"That's her."

She could sense eyes upon her as she completed the current hand to
hand combat session. The only woman to go through with this class,
there had been problems. The first was her assignment to the
secretarial/administrative assistant training. After two days, some
major catty reactions and someone finally realizing one of their
agents in training was missing, it was her fault that she had not
reported correctly.

Reining in her explosive temper she tried sweet reason to point out
that no one listened when she tried to tell them they had her in the
wrong cohort and that she had been trying, through channels, to
rectify the mistake. Points off for attitude and lack of success. She
bit her tongue and took the icy reprimand. She could do more good
inside the organization than outside. Or so she kept reminding herself
as she went through the grueling training.

She aimed for just short of perfection. Ninety-eight percent would get
her through. No one expected, or as she overheard, wanted, a woman to
slam through the school with perfect marks. The nearly legendary April
Dancer, the first woman to get through the Survival School training
and make field agent, was tough, savvy and did not make perfect marks.
Sometimes she wondered if Ms. Dancer had also held back; protecting
the fragile egos of the Neanderthals around her. No, that was probably
insulting the Neanderthals.

Final evaluations were here. The Chief Enforcement Agents of the five
continental offices were on hand to pick and chose their new bright
lights and cannon fodder. She turned, after an appropriate bow to
recognize her teacher, to check out who was here. Interesting, the
tall dark haired man was the epitome of the James Bond mold of agent.
That was a $300.00 suit, the shirt looked freshly laundered and ironed
and his shoes were brightly reflective, the sort of shine that only a
good shoe man could put on leather. Napoleon Solo, she dug his name
out of the recesses of her brain. Number 1 Section 2, New York. Rumor
had it the New York head of operations was grooming this one to be his
successor.

The slightly smaller blond to his left drew her eye. So this was the
Russian. Rumor had it he was a KGB plant. Noting the close proximity
to Solo, she read something different. No, Kuryakin might have started
his career with the UNCLE as a KGB mole, but she doubted that he was
still all that loyal to his superiors there. UNCLE had too much to
offer for a man of his decided talents and intelligence. He was the
one she had to worry about. Those quick blue eyes missed very little.

Solo sauntered over to speak to the training instructor as the rest of
the class moved back, many of the men eyeing the New York CEO and
measuring themselves against the nearly legendary agent. Kuryakin
followed him discreetly, his eyes never quite still, taking in all of
them, analyzing what he saw and felt against the files. His gaze
flicked across her and then came back. Undaunted, she met his gaze
coolly, or as coolly as she could, given her sweat drenched status.
Even her long black braid was soaked.

Gabe DeMarten cleared his throat for attention. "Class, one more
round. Mr. Solo and Mr. Kuryakin would like to watch you in action."
He quickly paired the men and then moved to work with her.

Illya stepped forward. "Perhaps with a different partner?" he suggested.

She regarded him curiously. What the hell was he up to? She waited for
the decision. DeMarten yielded to the field agent. She fell into
stance, tired but not too tired to go another round. Her opponent took
his position. Silence reigned for several minutes while the pairs
around them sized each other up. She waited for him to make the first
move. He was apparently waiting for her to do so. After a flurry of
combat around them, she chuckled. He raised an eyebrow in response.

"We're going to get tired of standing here after a while," she pointed
out mildly.

"You could move."

"So could you."

"Not worried?"

"About..?"

He struck swiftly, deadly and found air. For a few moments, there was
a flurry of strikes and counter strikes until he grabbed at that
dangling braid as she passed him. Without stopping, she pivoted and
stepped in with a half force head butt that delivered full force would
have done a great deal more damage than making him see stars. He
released the braid and rubbed his chin.

"Not bad. A knife …"

"Should not remain in the hands of one's opponent." She bowed
respectfully in the Oriental manner, her right hand cupping her left
fist.

"You've trained in the Orient?"

She flipped him a grin. "Should be in my file."

"You're too good."

That got a laugh. "OK, I'll `fess up. I'm 102, born in another
dimension and I've been covert off and on for the last 70 years." The
look was priceless as he went stone faced. She leaned forward. "That's
a joke, Mr. Kuryakin," she added and stepped back. "Now, I'm for a
shower and some food. If that's all, Mr. DeMarten?"

DeMarten nodded his dismissal.

---

This page is an unofficial site that exists only for the fun of it. All characters and situations from the television show "The Man from U.N.C.L.E." are property of Norman Felton and Warner Bros. Nothing ill is intended by this use of any television characters in these amateur efforts. Any fiction linked to these pages is the intellectual property of the amateur author who created it and is not presented here for profit.