Napoleon uttered a soft oath as he skulked past the littered deck area in  steerage. The third world help on this ship didn't put themselves out doing any more than necessary in the areas away from the eyes of their employees.
 
 

He'd been wined and dined by the yacht's captain, Cyrus Pennington, one of the elite of southern Florida society. Actually, Pennington wasn't the working captain, but he styled himself Captain of the Sunfish, which was the biggest  yacht that Solo had ever set polished shoe on.  Pennington's wife, Chiffon, was a good thirty years younger than the 52 year old aristocrat. Chiffon was a former Playboy bunny and calendar girl. She was also extremely intelligent, so Solo had had to play his hand carefully.
 
 

The tropical drinks offered at cocktail hour had been a challenge. Solo wanted to stay sharp for possible late night excursions, but Cyrus had been acting as bartender for his guests and insisted everyone have some of his special screwdrivers. The fresh Florida orange juice, which he squeezed at his bar on an electric juicer, was heavily diluted with vodka and crushed ice. While Napoleon tasted his and swallowed reluctantly, Carply, one of the other guests, objected
to the amount of alcohol and Pennington had distainfully told him that you simply didn't drink one without the other. Something in his tone had shut up the brief objection, and everyone sipped the concoctions while chatting in the grand
lounge before starting cards.
 
 

"Good thing I've been conditioned by Illya's vodka drinking. All the times that I've joined him seem to have given me an edge. Napoleon took another sip. Not Mother Russia's best", he thought, guess Illya's helped me develop a connoisseur's taste, too. Napoleon spared a moment to think about his partner, who, as usual, got the dirtier job." I've got to get that boy some polish so that he can mingle in polite society instead of lurking in the muck somewhere." He contemplated the notion of his partner at his side at this moment. It had a strange appeal over even the companionship of Chiffon Pennington, a glamorous and intriguing blue-eyed blonde. Funny, he thought, but Illya is more comfortable and just as beautiful. Startled at the thought, Napoleon Solo stored that new perspective on his Russian partner away for later study. In the middle of a mission was not the time.
 
 

Cyrus called his guests to the card tables, where stewards were putting out fresh decks of unopened playing cards. Solo went several rounds of contract bridge with Pennington, his wife and their other guests, before excusing himself to get some night air.
 
 

He'd carefully searched the cabins of all the guests during the day, but none of them had anything interesting or puzzling to pique his interest. The Pennington's suite was guarded by a full time steward with a sidearm and a real interest in doing his job right. So, Napoleon had drifted down the deck levels and back toward the crew's quarters and engine room. He'd looked in at the galley, the size of a restaurant kitchen, and the small gym, where several people could work out with ease.
 
 

Mr. Waverly had pointed him at Pennington, so he wasn't prepared to give up yet. Cyrus was a man of mystery when it came to how he maintained the fortune he'd inherited at a very young age. UNCLE suspected that he had his fingers in several less than legal pies.
 
 

"Ouch!" Napoleon hopped on one foot while rubbing the shin of his raised leg. An iron bar poked out of one of the stacks of crates and had tripped him. He took a quick look around but no one seemed to be in the dimly lit hold and he decided
that he'd not been heard.  Moving closer now, with a slight limp to favor his bruised leg, Napoleon shone his pencil thin flashlight at the top of the suspect crate. It had been damaged when lowered to the hold and its cargo shifted enough
to force that bar out of the side.
 

Sifting through the packing material that layered the top, he didn't hear the men approaching down the aisle behind him. A rough hand at his shoulder spun him around and he followed it with a stiffened hand, intent on parrying off his attacker. The only problem was that the man behind him was over seven feet tall and built like a brick outhouse." Oh, gods, looks like this is a job for Superman  too bad he's not here", he thought fleetingly as the huge creature gathered Solo's suit jacket lapels in two enormous fists and lifted, raising him up into the air, to dangle there.
 
 

Never one to go down without a fight, Solo tried a savage kick toward the other's midriff, but his shoe simply bounced off what felt like a rock wall. At that moment, all the high-powered lights came on and the monster began to shake the UNCLE agent, until his head felt as if it was coming off at the shoulders.
 
 

"Easy, Namu!" Cyrus Pennington emerged from behind the huge man, puffing on his cigar, a good-natured grin on his face. "What have you found? Why, Mr. Solo! Prying into things you really shouldn't touch!" He smoothed his pleated formal
shirt front with his free hand, flicking away an imaginary speck of dust.
 
 

"Ah , yes. Well, I was just enjoying the night air, strolled around a bit and lost my way."
 

"And ended up, nose deep in one of my private cargo holds?" Cyrus blew a smoke ring in Napoleon's direction. "I think not." Turning toward the several other deck hands who had arrived out of no where, all in dark clothing and disgruntled looks, he added, "Take him."