THE COMPLETELY ROUTINE AFFAIR

by

gm

“Have you ever noticed how inconsiderate THRUSH can be?”

Smiling, while still staring through the binoculars trained on the house across the street, Napoleon Solo did not immediately reply. He found it incredibly amusing that their roles were atypically reversed. Usually, HE was the one anxious and irritated for a boring stake-out to end. Usually he had a date, or thought about acquiring a date instead of the routine assignment. While his partner put on a show of aggravated skill and ability to win the patience game they often played. Just another form of one-upmanship in their partnership.

Today, Illya Kuryakin did not want to play the game. He paced, he sighed. Loudly. Complained, he did, also loudly. About the quality and quantity of the food. The uncomfortable accommodations. Mostly, he decried the inconsiderate nature of their foe.

“Well,” Solo sighed neutrally. “We’ve already covered their tardiness, their lack of taste in choosing a rendezvous, and their general tactless natures.” He removed the headphones over his ears, placing them on his neck so he could still hear most of the conversation coming through the bug across the street. Giving his friend his complete attention, he suppressed a smile at the Russian. “And their lack of imagination in picking downtown rural American as their meet. Did I leave anything out?”

“I do not need more of your patronizing sarcasm. Nor do I appreciate it when you are so insufferable,” the blond huffed.

“You mean right. Thank you. This is very routine --“

“You know I detest routine!”

Laughing, Solo just nodded, used to dealing with a grouchy partner. It WAS the routine that was getting on their nerves. The boring tedium of an assignment that any rookie could have handled. There was the faint hope that this mission would net some big THRUSH fish, but after days of this sentence-in-stasis they were willing to turn over any glory and excitement that might happen to someone else. Anyone else.

The difference, this time, was that Solo had no pressing engagements for a change. April Dancer, a secret liaison he was currently interested in off-duty, would not be back in the country until the end of the week. Not that they had an exclusive understanding or anything, but dating her was a step above the usual staff he fraternized with at HQ and he looked forward to the meeting with pleasant anticipation.

Also, altered this time was Kuryakin himself. For a change, Illya had a pressing engagement back in New York and was antsy to return to the big city in time. It was amusing to see this unusual emotion in his friend and he -- like any good partner -- teased him royally about the suffering.

“Routine, my dear Cossack, must be to build character or something. Perhaps Waverly thought we needed the humility.”

Darkly, blue eyes stared at him with evil shaded in their depths. “Again, I remind you of my dislike of your sarcasm. It is such a demeaning quality, Napoleon.”

Taking pity on his friend, and not wanting to raise the tension level on this simple case -- it was, after all, turning out to be a waste of time -- he sighed. “All right, I’ll be magnanimous. I don’t want you to miss this once-in-a-lifetime chance. So go back home. I’ll handle this.”

The fire in the eyes died and was replaced with brooding. “You know that is not possible.”

Solo shrugged, believing maybe there was a way . . . . “Well, you know I AM in charge of this operation. . . .”

“No, Napoleon, thank you anyway, but I will not leave my post.”

It was a sincere offer but both knew it impossible to accept. They were under strict orders to observe the THRUSH meeting in this unlikely place for spies in Oak Springs Kansas. When the top level THRUSH leaders came here for their summit, Solo and Kuryakin were the tip of the arrowhead that would descend on the meeting and capture -- hopefully -- all of the leaders of evil right here on the main street of middle America.

Two other UNCLE teams were secreted nearby. All units had good views of the central location -- the upper floor of the hardware store. Advance THRUSH security personnel were already there, but had not spotted any UNCLE agents -- one set housed above the Five&Dime, and another in a rented room at the side of the music store.

According to intelligence reports, the THRUSH meet was scheduled for yesterday, but the biggest fish -- two regional leaders -- had not yet arrived with their entourage. Much speculation among his fellow operatives had transpired via communicators. Did THRUSH suspect a trap? Were they setting one of their own? Did their enemies simply miss a train or a plane?

The delay was annoying, but to Illya it was a catastrophe. Tonight was a rare performance of a Russian orchestra from Kiev at a theater in New York. Illya of course had front row seats and for weeks he had anticipated the chance to culturally reconnect with his native roots. Solo had tried his best to free his friend’s schedule. When this assignment came up there was no choice but to obey, of course. Both agents thought that there would be plenty of time to complete the mission and return to New York with time to spare. That was two days ago. LIFE, being what it was, had thrown up a nasty roadblock. And the Russian was more than miffed.

“Did you check with the St. Louis --“

“Yes, their station is tracking the movements of one of the regional men -- Peterson. We don’t know the origin of the other leader as you know, so Peterson is the only one we know about. And they lost his trail!” he snapped out with a bite.

“Where Peterson travels, Griggs is never far behind,” Solo darkly muttered, turning back to his scrutiny of the scene in the binoculars.

Griggs and Peterson were considered the equivalent of Solo and Kuryakin in the THRUSH world. They were well known to be high up in the ranks of the organization and usually worked together. The teams had a history of personal conflict. Griggs, in fact, walked with a limp because of a bullet still in his leg courtesy of Illya.

“There are other possibilities,” Solo started again.

“Yes, I know, they might be setting a trap for us. I welcome it!” he defiantly assured. “Anything is better than this -- routine boredom!”

There was no motel or hotel in the town and like the THRUSH counterparts, UNCLE had been forced to rent rooms from businesses or individuals. In disguise, Solo and Kuryakin had come in ahead of the THRUSH advance team and secured comfortable, but simple accommodations above a small grocery store and directly across from the THRUSH rooms. The market/bakery/ butcher shop just downstairs was a consolation prize. While Illya was foul-tempered over the sacrifice of his musical culture, he was gratified they had food readily available close below. Very good food. Fresh, ready made delectables willingly served up by their landlords at all hours of the day and most of the night. The goodies were a real treat, but still, Illya’s patience was stretched until finally it snapped.

The reel to reel tape flipped off it’s spool. Kuryakin moved to stop the machine recording the uninteresting banter of the THRUSH agents across the street. Napoleon removed the headphones, stood and stretched, rubbing his neck.

“More hours of meaningless chatter,” Illya grumbled, but his tone was less belligerent, as if now grudgingly accepting his plight.

“Yeah, they’ve been debating driving around and checking out the local sights before Peterson arrives. Which they didn’t know when that would be.”

Kuryakin placed the tape in a case. This would go to a courier hiding out in the movie theater down the street. It would be taken to the nearest UNCLE office where cryptographers could go over it for any hidden codes. Both agents were doubtful that such busywork meant anything. Solo voiced their mutual feeling that they still felt secure of their operation.

“If they go, shall we tail or give it to the double-O men?”

Solo smirked. The agents ensconced at the music store were Okuza and Ogden -- jokingly referred to around HQ as the double-O team. That pair was comprised of two young and idealistic agents who hardly lived up to the fictional code-label carried by James Bond.

“It would probably do them good. The THRUSHIES are interested in a mill down by the river. It should probably be checked out. Do you want more out of this completely routine assignment by trailing our enemies across rolling wheat fields or whatever they grow around here?”

“No,” Illya countered as he shrugged into a western-styled jacket and plopped an oversized cowboy hat atop his blond mop top. “I prefer to wait. Peterson should be here soon. The action will be here. If the THRUSH leave, we will be on standby. At least some UNCLE agents will be enjoying themselves.” He pasted a blond mustache across his lip. “While I am out I will bring back lunch. Requests?”

It was the concessionary tone that clued him in to Illya’s frame of mind. The Russian had given up any hope of making it back to New York for the concert. THRUSH had, yet again, ruined his life in some minor way. It struck Solo as odd that they were so miffed at being bored. They were men of action and even a relatively safe and boring routine assignment was not welcomed. They preferred the danger and living on the edge of life and danger.

“Yeah. A Rueben with those great pickle slices. And some of that excellent potato salad.”

Kuryakin’s eyes marginally brightened at the mention of the outstanding food they were spoiled with on this case.

Stretching again, Solo reminded standing and started the tape machine, placing the headphones on his neck. “After lunch it’s your turn to monitor this beast.” He kicked the stiff wooden chair that had been his perch for far too long. It was a comfortable enough room, but any place got tiring when hunched over a tape recorder. “You better bring back enough munchies to keep you happy.”

Kuryakin nodded and stepped to the door.

“Illya.”

The Russian turned.

“Sorry things didn’t work out.”

The blond nodded, acknowledging the condolences with a grace heretofore absent, his expression colored with gratitude at the sentiment.

“Thank you. I will console myself with their incomparable cheese cake slices.”

“Make it a double,” Solo smiled.

Napoleon placed the headphones over his ears, but only half listened to the enemy’s conversation about the local river. He was glad his partner had come to terms with the irritation of being a spy. UNCLE was a full time job and left few moments of leisure. Perhaps that was why he liked to play so hard off duty. Playing with April was against the rules and tricky due to their varying schedules, but he found in her someone who understood what they faced out here in the field. No secretary or translator or travel agent could get that. Perhaps this routine respite was his way of renewal -- a brief calm before and after the many storms in his life.

The THRUSHES were still discussing the mill. Paying more attention now, he listened to their phrasing and comments and his heart rate increased. It sounded a lot more like a plan than a casual bored commentary. Perhaps this was not a field trip, but an assignation. Maybe THRUSH was overly cautious. Or suspicious. Or they were better than UNCLE and knew the good guys were watching.

Pulling down the headphones, he called Ogden and Okuza to be alert and ready to move. A ripple of thrill singing along his skin alerted him on a sixth sense level. Instinctively, he knew they were on the brink of action.

Next, he called the team at the Five&Dime. No response. Signing off, he tried again, cautiously moving to stare down the street while standing behind the curtains of the open window. No unusual activity. The Five&Dime was quiet -- a few shoppers moving in and out. No gun battles, no explosions. No answer. Switching frequencies, he called Okuza back, notifying that they were shifting up to an alert status.

His next call was almost to Kuryakin, but he stopped. Illya would be back any minute. Calling him in the middle of a crowded store . . . . anxiety surged as he thought about his partner downstairs and vulnerable. Clicking his communicator, he tuned into their private Channel S.

Before his signal connected he heard footfalls on the stairs. Snapping the pen shut, he breathed a sigh of relief. The stride, he noted, was slightly off. Illya was carrying something of substantial weight? Feeling a little foolish at his protective instincts temporarily getting the better of him, he sighed, releasing the strain. When the steps were on the landing just outside the door, he called out.

“Illya, how many cheesecakes are you bringing back?”

Solo turned around as the door opened and sucked in a sharp breath of surprise. Illya, his mouth gagged, arms tight behind him, was pushed into the room and stumbled just inside the doorway, a pistol aimed at his temple. A bleeding lip told the story of a struggle and how Illya was taken unawares by a cagey enemy.

Automatically, Solo drew his Walther and aimed it at a spot just behind Illya. A point where the abductor would appear, he was sure. With the clarity of hindsight, he distinguished the awkward gait on the steps -- footfalls denoting a struggle and probably a limp.

He mouthed out, ‘Are you okay?’

With his eyes, Kuryakin darted anxious, tense looks to the right. Solo trained his weapon to that side of his partner.

Slinking up immediately behind Kuryakin, a tall, thin man barely poked his head and shoulder in back of the agent. “Go ahead, Solo,” Sal Griggs taunted. “If you try to shoot me you will hit your partner instead,” he assured, slipping back so only a bit of his head was visible for a moment. Then he returned to the safety behind his human shield. “Such a scene is more than I could hope for.” He jerked Illya’s arms up and the Russian grimaced in pain, a groan barely audible. “That would be such nice payback for what he did to me. And for you, too,” he sneered, glaring at the American with only one eye visible. “You’re partner’s in crime. Well, now you can die together. Who will be first?”

Arm amazingly steady considering the predicament, Napoleon kept the pistol aimed at Grigg’s head. It would be an impossible shot. There was little target there; the lighting was bad and his nerves were afire with anxiety that he could easily miss and take his friend’s head off. Few times in their career had he so completely and literally held his partner’s life in his hands. Through his skill and abilities, he might save Illya. Or he could murder his partner by a shot that was fractionally off.

“Well,” Solo tightly replied, “the smart move would of course be to kill me first. I’m the one with a gun.”

Illya’s eyes widened and he fractionally moved his head to indicate his anger and disapproval of such a plan.

It was more than baiting from Napoleon’s perspective. It was shock value -- Griggs would be taken off guard by the grandiose offer. In truth, it was really desperation. Napoleon knew this old foe was about to kill them both and Napoleon would try his best to save them both. Failing that, selfishly, he would save Illya. He would do anything rather than see Illya killed before his eyes.

“Heroic, Solo. Typical.”

The pistol at Kuryakin’s head shifted toward Solo and Illya squirmed, fighting to push the gunman off balance. Griggs cracked the barrel onto Illya’ head with enough force to make the defiant Russian sag back. But not enough to make a clear shot, Napoleon angrily noted, gritting his teeth.

“Drop the gun, Solo and step closer!”

“Why should I? Step into my own murder without putting up a fight?” he countered, bravado forging his voice into a threat that was without substance. Griggs might think he knew them. Did he believe he would surrender himself? Or did he believe Solo would fight and risk Illya’s life? Apparently both.

“Murder? No, UNCLE man. That would be too merciful for you and your partner. I will destroy you. Both. A limb at a time. Now drop the weapon and move closer!”

With a quick peak from behind Illya, Griggs could take a decent shot at him. Why move -- ah, Napoleon realized, the placement of the THRUSH agent was bad. With a weak leg, Griggs had no secure standing on the stairs. Illya was pinned against the wall and had no leverage, but it wouldn’t take much to push Griggs down the stairs, or even to jolt his aim off. But Illya couldn’t do it from his position. That left Solo with the original dilemma. How to get them out of this alive.

Hardly showing himself, Griggs ordered Solo to place his Walther on the nearby desk and to step to the center of the room. Mind racing, he could think of nothing else but to comply. Or risk an insane shot just behind Illya’s ear.

“Move!”

The command was emphasized with jabbing the pistol’s muzzle into Illya’s head. Still, Illya shook his head in refusal, anger sizzling his eyes. When Solo shook his head, the blue eyes blazed.

“All right,” the American sighed.

The Walther swung down, his finger looped in the trigger guard as the weapon slowly lowered to the desk. From his peripheral vision, Napoleon noted Grigg’s head pop around Illya’s, watching the drama unfold. The Special was nearly to the desk when Solo twirled the weapon on his finger, popping it up into his hand, then spun and fired in the same movement, the same instant, the same breath.

Both Kuryakin and Griggs tumbled back, rolling down a few steps. Heart in his throat, Solo raced after them, Walther aimed, flinching at the abundant blood splashed on the wall as he bound over the figures. Illya was flung atop the THRUSH agent and Solo yanked the Russian up and against him as he pushed Griggs with the muzzle of the P-38. From this angle he could see there was little left of Grigg’s head and death was absolute.

Sighing with a shaky and weak moan of relief, he fell back against the wall. There was no need to check on his partner’s connection with life. Illya was struggling to get a better glimpse of their fallen foe. With trembling fingers, Napoleon undid the rope binding Illya’s hands. Then he slipped off the gag.

Shaking his head, Illya breathed out a deep and long sigh.

Solo’s weary answer was a matching sigh. “Just another routine mission,” he finally commented.

“Yes,” the Russian agreed, his tone tight. “It is fortunate such skill is routine for you, Napoleon. Since I seem to routinely find myself captured at the mercy of THRUSH.”

Their communicators beeped and neither made a move to respond.

“Just don’t let it happen again soon. Please.” Solo held out his shaking arm, the Walther trembling in his grip. “I don’t like to prove myself in such trying circumstances.”

Running footsteps on the stairs alerted them and both came to their feet quickly. They relaxed, and Solo lowered his weapon when Okuza raced around the landing.

“Hey, we’ve been trying to get you guys! Peterson fell into our hands along with those clowns across the street. Turner and Sommes are okay. They were captured, but we freed them.” He stared at the body on the steps. “Hey, I see you got Griggs. For once you heroes didn’t get the main action. All you had to do was take out one bad guy. Guess this was a pretty good day for a routine stake-out, huh?”

“Very good,” Kuryakin deeply agreed, tossing a glance at Solo.

“One of the best,” Solo smiled wearily. He ordered the younger agent to take care of the body. Stepping back into their room, he felt Illya’s eyes on him and he turned a questioning gaze on his partner. “But I’m glad it’s over.”

“Again, I agree.”

“Maybe you’ll even get back in time for the concert.”

“That hardly seems so important anymore,” Kuryakin commented quietly as he moved to pack up the equipment.

***

Outside the theater, Illya took slow steps to the corner where he planned to pick up a taxi. There had been no time to go home. He had come in right from the airport and arrived for only the last third of the performance. During the whole concert, he was preoccupied by their misadventures in Kansas and knew he was lucky to be alive. Luckier his partner had not been killed by his distracted air of irritation. If his mind would have been on the job instead of personal concerns, they could have avoided that whole standoff with Griggs.

Stopping at the curb, he was startled at the figure in a black trench coat, standing beneath a street lamp. Smiling, shaking his head, he stopped in front of Solo.

“You had nothing better to do?”

“No, as a matter of fact,” he smiled. “Care for a lift?” They walked toward Solo’s Corvette.

“To what do I owe this personal taxi service?”

“Too much thinking,” Solo countered once they were inside the sports car. “I’m taking you for a drink. And you can bore me with talk about Russian musicians and I will listen as if I am interested.”

He could smell brandy and as the car roared to life he realized the incident had been more upsetting to the American than he let on. To both of them -- more than either would admit, obviously. Usually, when something dramatic like this happened, they would go their separate ways and collect the nasty experience in their private hells within. Harbored with the other demons, this was no worse than many, much worse than some assignments. This time, Napoleon could not let it go, it seemed. Judging from his inattention at the concert, neither could he.

“I will be glad to bore you. As long as I can pay. I owe you --“

“No --“

“Yes,” Illya insisted firmly. “I do owe you. And I thank you, by the way.”

At the next corner, Solo stopped the car and stared at his partner. “You’re welcome. But you don’t owe me. You know what I mean.”

“Routine,” the response came with a wealth of emotion.

It was routine for them to save the other’s life. A necessity they would never alter -- could never alter. It was part of who they were individually, and what made up their partnership. An indefinable loyalty that had become an intrinsic part of their make-up. Heroic and insane attempts to save the other. Routine for their alliance.

THE END