Today
he was thirty-two and in the prime of his life. All too soon he would be
hitting the big 4-0 mark -- the mandatory retirement age for Section Two field
agents. If he lived that long.
Rubbing the ache in his shoulder, accentuated
by the chill, wet conditions, he ruefully smirked that he may not have to worry
about retirement if he continued to muck up like he had in Hong Kong. A back
street fight had cost him some very sore ribs, a dislocated shoulder and the
loss of his communicator. And losing the Chinese criminal
Ling.
Leaning his head against the rough bricks of
the building supporting his weight, Solo struggled to climb out of his lamentable
attitude. Only last month he had enjoyed some great times in Honolulu when he
was recovering from his injuries with the Shark assignment. {Sharkbait - epilogue fanfic} And he could remember
some worse birthdays than this. Painfully, he thought back one year ago today
when President Kennedy -- an admirable leader whom he greatly admired -- had
been assassinated.
A side door to the bar slammed open and shut.
A thin, crouched man with a broad, straw hat shuffled unsteadily toward the
street. Soon he was swallowed in the mist and rain. From this angle Solo could
see both the front and the sides of the joint and still remain slightly out of
the weather. Stamping his feet he shivered again.
‘Come on, old boy,
you’re letting the bad luck and the age thing get you down,’ he chastised himself. ‘You’ve
had some very fine birthdays --‘
A gurgling laughed rattled in his throat.
Never in his entire life would he forget the birthday Illya celebrated with
him. After they had been assigned as regular partners last year in ‘63,
Illya sprang an incredible, unforgettable surprise party. (After Solo had
forged the path and threw a surprise for Kuryakin -- a birthday with a pretty
girl popping out of a cake! And introduced his new partner -- soon-to-become-friend to the joys
of ball games and pool sessions at the Mask
Club and other less savory American traditions).
The Russian, not very adept at American
traditions, had made the glorious mistake of inviting Jenny and Millie from
accounting to help him with a birthday bash for Solo. When Napoleon had arrived
at Illya’s apartment, expecting to go out on a nice double-date, he had
been amazed to find Jenny and Millie, new applications for frosting and a
quickly embarrassed Russian partner. The recollection warmed him from the inside
out. The smile at that memory lingered until the slight Chinese man in the
straw hat shuffled back toward the side door of the bar.
The thin man apparently couldn’t get
the door open and tilted into the wall, soon slipping into the wet alley. Solo crept
deeper into the shadows. There had been many birthdays spent alone. Some in the splendor of his
grandparent’s estate in upstate New York. Some spent in the
terrifying bomb-filled days and nights of war-torn London. Some
just sitting alone in his apartment -- no, not alone, usually with a woman --
or at least with a bottle of Scotch.
Considering the relative talents of he and
his partner, it was unreasonable to expect Illya would be around for every
birthday, but he would have liked to had the company
of his friend on this night. It would dispel the misery of the weather, the
guilt of his failure in Hong Kong. It would undoubtedly help with capturing the
Chinese agent Ling.
The side door crashed open. Ling, a short
stocky Oriental, tripped over the thin man and took a tumble, sliding on the
wet, slick pavement. Solo dashed across the alley and was on top of the enemy
agent in seconds. Ling, knowing he was fighting for his freedom, wrestled,
pulling a wicked knife and slashed at Solo.
Hopping back to avoid the lethal blade,
Napoleon crashed his injured shoulder into the wall. The pain,
the slippery asphalt made him stagger and Ling lunged in for the kill.
At the last possible second Solo twisted, grabbing the knife and sending them
both to the ground. Ling rolled until he was on top of Solo, turning the blade
toward the American’s chest.
Suddenly Ling collapsed, falling to the side,
onto the pavement. Above him, Solo looked into the
rain cascading off the hunched figure of the thin man with the wide straw hat.
Tense, expecting another assault, Napoleon whirled to the side and knocked the
man over. Instantly Solo tackled him, pinning his arms to the
ground.
"This is the thanks I get?"
Napoleon gasped, blinking rain out of his
eyes. "Illya?" Belatedly he released the
captive. "What are you doing here?"
"Saving you from
bungling the rest of this assignment." The tone dry, sarcastic and
non-condemning. "At least part of the reason.
What happened to your communicator?"
Kuryakin struggled to his feet, Solo lending a little help, belatedly brushing off some of
the muck on the Russian’s coat. Under the street light Solo could see the
chameleon-like agent had disguised himself as an Oriental.
"Damaged in Hong Kong. There wasn’t time to -- hey, how did you know
where to find me?"
"I was working on the other end of this
case. As Ling’s contact. The real contact, of
course, is already behind bars."
Feeling the weight of failure and fatigue
wash away with the rain, Solo smirked. "Good work. So why were you waiting
out here in the cold?"
"Waiting for you to
make your move. I didn’t
want to spoil your plan."
The news brought a frown to the American.
"You knew I was here?"
Kuryakin tsked and shook his head.
"Next time you are on stake out, Napoleon, remember not to giggle. Your
laugh is very identifiable."
With wounded dignity Solo straightened his
shoulders, then winced slightly at the movement.
"I did not laugh. Not quite."
Glancing around the alley, Illya seemed
puzzled. "What was so amusing?"
Embarrassed, Solo felt his face warm with a
blush. "I -- nothing. Just
thinking about -- something." He sighed and then smiled at his
partner. Kuryakin really was the most incredible person for surprises. Always
showing up just when he was needed. "Anyway, thanks, as usual, IK, your
timing is perfect."
"You are welcome." He moved over to
the unconscious Chinese. "Now, shall we remove the garbage and enjoy some
of Chinatown’s excellent cuisine?"
Solo helped lift the man and between them
they dragged him toward Kuryakin’s rented car.
"So what was the other reason you came? You said the case was one
reason?" He stood by the passenger door, looking at his partner from over
the top of the roof. Rain pelted the metal and pinged off, splashing and deflecting
in a little display of popping showers. "Something else
important going on?"
Gravely, the Russian nodded. "You could
say that." He peeled off the fake skin around his eyes, removed the straw
hat and wig, returning to the normal appearance for the spy. "To
wish you a happy birthday." He offered an enigmatic smile.
"Dinner will have to be my present. I had no time to stop for one.
Besides," he smirked, "you are the spy who has everything."
And he thought it was going to be just
another birthday -- no, worse than usual. Smiling,
Solo thought this was one of the best birthdays he could ever remember. What
more could he ask than to spend this day of celebration with his closest
friend?
"Who needs
presents?" he admitted. "I’m the spy who has everything. And I
think you’re right about that, my friend."
THE END
HAPPY
BIRTHDAY RV