A FUNNY THING HAPPENED ON THE WAY TO THE OFFICE

AFFAIR

by

gm

summer 1967

When his communicator buzzed, Illya Kuryakin sighed to himself with mild irritation. Stuck in traffic on his way to work, he was hardly in a position to respond to some urgent message from Mr. Waverly. Retrieving the instrument, he answered, and was pleasantly surprised his expectations were not correct.

“Hi, Illya.”

“Good morning, Napoleon.”

“Hey, I need a favor.”

Glancing at his watch, the Russian speculated warily about the request. Pre-eight AM, what was his partner up to? He was in no better position to respond to his friend’s requests than to Waverly’s.

Solo did not sound distressed, so it was probably not an emergency. Bored with traffic, he indulged his idle curiosity. “I thought you were in Florida? Finished early?”

“With my usual efficiency. Flew in just now.”

“What about Denton?”

“The nasty THRUSH mastermind was breakfast for the crocodiles, thankfully. They wanted him as much as he wanted my head.”

“Sounds like an exciting excursion.”

“Kept me busy. I’ll fill you in when you come for me. Here’s the problem,” he continued, frustration clear in his tone. “My Jag is giving me problems and I need to swing over to Syd’s. Can you pick me up? Please?”

“Four words. German engineering. American engineering.”

“Funny.”

“Jaguars are problem cars.”

“Illya –“

“Here is another word for you. Cab.”

“It’s the end of the month.”

“Napoleon, I am stopped in traffic as it is. If I detour to your garage, I will be late for the Section briefing. Remember, I am filling in for you since you were supposed to be in Florida –“

“Illya, please.”

Darkly menacing, his tone clearly relayed the warning. “Waverly hates for us to be late for briefings.”

“I’ll make it up to you. Promise.”

Kuryakin sighed. “For starters, you owe me lunch.”

“Great, I can use a credit card for that. Thanks.”

***

SYD’S GARAGE. Not his favorite place. Not that Solo would ever admit it to his know-it-all partner, but Illya was right about the Jag. Unreliable. But the powder blue XKE convertible was so sophisticated and a hit with the ladies. In a battle between ego and wallet, the ego won.

The regular mechanic, Lew, was not there. A younger, overall-clad, greasy man with longish hair opened the hood and asked what was wrong. Solo explained it was the electrical system again. From the corner of his eye, he saw the flash of a shiny object.

***

When Kuryakin entered the garage, he spotted the Jag immediately. Walking past the car, he witnessed a man in overalls dragging his partner behind a workbench. Dashing, he vaulted over the bench to land atop the thug. The surprise attack leveled the man.

Kneeling to check his partner, he noted an ugly abrasion on Solo’s temple. Gently patting the still face brought the unconscious man awake. Solo’s groans nearly masked the sound of footfalls, but Illya, already wary, had his weapon out in an instant.

When two more thugs came around the workbench, he fired. They succumbed instantly to the sleep darts. Illya dragged them into a pile with the first man and called HQ for a clean-up team.

Groggily sitting up, Solo held onto his head, then glanced at the bodies. “Neat as always, IK. In case you didn’t know, the one on the top of the stack is Denton.”

“I am always cleaning up your messes, aren’t I?” Kuryakin tsked. “Sloppy of you to leave Florida with your job unfinished.”

“This way you feel included.”

“How’s the head?”

“Sore.”

Kuryakin helped him up. “Let’s get you checked out at Medical.”

Walking toward the door, Solo gloomily shook his head. “What about my Jag?”

“I’m afraid, Mr. Solo,” Illya responded officiously, “it will be impounded as part of the official investigation of this incident.” Voice low, face straight, he suggested, “Perhaps the boys in car pool can check it out before it is released back to your care.”

“Your Machiavellian cunning is beyond compare,” he grinned. “I love a partner who is neat.”

Pleased, Illya nodded his head in acceptance of the praise.

“I really owe you this time.”

“Yes. I will collect. With interest.”

Solo’s grin faded as he walked to his partner’s Impala.

“You can start with explaining to Mr. Waverly why you made me late for the briefing. Then we’ll discuss lunch. And dinner.”

Solo sighed philosophically. Explanations to Waverly and moderate charges on the credit card were worth it. After all, Illya’s sly talents working for him – priceless.

THE END