A HARD DAY'S NIGHT AFFAIR

By
GM

---

"Plato will be gone by now," Napoleon Solo muttered as he glanced at his watch.

The elevators doors whooshed open and Solo dashed into the corridor without waiting for a reply from his partner. Illya Kuryakin jogged to catch up with his tall companion.

"He has to wait. He has no choice," the fair-haired Russian assured.

Solo shook his head with irritation. "I'm still not convinced Plato is for real. A top THRUSH West Coast agent suddenly wants to defect?"

The unexpected call from the high-ranking THRUSH operative known only as "Plato" had surprised everyone at UNCLE's Los Angeles HQ. Since Solo and Kuryakin, Section Two's #1 and #2 agents, were in LA they took the assignment themselves.

Solo had decided on a low-key meet with only he and Kuryakin meeting the defector. The agents had not anticipated unusually massive (even for LA) traffic jams and a mob-scene around the entire block surrounding the hotel.

The agents' irritation was agrivated by the sultry, smoggy late August heat typical of summer in Southern California. When the sweat-soaked UNCLE TEAM finally reached the lobby they were required to present their UNCLE ID's to get past the lobby. The crowds and security maze had cost valuable time and they rushed through the lobby toward the elevators.

The delays and unexpected snags had played on the nerves of the usually cool Solo. Each added delay brought a little more irritation to the surface and provided more time to speculate on their mysterious meeting. Solo constantly vasilated between suspicion that they were walking into a trap, and irritation that they had already lost a valuable defector because of their tardiness.

As they exited the elevator Solo noted they were still several hundred rooms away from the correct room.

"I still don't understand what the big mess is about. An entire area of Los Angeles is practically demobilized by screaming teenage girls -- for a singing group! Unbelievable!"

"The Beatles are a phenomenon," Kuryakin responded easily.

Solo glanced at his partner. "Why? Because they play guitars and have mop tops?" he asked sarcastically as he ruffled Illya's longish blond hair. "I suppose that's why you like them." It sounded more like an accusation than a question.

"I like their music," Kuryakin blandly corrected. "Not necessarily their fashion statements."

They turned the next corner and slowed their pace as they read the numbers on the doors.

"It should be just past the service elevator," Kuryakin speculated as they came to the end of the hall.

They could hear the rumble of cables and motors as they passed the elevator doors.

"I thought security closed these," Solo commented as he slowed to a stop. He glanced at his partner. "Unless some tricky birds decided to put it in use."

Kuryakin nodded in agreement of a possible trap. He slipped his right hand onto the UNCLE Walther P-38 pistol underneath his jacket. "Shall I plan the reception party?"

Solo nodded. "I'll get Plato."

In a few strides the Senior Agent was at the specified door. Waryily he stood to the side as he knocked on the door.

"Yes?" a timid voice called from the room.

Solo pulled his Walther from his shoulder holster and held the pistol against his chest. He quietly delivered the code, "I have come for the knowledge of Plato."› "Plato agrees."

The door chain dropped and the knob snapped as the lock was released. Instantaneously the elevator carriage clanged to a stop and the automatic doors sighed open. Across the hall a door clicked open. Simultaneously the nearby door to the emergency stairs burst open.

Although these separate instances happened at nearly the exact second, Solo was aware of all of the events. Trained to think on several levels at once he was prepared for almost any emergency. Almost anything but THIS, he would later reflect with his natural irony.

He couldn't spare even a glance toward his partner -- no need -- undoubtedly Illya had his situation well in hand.

The narrow, bespeckled face of Plato emerged from behind the door just as Solo's periphery vision scoped three thugs emerging from the stairway. His sixth sense registered people rushing from the door behind him, as well as screaming female bodies rushing from the elevator. Some fragment of his mind obliquely noted that another agent would have paniced. Seasoned with years of death-defying moments of crisis he had nerves of steel. Confident Kuryakin would cover his back Solo concentrated on what he considered the most hostile forces -- the three thrugs. He had crouched, aimed and fired just as he was bowled over by the bodies emerging from across the corridor. Seconds later he was trampled by the mob of girls.

In the panic a near hysterical Plato ran over Solo's back and followed the crowd.

"Always laying around on the job, Napoleon," Kuryakin tutted as he leaped over his friend's recumbent form and dashed down the corridor.

By the time Solo regained his feet and joined the race he found that the mad mob and Illya's sleep-darts had dealt with the three THRUSH thugs now slumped in the corridor. He raced down the stair and quickly caught up with his partner leaping down the steps.

"What happened?" Solo shouted above the ear-splitting, reverberating echo of screeches that bounced off the walls of the narrow stairwell.

"An emergency switch to plan B," was the Russian's return quip.

"Plan B? I don't remember that."

"Because I haven't thought of it yet," Kuryakin answered simply.

The madcap chase ended when the winded agents emerged from the stairwell to the basement of the hotel. The screaming girls were following a limosine which was speeding from the garage. Solo had stumbled from the door in time to see the flash of a figure jumping into a laundry van at the service entrance. With a nod he indicated the direction and jogged to the van.

The agents only paused long enough to confirm their quarry, a literally quaking Plato, huddled among the white linen laundry sacks.

"I'll babysit this miserable -- agent," Solo said, managing to sustain the irony in his tone although he was gasping for breath.

Kuryakin dashed to the drivers seat. "Gladly. I think I'd rather wrestle with the traffic."

Solo slammed shut the doors and settled on the floor as the van pulled out of the basement. There was no opposition as they motored away from the congestion and confusion of the hotel. With disappointment and disgust Solo eyed their catch. The infamous Plato was bathed in sweat, mute and shaky with fear. Solo shook his head.

"This isn't at all what I expected," he said in a loud voice to Kuryakin in the connected cab of the van.

Suddenly several of the laundry bags moved. The white linens dropped to reveal four dark, mop-topped heads popping above the sacks.

"I think you're right," one of the young men said with a thick, Liverpudian accent. He offered a disarming grin to the astonished Solo.

Perplexed surprise twisted Solo's face. "Ah -- Illya -- I think we have a problem."

"A hard day's night, you mean," wryly corrected a guy with a largish nose and a multitude of expensive rings on his fingers.

"Yeah."

Oddly, Solo knew what he meant without knowing what he said. For a veteran of countless life-and-death situations the urbane and sophisticated he was strangely at a loss to cope with kidnapping -- in the back of a laundry van -- the greatest teen idols in history. Admittedly it wasn't something that happened everyday -- even in his wide range of experiences.

Still, he and Illya always seemed to be in the middle of unbelievable predicaments. Why should this surprise him?

Amused, the four young men stepped into the breach and in their own zany way covered the social amenities. They seemed naturals at taking control of absurd situations.

John Lennon, the leader and first spokesman, introduced the others: Paul, a handsome, quick-witted and fresh-faced man. George, quiet and reserved. The one with the rings was, of course, Ringo.

Kuryakin pulled the van to a stop in a quiet residential area. He stepped to the back and shook hands with each of the mucisians, introducing himself and his partner.

"Napoleon?" Ringo repeated approvingly. "I like unusual names."

Solo responded with an aridly dry, "Thanks."

For a moment Illya offer compliments to the musicians. It looked like the beginnings of a music appreciation class before Solo finally stepped in.

"Excuse me, Illya, but we do have a few matters at hand."› "Yes, of course," Kuryakin agreed. "The lads must be at the Bowl in less than an hour."

"Too bad. Your spy games looks like more fun," Paul said enthusiastically.

"Except for this grotty," George offered with a nod at the silent Plato.

"Grotty?"

"Didn't you see 'A Hard Day's Night?' Illya wondered with a tone something close to embarrassment over his partner's fax pause.

"See it -- I'm living it!" Napoleon retorted.

Solo again interpreted what a Beatle meant without knowing what he said. He wondered if they had invented a new language in Liverpool or if he was experiencing a generation gap with young men not too much younger than himself. Self-conciously he rubbed his face, brushing away the imaginary age-wrinkles he felt were visible every time he worried about aging.

"You certainly have a way with words,"  John wryly added.

"I suppose it would be too simple to just deliver them to the Hollywood Bowl?"

John's response was drowned out by the squeel of tires and the rev of a speeding engine.

"THRUSH!" Illya warned as he glanced out the window.

"You mean the bad guys?" Paul asked as he glanced out the small window in therear door.

A dark sedan had just careened around the corner and shot past them. The car skidded and rocked as it braked to a stop. The car whipped into reverse just as Kuryakin gunned the van past them and into an alley. The passengers were tossed to the floor as they took the corner on two wheels.

Within moments the sedan was in close pursuit as they raced through the narrow alley on the backstreets of Hollywood. The bumping, careening chase was punctuated by tinny reverberation of bullets pinging into the van.

"Take cover,"Solo warned.

He hurredly attached the shoulder-brace and muzzle extension to the stock and barrel of the Walther. He kicked open the van doors and returned fire as best he cold as he bounced off a wall. Three THRUSH sharpshooters against one (talented) UNCLE agent proved better odds. One bullet caught the Walther andxcatapulted the pistol from Solo's grip. The impact left his hand stinging with incapacitating pain.

Without invitation the four Brits took control. Ringo pulled Solo back from the door as John and Paul threw laundry sacks at the pursuing car. George poured thecontents of a large bottle of liquid detergent onto the street. Trailing sheets and towels snagged to the wipers and mirrors; sliding on the slippery pavement, the THRUSH car skidded and crashed into a telephone pole.

The four lads let out a whooping cheer. They patted each other, and Solo, on the backs in enthusiastic triumph.

Kuryakin maneuvered the van back onto a main street and speeded toward the Hollywood Bowl.

"How are you going to get through security?" George asked as he leaned on the back of Illya's seat.

"Let's crash the gate!John eagerly suggested.

Kuryakin held up a silver pen communicator. "I just talked to the local office. They're informing security to clear the way. They don't understand the request, but they will follow my emergency instructions."

Solo checked his watch. They had been running late all day. With only minutes to go he hoped they would get the Beatles to the concert in time. Despite his natural prejudice against long-haired rock-and-rollers, Solo had to admit these four personable lads had grown on him. Getting them to the concert on time had become more important to him than Plato.

Although the streets traffic was at an all time jam-up Kuryakin swerved the van onto the emergency lane and flew past the congestion. Several times Solo closed his eyes -- sure they were about to crash. The lads were an amused and amusing rooting section as they joked and sang snatches of songs during the dangerous race. Now fully into the game of the day, they seemed to look on the madcap experience as a lark.

Illya slowed the van as they came around to the stage entrance of the Bowl. Several security men waved them to stop.

"Uh-oh. Looks like they didn't get the message," Illya said.

Solo checked his watch. "We don't have time to explain."

Illya shrugged his shoulders. "I guess we'll use John's suggestion.

This earned an approving whoop from Lennon.

The van crashed the barriers, skidded around to the stage door and came to a grinding stop. The Beatles, Solo, Kuryakin, and a reluctantly dragged Plato plowed out of the van, through the security guards and to the stage wings.

John, Paul and George waved to the agents as they grabbed their guitars. Ringo paused to tell Solo, "Thanks for the fun -- love the name."

Seconds later the announcers shouted, "And now here they are -- the Beatles!" The words were nearly drowned by the hysterical screams of the audience.

Solo, Kuryakin, and a dazed Plato were dragged away by guards before Kuryakin could see the curtain rise on his favorite group.

THE END