THE

DANIEL IN THE LION'S DEN

AFFAIR

A MISSION IMPOSSIBLE/UNCLE CROSSOVER

by

gm

September 1965

---

"Cinnamon Carter?"

The devastatingly beautiful model turned with studied grace. Her exotic eyes lit with twinkling amusement as she appraised the man offering her a glass of champagne.

"We haven't met before."

"But I remind you of someone?" she supplied, cynicism bittering the amusement. "I was hoping for something more original from someone as sophisticated as you obviously are." Openly she appraised him while she took the glass. "A sister? No, a cousin?" Her eyes lingered on his face, his chest, but it was an act. She had already lost interest. It was no fun playing the flirting game when your opponent was so obviously over-matched. By his continental bearing and heart-gripping good looks, he was evidently a veteran of these little cocktail trysts. His opening line, though, had been sooo disappointing. "Please don't tell me I remind you of your mother!"

"Not at all. She was a brunette. I prefer blondes."

The witty repartee' piqued her fading attention and she reappraised her sparing partner.

"I was about to say," he smoothly continued, a hard, sharp edge now to his smooth voice, "we haven't met before, but I need you to contact a mutual friend here in Mordaavia." Covertly, he glanced around at the other party guests, then elucidated, the sexy tone dropping. "The operative phrase is, Daniel in the lion's den."

The urbane, social amenities were forgotten as she professionally assessed this man who, by the code phrase, declared himself a colleague -- a fellow covert agent. This was where the game became tricky. Instead of cocktail chat, they had suddenly moved into the shadow world of international life and death. Her next moves would have to be exceedingly careful, lest she fall into someone's cleverly laid trap. He had given the correct phrase, now could he step to the next level of the chess game?

"What about the lion's den?"

"Waterloo lion's den. He'll know what I mean." He slipped her a piece of paper as he kissed her hand. "This is where I can be reached. Tell Daniel I will need deliverance by angels."

"You're very sure of yourself."

"Of course."

To diminish the intensity of the parlay, he winked. "I'll be seeing you again," he warned with a seductive tone. The underlying anxiety in his brown eyes never diminished, despite the playful exchange. Then he handed her his glass and glided across the room and through open balcony doors.

***

"What did he look like?"

Cinnamon followed Dan Briggs with her cool, cat-calm eyes. Her team leader, colleague, friend, paced a rapid track across the hotel room. Dan had every right to be irritated. The Impossible Missions Force had enough trouble with their current, tricky assignment. They were a small team of special agents, behind the Iron Curtain, trying to snatch a would-be defector biochemist out of a hostile country. They did not need more complications.

"He was drop-dead handsome, obviously American, and could charm candy from a baby. Oh, and had lovely chocolate brown eyes."

Briggs, a darkly handsome man in his own sophisticated way, glared at her remark.

"He was tall, dark and handsome. With a distinctive mole on his -- left check." She amended with the flash of a smile.

With a curt nod of vexation, he stopped and pinned her with another glare. "I need you to meet him, Cinnamon. Find out the details and come back here. I can't leave the operation now."

He glanced at the radio receiver on the far table. Briggs was awaiting a signal from Rollin Hand. When the word came, the IMF team would make their move on a hotel room on the floor above. The defector would be snatched and replaced with Rollin, just long enough to convince the neighbors that the biochemist was still in the room, when he was really being whisked toward the border. The team would rendezvous and leave the country with official passes. She wondered what this mysterious stranger meant to Dan -- why he was important enough to risk such a major operation. She was worried, not so much for her own life, or even for the lives of her other friends, but because this had so unsettled her usually solid team leader.

"Why meet him at all, Dan? It's risky."

A curt, tight smile was her only answer. Bustling around the room, Dan collecting her coat and bag then handed them to her as he urged her to the door.

"Don't I have a need to know?"

Briggs stopped his hand on the doorknob. "No." His smile, this time kind and affectionate, softened his somber features. "But I'll tell you anyway. He's an old collea -- no, he's an old friend. I owe him my life." He forestalled the comment she seemed about to make. "He wouldn't come to us unless he was desperate. If possible, I'd like to help him because --" he searched for the right words. "Because he'd do the same for us."

"The spy's code."

"Something like that."

Nodding with understanding, she knew she would have gone even without an explanation -- for several reasons. The risk that put spice in her life, the sincere and anxious quality she had seen in those beautiful brown eyes -- but most of all, because Dan needed her to go. She would have gone even if he hadn't asked her to. More than anything else about this situation, she sensed that Dan needed to help, so she would do this for Dan.

With a hand on his, she whispered. "Do I at least get a code phrase to go with all this cloak and dagger intrigue?" Her tone was teasing and wry to break the tension.

As usual, when dealing with Cinnamon, Briggs smiled. "Tell him Daniel is sending rescuing angels."

"Does this mystery man have a code number like agent Z-three? Can't I just call him by name?"

"His name is Napoleon Solo."

***

For an Iron Curtain city, Mordaavia had a lively nightlife. The cosmopolitan hotel in the downtown square was surprisingly crowded with people out for a good time. Revelers could be heard in the hall. The streets below had numerous people moving under the street lamps. From his fourth floor window, Napoleon Solo watched the bundled forms that trailed puffs of condensed breath as they briskly moved through the sharply cold winter night. Glancing up into the dim sky he silently thanked his lucky stars for cold nights, long coats and strange Communist celebrations -- all of which had been literal life savers for him this dark and dreadful night.

Pulling the drapes closed and stepping away from the window he grabbed his brandy glass, then slumped into the sofa cushions and sipped his drink. His eyes stared into the darkness of the next room.

"It eludes me how a spy can be so easy to read."

The arid voice made him jump, spilling the brandy on his tuxedo jacket. "I thought you were asleep." Placing the glass on the floor, he stood in the doorway of the bedroom. "How are you feeling?"

"Like I was hit by a subway train."

"Close. A Slav the size of a Mac truck." Solo entered the room and turned on the bedside lamp. With a shake of his head, he knelt beside Illya Kuryakin and gently lifted the bandage covering the side of his head. Involuntarily, he winced at the red-smeared gash matted with blond hair. "What I don't understand is why you're not dead."

Kuryakin's eyes closed against the light. His skin was pale and cool. "Because I have only used up three of my lives."

"Hmm. Good thing you have a few left. And good thing your head is so hard. You'll need all your luck to get back to civilization."

"That bad?"

"No, actually. We have some delivering angels coming to the rescue."

Kuryakin opened an eye, which managed to convey his exasperation. "You love being cryptic when I have a concussion."

"Really, an angel." Flashing a smile at the thought of his lovely contact, he nodded. "You'll see."

A knock at the door transformed their flippancy to wariness. Solo slipped his friend a pistol from under the pillow. He drew another UNCLE Special from his shoulder holster and moved to the front door.

"Yes?"

"Do you still believe in angels?"

Napoleon smiled at the sultry, sexy voice of Cinnamon Carter. He opened the door and pulled her in, taking a quick glance down the empty hall.

"I believe in them now," he assured as he leaned his back against the door. His hand, still on her wrist, slid farther up her arm. "And what is the word from on high?"

"Daniel is sending rescuing angels," she responded smoothly, and just as gracefully slipped out of his grasp. It was a survival tactic she had perfected since her first date.

"I am on my death bed and you send for a blond."

At the surprise interruption, Cinnamon jumped, conveniently, into the arms of Solo.

"A delivering angel like this would have to be a blond, Illya," the American tutted. To Cinnamon, he explained as they went to the bedroom, "This is my partner with impeccable timing, Illya Kuryakin."

Seeing his friend was trying to sit up, he released his hold of her and hurried across the room to support his struggling partner. With slow, careful steps, he helped the stubborn Russian to the sofa.

"Now you know why we need the assist."

Cinnamon knelt next to the injured man and assessed the situation with astute and practiced professionalism. Like her colleagues, her life was one of deception and facade. Between colleagues, however, pretenses dropped and the real person underneath the spy came out. Their ability to move from humor to seriousness and blends of both was a unique quality acquired out of necessity. Theirs was a career that demanded their life and could possibly cost them their literal life. They all had to find what balance they could in such a dramatic existence. Now she understood what had caused the disruption of two covert operations.

"Concussion and looks like some damaged ribs. Anything else?"

Eyes closed, but obviously weak and in pain, Illya shook his head. Cinnamon glanced at Solo, who shrugged worriedly.

"We can't make a run across the border now. I was hoping Dan could help."

"He will."

"Good."

Illya opened his eyes. "How?"

"He'll think of something," Cinnamon assured.

"He always does," Solo agreed.

Satisfied, Kuryakin gave a slight incline of his head, then closed his eyes again.

Cinnamon and Napoleon stepped away. "You've worked with Dan before?" She drew a cigarette from her purse, offered one to Solo, who declined, and allowed him to give her a light.

"A few times. I knew you were part of his operation."

"How?"

"We're cousins. Different branches of the same family tree. A few years ago in South America, Dan ran into trouble. I happened to be there and gave him a hand. We've crossed paths a few times since then."

She blew a smooth stream of smoke into the air. "He owes you a favor."

Solo shrugged. "Do you object?"

"No."

"You're worried how it will affect your operation?"

"Not really. I know Dan wouldn't endanger his people . . . ." The thought died away as she realized she was caught in the uncommon and embarrassing slip.

"He wouldn't risk his people for my people?" Solo released a mirthless, frosty laugh, staring across the room at the still figure on the sofa. "We do what we can. Risk is a relative term, an individual gauge. We each have to determine where we will draw the line."

Shivering, she was chilled with fear from his starkly dangerous tone. This was a man who would know no limits, who would never draw a line between his own safety and the safety of his partner. He could be a danger to himself, or worse, to her friends. The thought was frightening, leaving her to wonder about the limits of her own friends. They had been in tight spots before, and had never once left an IMF operative behind. She knew Dan Briggs never would. Neither would Napoleon Solo. She hoped there would not be a conflict of interest between the two leaders, because she knew Briggs would choose the safety of his friends over the lives of the UNCLE men if there had to be a choice. She hoped they could all get out together somehow.

"Dan will be in touch. Stay here until we contact you."

***

When Carter returned to the hotel, the IMF operation was already in progress. Willy Armitage, their strong man, had escorted the disguised biochemist into a State limousine. With Barney Collier, their electronics expert, acting as chauffeur, Cinnamon as the escort, and Briggs and Rollin as fellow revelers, they hoped to cross the border without mishap. Their fake passes were ready. There was no room for adding two more names to the party list.

"What are you going to do about the others?" she asked as Briggs rushed her into the limo.

"You'll find out," was Dan's cryptic reply. "Rollin and I will meet you at the pub near the border. Remember, you've been partying all night, don't attract too much attention."

Cinnamon placed a restraining hand on his arm. "You're supposed to come with us."

"I'm staying behind to help Rollin."

Her eyes revealed her recognition of that line as a partial truth. They both knew why he was staying behind. He gave her a smile and touched her hand. "Don't worry. We'll meet you at the pub at eleven-thirty."

"Don't be late. They close the border at midnight."

He winked, then released her hand. He gave Willy a nod, and the limo pulled away. Without a pause in thought or action, he turned and reentered the hotel. He returned to their room and double-checked that everything was cleared out. There would be no trace of their presence here. From the floor above, a loud, scratchy record of Glenn Miller tunes blared. Briggs checked his watch. Ten-forty. In twenty minutes the curfew would be in place. Five minutes after that Rollin would shut off the music and come down here, remove his disguise as the biochemist, and leave with Briggs for the rendezvous. The timing was tight. It always was. Into that time frame he now had to add the rescue of two UNCLE agents. Risky -- foolhardy -- impossible. His personal byword. Nothing was impossible in his eyes.

***

In anticipation of their departure, Solo stripped the linen bed sheets into bandages for his friend's ribs. Using his own coat to wrap around the slighter agent, it gave the illusion of a stocky man. A stylish bowler was stomped to a shapeless cap that completely covered the bandaged blond head now darkened with ashes from the fireplace. It was an amateurish, simple attempt at disguise, but he had to work with what was available. Improvisers could not be choosers.

The quiet, double tap on the door brought him to his feet, pistol drawn. He switched off the light.

"Yes?"

"Waterloo," was the whisper.

With a smile, Solo opened the door and Briggs slipped into the dark room. The two warmly shook hands.

"How does it look?"

"Clear," Dan whispered. "We've got to hurry."

"I figured we would."

Briggs quickly glanced at Kuryakin. "Can he travel?"

"Yeah. He's lightly sedated. If we need him alert, we can wake him. Otherwise, it's best if we keep him dazed."

"Understood. By the way, it's good to see you again, Napoleon."

"Good to see you, too, Dan. Wish it was in better circumstances."

"I'm somehow not surprised."

"I know," was Solo's rueful agreement. "Next time we want to get together, though, why don't we just meet at Sardi's for lunch?"

"Deal."

With a nod Briggs accepted the situation. They brought the Russian to his feet and managed to reach the car in the parking garage without incident. The short ride to Briggs' hotel was made in silence. There was no more to say until the operation was over. Only a few minutes after they parked at the curb, Rollin Hand slipped into the front seat. He was introduced to the new additions, and then the operatives discussed options for crossing the border with two extra people.

***

At eleven-thirty-six, Briggs' car pulled next to the limo in the parking area of the pub. Willy carried Kuryakin into the big car, then retrieved the apparently drunken biochemist. Cinnamon was the last one in the car. At eleven-thirty-eight, Dan Briggs had formed their alternate escape scenario.

Rollin got in with them, leaving Briggs and Solo outside. Cinnamon seemed about to protest, but Briggs assured her he would meet them on the other side of the border before midnight. Napoleon silently confirmed the sentiment by winking at the beautiful model. The limo pulled away, Dan watching it as it quickly disappeared in the darkness. At eleven-forty-five, plan two was in motion.

The border guard exiting the pub never knew what hit him. His alcohol-hazed mind was sufficient anesthetized to cushion the karate chop Napoleon delivered to his neck. Briggs assessed the short stature of their captive.

"More your size," Solo guessed as they removed the man's clothes.

The transformation was quick and efficient. They were on the road by eleven-fifty. Briggs glanced only once at his watch. They would make it with a minute or two to spare. Little margin for error. There never was. More fervently than he had in a long time, he hoped there would be no mistakes. This needed to work -- he owed Napoleon. More than that, he was connected to Napoleon, as only colleague spies could be bonded and didn't want to lose any friends. It was the wrong business to become protective about lives, but he was protective about his friends.

"If any of your IM Force is caught or killed, the Secretary will disavow any knowledge . . . ."

It had been a long time -- the first time he'd lost one of his people. When he'd lost another operative in '66, he'd gone on an extended leave. Despite all his they were too close. That's why he was careful and thorough. Unlike his superiors, he would never turn his back on his agents, on his obligations, or his friends.

"Dan, if anything goes wrong --"

"Nothing will, Napoleon."

"Still --"

"I know. Danger is my business."

"Daniel in the lion's den." Solo shook his head with rueful exasperation. "Waterloo Bridge all over again."

The South American operation had been an UNCLE scheme to depose a dictator. The IMF team was there for the same purpose. They had combined forces and accomplished the operation. When the dust settled, one of the IMF men was dead. Dan took it hard. That was why this time he had demanded on accompanying Solo. The danger was here, and his people were safe. Briggs was motivated by the same concerns, which placed Illya safely across the border and Solo at risk. It was always easier to go through the peril than to watch a friend -- send a friend -- into the danger. If there had to be a repeat of Waterloo Bridge, they would be the ones under the rubble, not their friends.

"This is not Waterloo for either of us, Napoleon."

"I hope you're right. By the way, thanks. Illya means a lot to me."

"Of course, he's your partner. And don't mention it. Glad to return the favor."

The lights of the border crossing appeared. Beyond the barbed wire, sniper tower and spotlights, was a peaceful little border town. Briggs noticed the limo parked next to a hostelry. Their friends had made it to safety and they were close behind.

"Here we go," he said to Solo, crouched on the back floor. He glanced at his watch. Eleven-fifty-seven.

Briggs screeched the car to a halt touching the guardrail. The car was still rocking when he jumped out and shouted warnings the two men at the gate. He said there was an escaped prisoner heading for the border. He pointed into the nearby woods and claimed to have spotted the man. In the tiny border town, the church bells chimed the twelve tolls of midnight. The lights around them sputtered and died. The border plunged into darkness, except for the two headlights from the car.

The guards ran into the woods. The sniper fired random shots toward a mythical figure. Still shouting warnings, Briggs exacerbated the frenzy by leaping back into the car and ramming through the barbed wire and into a ditch. His cries for help brought the sniper down from the tower and the man approached the car. Willy subdued the man while Rollin helped Dan and Solo out of the car. The four men jumped into the ditch on the other side of the crossing, and were concealed almost up to the back door of the hostelry. By then, Briggs was wrapped in a great coat and Solo in a hunter's jacket. They walked into the back of the building and blended with the other customers who were straggling out at the closing of the bar. No one noticed four more weary guests trudging up to their rooms.

***

OCTOBER 1965

When Dan Briggs entered the Brown Derby, the host gave him a welcoming smile. "Mister Briggs, your party is here. Shall I order your usual cocktails?"

"Please do, Andre."

Briggs wove through the famous LA eatery, noting the equally famous clientele scattered at various tables. Briggs himself was anonymous and unnoticed as he made his way to a secluded booth. He greeted his friends, pleased that Solo and Kuryakin had time during their LA stopover to indulge in lunch. Kuryakin looked well and fully recovered from his injuries. Sharing cocktails in this posh restaurant, it was hard to imagine that cold night a few weeks back when they were fleeing for their lives.

It amused him to know, at this table, there were five of the top espionage agents in the world. Fugitives of numerous secret police organizations, they sat unnoticed among the the elite, rich and famous of the West Coast. Even if someone happened to recognize Cinnamon Carter or Rollin Hand, the other three men would be taken for businessmen or producers.

Briggs offered a toast. They touched glasses and drank and laughed. For a moment, they forgot the careers, dangers and desperation that had brought them together. They remembered only the bond, which tied them to each other.

THE END