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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?

Time: 1967

Place: New York, San Francisco

Pairing: Unknown

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The security monitor tapes revealed nothing. About two minutes of tape was snowed out in the lab. Agent offices were not routinely monitored and the
hallway tapes for each location also showed snow gaps. Sensors around the building showed blockages of airflow through the ventilating ducts starting at the underground car park and returning there. Anywhere the intruder might have been caught on surveillance cameras, there was visual interruption.

“Why is everyone looking at me?” Cheri snapped finally as they finished sifting though the lack of evidence.

“Touchy,” Napoleon retorted.

“Well, yeah. I was with the two of you while the office got trashed and I was identifiably with Illya while the lab was being trashed. So why d’you keep looking at me like you think I have the answer?”

Illya sighed and leaned back in his chair. “I’m sorry.”

Cheri tried very hard not to drop her jaw. She looked at Napoleon, eyebrows raised in query. “Did he just say what I thought he said?” Illya rolled his
eyes as Napoleon nodded, grinning. “Wow. Damn, you guys may just decide I’m worth keeping after all.”

“I wouldn’t go that far,” Illya broke into the euphoria.

“Yeah, neither would I,” she agreed with a laugh. “So, what are you sorry about?”

“You are correct. You could not have caused or orchestrated the damage to our headquarters without one of us knowing it. The bag’s owner, on the other hand ...”

“Why destroy? Why not just recover if you can get in and out of the building without being seen?” Cheri looked like she really didn’t like that idea as
the word’s left her mouth.

“We go to San Francisco and find out.” His phone rang, interrupting anything else he might have said. The conversation was short. “We have a Miss Cheri Yuconovich residing on Angel Island in San Francisco,” he confirmed as he dropped the receiver into place. “She too lost a bag and has received the wrong one.”

“Tell me she doesn’t have her own distrusting picker-of-locks.”

“No. The bag is, according to her, unopened. She would appreciate the return of her case, preferably unopened.” All three refrained from looking at the pile of remains on the chair. “We will explain the circumstances when we meet her.”

“Sounds good to me,” Cheri agreed. She gathered up the remaining items that were not destroyed. “I’ll have this stuff bagged … boxed … something …” she said as she left the room.

Cheri took one look at their commercial flight and balked. “OK. D’you see anything odd about a commercial airliner painted black?”

The gentlemen conceded that a black commercial airliner was not something one saw every day. Napoleon pointed out that Braniff did some interesting things with their paint schemes to keep their image trendy, and it looked like the color in question was actually a dark blue, difficult to identify in the rain.

“Oh. Yeah. I guess. You’re sure it’s blue?”

His chuckle was reassuring as they made the dash across the asphalt to the stairs and into the plane. As they removed their raincoats, handing them to the tall, dashingly attired stewardess who greeted them with a professional smile and directed them to their seats.

Napoleon turned his best high wattage smile and urbane patter on as a second brightly clad young woman came by to ask their dinner preferences and ask if they wished reading material, pillows, blankets, etc. for the long trip to San Francisco. She seemed impervious to his charms, treating him with no more than the courtesy taught in the classes she attended before becoming a full time stewardess.

As they were seated separately, Illya received attention from the dark haired beauty that greeted them at the door. There the situation was
reversed, the stewardess doing her best to get the passenger’s attention and Illya, in his usual manner, ignoring the stir he was creating. Cheri gave
her a cheerful smile, requested a dinner and settled in for a long flight. All of them were adept at sleeping when the chance presented itself.

Illya drowsed in his seat, the occasional dream causing a frown to furrow his forehead. He was oblivious to the attention the stewardess wished to
shower on him, leaving her frustrated and annoyed at the sparsely filled flight. While his partner was frustrating the stewardess, Napoleon was
disgruntled to find that both of the stewardesses were apparently completely armored against his considerable charm. He settled in to his seat, plugged into the taped music available and waited for drinks to arrive.

While Illya was trying to rest and Napoleon was striking out, Cheri settled in to do some research on the gold items left when the box was destroyed.
She pulled out four of Lovecraft’s books, made a face and plunged into what she had always considered fiction. Reading it as the man’s take on reality was disturbing. It was not encouraging to think there were humans crazy enough to worship the Great Old Ones (Lovecraft’s capitals) given that most of them were inimical to human existence.

About sundown, the flight hit turbulence. This was not the gentle, bump, ‘oh cute, my drink went up and landed in my cup’ again sort of turbulence that
amuses; this was the sort of turbulence that makes motion sensitive passengers grab for the handy bag provided because they aren’t going to make
it to the bathroom before heaving. It was also the sort of turbulence inclined to make dinner delivery difficult; reading headache inducing and
sleep terminally disturbed.

Thus it was a trio of not so happy agents who alighted in San Francisco an hour later than anticipated between the turbulence and the unexpected
headwinds encountered. Napoleon was sans any phone numbers of personable young ladies who attended them on the flight; Illya was sans anything
resembling restful sleep and Cheri had not much more clue about things in Lovecraft’s view of the reality of the world than she had when she stepped
onto the airplane. At the luggage delivery area she scanned the area more out of habit than the thought she might spot someone. Then she did a very
slow scan before tugging on Napoleon’s suit sleeve.

“Yes?” he practically snapped, thinking longingly of a soft bed in a good hotel followed by a hot breakfast after a reasonable length of time.

“How many people were on that flight?”

He looked down at her uncomprehendingly. “What?”

Illya, joining them after stepping into the men’s room, looked around as well. “I am not certain there was anyone else,” he concurred thoughtfully.

“And we were seated apart from each other why?”

Napoleon pulled his ticket out and looked at it. “Assigned seating.”

“It’s customary not to seat us together when we travel. Difficult to discuss things, but also difficult to trap both or all of us.”

“OK, I’m just edgy from lack of sleep,” she conceded as she claimed her bag and waited for the other two to do so.

The hotel was good, but not the Hilton. Napoleon looked resigned as he signed in. They agreed to meet in a few hours when they were refreshed.
Cheri was elected to contact the local office and confirm their arrival, as well as to contact her double and arrange a meeting for the exchange of
items and explanations of what happed to the missing bag’s contents.Cheri awoke suddenly with a feeling she was drowning. Coughing and choking
she rolled off the bed to catch her breath. There was a fuzzy picture in her mind of a dark haired man looking grim as she submerged in a bathtub? There was an unreal sense of déjà vu to the experience. Soaked with sweat, she gave up on sleep and took a shower before confirming with UNCLE San Francisco their request for a car. She then called the number Napoleon gave her to contact the other Miss Yuconovich.

“Good Morning, this is Cheri. May I speak to Miss Yuconovich?” That was a very strange feeling. The response to her request was almost as strange. Mr. Moorecock, who had answered the phone, said that Miss Yuconovich was indisposed and he would affect the transfer. “I’m sorry to hear that. I can arrange to be there about 3pm, if that’s convenient?” No, it wasn’t convenient. He would be coming into San Francisco in an hour. Could they meet about 4pm, after he dealt with his business appointments?

Cheri settled the meeting time and cut the connection thoughtfully. There was something very wrong here. The other Cheri was indisposed. Mr. Moorecock did not want them visiting his island home. Correction, his and Cheri’s …. Oh, this was getting terminally confusing. Next thing they’d be referring to her as Cheri prime and the other as Cheri2. Her stomach growled. Food.