THE GREYHOUND BUS AFFAIR
By
gm
He pretended to read the paper spread before
him, but instead studied the passengers as his eyes darted from person to
person on the sparsely populated bus. Any one of the occupants could be the
target. So far, the THRUSH courier he'd tailed had made no attempt to contact
anyone.
Following the elderly lady (his skilled eye
determined she was really a young woman with a fairly good disguise-- just not
quite good enough) when she boarded the bus in Pittsburgh. UNCLE knew she was
to pass an important microchip to another agent sometime before she reached New
York. Once the new contact had the chip, he would take possession of it and
return to UNCLE -- mission accomplished
He stretched languorously and pulled the
knots from his sore muscles. He detested bus rides. They really afforded no room, they confined, constricted, and always proved tedious
assignments. If he had known the wretched woman would board a bus . . .
He stared out the window at the scenery that
passed in a multi-colored blur along the interstate. Idly he wondered what he
had done to deserve this fate. Then he recalled the few injudicious comments of
boredom he'd let slip. No excitement, no missions, no convoluted problems to
sharpen the intellectual reflexes. In short, he'd complained once
too often -- and here he was on the bus. All he'd done was traded one
confinement for another.
The young couple across the aisle caught his
attention. They laughed, whispered, and pointed at the man seated in front of
him.
'No!' he dismissed instantly. They couldn't
be the contacts. He' d allowed his naturally
suspicious nature to run rampant. A long-haired young man
with shaggy clothes; his innocent girlfriend with bleached hair. The
youth of today on some kind of search - a quest, he deduced from their gear stowed
on the overhead rack. Probably on a search across the country for some elusive
ideal, some purpose to life, some direction like so many other young people. To find purpose. One day they will simply look deep inside
with some inner mirror, and find themselves. They will find, inside, what they
searched a continent for. Well, no one said life was easy.
He studied them again and fervently hoped
they would not be with THRUSH. Somehow that would hatter this romantic illusion
he'd concocted. Imagine: a sober, tough professional weaving fantasies around
these kids. A true sign of the bored stagnation his mind had sunk to.
He altered his speculations to the man who
so amused the couple. Surreptitiously he observed the middle-aged man in front
of him. A very average salesman-type in a beige plaid suit
and a bow tie. If the man was thrush their budget for clothing had
certainly plummeted!
The bus slowed as it approached the next
station stop. The elderly lady started down the aisle with a tight grip on an
oversized shopping bag. The bus took a corner too fast and the lady tumbled
against the man in front of him. She extended profuse apologies as she regained
her position. As a parting gesture, she straightened the bow tie she'd knocked
askew. The dexterity was almost too good to detect. Thus, the contact was made.
It had been quick and skilled, but not skilled enough to get past the sharp,
trained eyes of one of UNCLE'S top agents.
The bus came to a halt and the UNCLE man
quickly stepped into the aisle and reached for his bag from the overhead rack. He duffel bag slipped and fell onto the man with the bow
tie.
With profound apologies the agent excused
his clumsiness then trotted off the bus just before it pulled away to it's next destination. He smiled smugly as he opened his
hand and looked triumphantly at the infamous bow tie.
***
"And how is the happy wanderer
today?" Napoleon Solo smiled breezily as Illya Kuryakin entered the office of the Chief Enforcement
Officer.
Illya' s response was so arid it cracked with dryness. "Very funny, Napoleon."
Solo chuckled in amusement. "Didn't
enjoy your little cross-country junket, I take it?"
"Next time you can take it. This is the
last time I let you corner me into an assignment -- on a bus, Napoleon!"
The Russian complained with great exaggeration. He flexed the still-cramped
muscles, which still protested the rigorous trip.
Amused, Solo knew he couldn't kid the
taciturn blond too far. At least Illya had escaped
the close grey walls of HQ for a while. After too long they had a tendency to
suffocate if a field assignment didn't come along often enough.
"All right, lllya.
Now, enough complaints. What about the
microchip?"
"Oh yea. I brought it back for you, of course. Plus,"
the blue eyes gleamed with mischief, "a little something extra"
Kuryakin drew something out of his pocket and tossed it onto
Solo's desk. The hideous knot of material landed with a plop. Napoleon grimaced
as he poked it with a circumspect finger. He finally lifted it with thumb and
forefinger and studied it with the interest a scientist would take in a rat
with bubonic plague.
"What is it?"
Illya settled onto a comfortable corner of the desk.
"Your microchip," he answered blandly.
Napoleon shook his head,
the disgusted expression indicated the article had just received his strongest
condemnation. To a conscientious, immaculate, natty dresser like Napoleon Solo,
the tie was an insult. Solo was considered the fashion plate of New York HQ.
Just being in the presence of the ridiculous plaid tie was a blow to the
reputation of this man of style.
His tone was so supercilious from anyone
else it would have had to be a studied response. "Must
have been easy to spot him. No one but a very low-grade THRUSH would
wear something as awful as this!" He shook his head, as if the offending
article somehow. A personal insult against him.
"I suppose he even wore a double-breasted jacket."
Illya shook his blond mop, a willing party to further the
little game. "A beige gabardine suit." He
leaned over and pointed to the knot in the center of the tic. "There is
more here than meets the eye, my friend."
"You're right," Napoleon countered
wryly. "But I'm too much of a gentleman to mention it.
Kuryakin took the tie away from his friend and placed it on
the desk. "It's more than just a tie with a microchip, Napoleon."
With a few, quick, adroit hand movements,
the Russian had pieces of plaid material scattered around the desktop. Than he spread an assortment or micro components on the blotter.
He beamed in silent exaltation of his slight coup of surprise.
Incredulity spread across the handsome
features of the dark-haired agent. "A camera in the
tie?" Solo was utterly aghast. "No one puts a camera in a
tie!"
"Except THRUSH."
Napoleon shook his head in abject disgust
and disillusionment. Clearly the world had gone to wrack and ruin if spies --
even THRUSH agents - pandered in bow-tie cameras! It was too much for his sense
of propriety -- beyond the bounds of decorum and etiquette for the professional
espionage agent.
"A gabardine suit and a bow tie that's
really a camera?" he repeated, as if it would help him accept it easier.
Illya looked at the plaintive American with amusement.
"This should be cheered as an innovative technical achievement. Not 'Napoleon's
lament,' "Illya insisted cheerfully
"Sounds like a song. Perhaps I should put it to music?" he wondered,
only partially to himself.
Napoleon frowned. "That's all we
need," he offered sarcastically. "A singing UNCLE
agent, with The Ballad of the Greyhound Bus."
"It does have a certain ring," Illya admitted hastily, as he tried to make it to the door
before his partner threw the remains of the bow tie at him.
THE END
"Kathy I said
As we boarded the
Greyhound in Pittsburgh.
"Michigan seems like a dream to me
now.
It took me four days to hitchhike from
Saginaw
I've come to look for America."
Laughing on the bus
playing games with the faces.
She said the man in the gabardine suit
was a spy.
I said, "Be careful, his bow-tie is
really a camera!"
AMERICA
by Simon and Garfunkle