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Disclaimer:
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.

Classification: T for Teen (or used to be PG-13 or so)

Author's Notes: Just because she's too good to be true, does that
make her a problem?

Pairing: Unknown

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"Your luggage arrived." Napoleon pointed to the dark suitcase on the
floor next to Illya's desk. "We had a courier pick it up when Miss
Elkins called."

"Courier, huh?" she repeated with a twinkle in her eye. "Did the
courier return with a good impression of Miss Elkins?"

Napoleon didn't color at the implication, but he did return her
impish grin with a twinkle of his own. "I believe he made a date
with the very personable young lady."

"I suspect Miss Elkins of hidden depths, Mr. Solo. I'd be careful."

"Thought you said she wasn't a THRUSH agent."

That got a laugh. "Depths do not necessarily mean opposition, Mr.
Solo," she said mock sternly as she reached for the bag. "OK, who
unlocked this?" She looked to Napoleon curiously. He, in turn,
looked elsewhere. "Oh, let me guess: Illya thought I might be hiding
something in there?" she asked sweetly as she swung the case onto a
nearby chair, sliding the latches into place and opening it. She
blinked at the contents, frowning as she carefully ran her hands
over the top layer of garments as though making certain they were
real. "OK, someone's having fun?"

Napoleon cocked an eyebrow upward. "What do you mean?"

"This isn't my stuff." Her tone implied an idiot would have known
that. She looked at the tag. "Uhm, did anyone else notice this is
tagged to San Francisco?" She then took a look at the ID tag. C.
Yuconovich, Angel Island, San Franciso, California. She gave
Napoleon a really old-fashioned look at that. "This isn't my bag. I
don't live in San Francisco ... unless I'm suffering from a bad case
of multiple personality syndrome and my other side ... hmmm. That
doesn't work. If I was MPS, it wouldn't say C. Yuconovich ... unless
I was really twisted ........." She started giggling at that point
and sat down.

Napoleon watched her, a half smile curving his lips. "It isn't your
bag?"

She took a breath, pulled herself together and shook her head. "No.
It isn't," she confirmed as she pulled out several long black
skirts, matching black button up shirts with long sleeves, black
tights and a pair of black penny loafers. Her eyes widened as she
got a look at what lay beneath the clothing. Napoleon moved closer
to watch with interest as she pulled out two boxes with silver
markings on the outside. She gave the items a very worried look as
she opened the first to reveal several vials of some black
substance. The second box was no more reassuring, in the velvet
lined interior lay two strange looking symbols cast in solid gold.
Under the boxes she located a trio of black leather bound volumes
with locks. She looked up at Napoleon, a frown marring her usually
smooth forehead. "Did you and Illya go through this or did you just
notice that my pantsuit was missing?" Not that she thought they had,
but she wanted reassurance. Napoleon's look was almost enough.

"We were expecting the clothing to be on the top," he admitted.

"And you didn't notice that none of this stuff resembles anything I
wore?" If he was going to admit that Illya was the culprit, now was
the time. The Russian was not big on fashion. Napoleon was.

"Ah .. Well .. Illya opened the bag. I .. didn't question his
evaluation that the clothing you wore when you fell in the …
whatever it was … wasn't there."

"Napoleon, why would I be carrying this stuff?" She gestured to the
peculiar items.

"Perhaps the better question is when did you acquire a residence on
Angel Island?" Illya cut in from behind her.

"You missed that part of the conversation. I didn't. Or haven't.
Whatever."

He nodded to the tag. "That says you did."

"Or it says someone else acquired my last name, probably on their
way through an immigration station."

"Improbable."

"It's more probable I have another place in San Francisco? Or that I
was carrying that stuff around with me on assignment?" she demanded.
Her mouth worked for a moment after that, but nothing came out so
she threw up her hands in disgust.

"Or your name sake isn't dead," he pointed out softly.

That shook her. "Oh. Well, there is that. Wouldn't she be in her
60's?" She held up the blouse and skirt nearest her, shaking her
head. The items were conservative but not… old? "Oh, I know. She's a
THRUSH agent!" she offered brightly with a wide smile. "Mind you,
what a THRUSH agent is doing with those items, I dunno. In fact, the
more I look at those vials, the more nervous I'm getting. Maybe the
lab should test it." With that, she swept the box up and headed out
of the office, not waiting for her mentors to agree. It was just as
well neither man left in the room could hear what she was muttering,
even if it was in three different languages.

Napoleon looked to his partner as she left. "It's not her case," he
offered his opinion.

"I know. I spoke to Miss Elkins," Illya agreed with a short
sigh. "Apparently there is another Cheri Yuconovich who took a
flight the same day as our agent."

Napoleon didn't care for where this was heading. "They didn't."

"They did."

"We need to get that bag back, before it destroys the evidence."

Illya's gaze traveled to the items Cheri left behind. "We might want
some answers about that, as well."