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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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Cheri checked her watch for the umpteenth time as she waited for 4pm to arrive. Both Illya and Napoleon had come through the lobby, nodded to her and gone on leaving her to wait for her doppelganger alone. She felt a small urge to wave Napoleon down and tell him of the afternoon meeting. There was a niggling thought in the back of her head that some support through this meeting might be appreciated. Instead, she let him go, thinking he'd be back soon enough and then she could tell him.

She was wrong. Neither man had returned when Caleb and the other Cheri walked into the lobby. His Cheri was something of a shock. Seldom had she looked in the mirror to see that emaciated a face and body. The total black on black ensemble did not help. Memories of concentration camps floated to the surface to be ruthlessly suppressed, although it did not keep her from wanting to know just exactly what the hell the man did to keep her that way. She mentally chastised herself for not stopping her mentors and telling them when the meeting was set. Avoiding her contacts for the moment, she dodged into the lady's room and pulled out her communicator. Just in case anyone walked in, she held a small pad of paper in her other hand.

“Open Channel M.” M was private for the three of them to communicate without bothering home base.

“Solo here.”

“Where are you?” she asked sweetly.

“In the restaurant, finishing a sandwich.”

“Oh, good. Then you won't mind if Mr. Moorecock, Miss Yuconovich and I join you, will you?” It wasn't really a question.

“Ah …no.”

She had a feeling there was a regretful look with an attractive woman on the other end. Feeling foolish, yet relieved that he was there, she relaxed.“Thank you. I'll be right … oh, shoot. I'll be down in a few. I left the remains in my room. Cheri out.” She shut off the communicator as she moved out of the restroom. Maybe it was foolish, but she did not want to meet her alter ego alone. The elevator was headed up as she reached the doors. With a philosophical shrug, she chose to take the stairs rather than wait, but that wasn't what made her out of breath when Napoleon answered his communicator the second time. “Solo here.” He sounded annoyed.

“My room seems to be on fire. I'm going to investigate. You might want to bring Moorecock and company up. Yuconovich out.” Stowing the communicator, she moved forward across the thick Indian carpet to flatten against the wall a few feet from the doorway. She edged forward to take a quick look into the room.

The door hung by a single hinge, the wood around the deadbolt and the other hinges shattered by force. She couldn't think of a single thing that could slam a deadbolt through a doorframe without removing the door entirely. Aside from the pale gray smoke filtering out of the room, she saw nothing. Decision time. Wait for Napoleon or go in alone?

Someone inside the room choked and coughed. Gun at the ready, Cheri stepped into the room. Dark legs on the far side of the bed located the source of the cough. Carefully, she moved past the bed to find Illya on the floor, half conscious and apparently suffering from smoke inhalation. Holstering her gun, she ran her hands over him to make sure there wasn't any more serious damage before hauling him to his feet or dragging him from the room.

“Cheri?” Napoleon's voice sounded from the doorway.

“Over here. Illya's down. I don't think he's badly hurt, but the smoke isn't doing him any good.” If she was surprised when two men hoisted Illya off the floor and carried him out, she didn't show it, although she was tempted when she saw what had been under him.

“The case, it is gone? Yes?”

The timber of the voice was eerily familiar, although the accent was an odd cross of French and Russian. “It was already gone. However, these are still here.” She turned around to face “herself” holding the two gold items.

“The Elder signs ..” There was no mistaking the relief in the woman's voice, followed immediately by a look that said ‘I shouldn't have said that'. Two pairs of amazingly green eyes met for a moment before the black clad woman's eyes dropped. “I ..”

“It's ok,” Cheri cut her off. “I take it you're Cheri Yuconovich, also.”

“Oui … Yes,” she answered with a bob of the head. Their eyes met again. There was no disguising the curiosity and worry in that look.

“Long story. I'm gonna check out the room. I'll be out in a minute.”

The smoke dissipated as she looked for the source. There wasn't even a scorch mark to indicate that any sort of heat had been in the room. Great. A splintered door and smoke with no source. Was that anything like the something that was invisible to UNCLE New York's surveillance cameras? She joined the others in the hallway.

“No discernable source. How's Illya?” The Russian in question said something rude in his native tongue. If he noticed the deep blush on Caleb's companion, he didn't show it. “If you're trying to be discreet about your cussing, you flunked discretion. Too many of us understand Russian,” Cheri noted with a chuckle. He threw her a sizzling look. “Not my fault,” she pointed out.

“Let's get out of the hall.” Napoleon slid a shoulder under his partner's arm and was mildly rebuffed with Illya's assertion that he could walk on his own now that he wasn't choking on that foul smoke.

Downstairs, they all carefully avoided pointing out that there was a suspicious lack of interest in what was going on in Cheri's room. While
there might be no one in the rooms at 4pm, doubtful, apparently neither had the cleaning crew been at work or anyone else to notice doors being shattered and smoke where it shouldn't be. Cheri's suitcase was returned and Caleb tried to hustle his companion out of the hotel with no further trade of information.

“I wouldn't,” Napoleon cautioned softly, his bland smile sharpening slightly.

Caleb measured the trio with a look and surrendered with a nod. “Not that you'll believe me.”

“Try me,” Cheri shot back and received another sizzling look. If he was disturbed by the uncomfortable resemblance between his companion and the woman baiting him, it didn't show.

He looked to her companions. “You've heard of the Legacy?”

Napoleon looked blank. Whatever he was expecting to hear, this question wasn't it. He was only mildly surprised when Illya nodded. He gave a short explanation of the Legacy as an ancient organization that purported to fight evil on a quasi-religious/magical level. His tone of voice showed his opinion of such things, apparently equating them with witch hunts and the Inquisition.

“What happened in her room?” Caleb asked, forcing the issue. “What happened to the rest of the items in Cheri's suitcase?”

“We were interested in asking you that,” Napoleon intervened softly. “And perhaps there is a … more private place to discuss this?” He looked around the lobby. There was no one overtly interested in their hushed conversation, but that didn't mean no one was paying attention.
For a moment Caleb seemed disinclined to honor Napoleon's request. Then, with a resigned look, he offered a retreat to Angel Island. “Why don't you check out of the hotel and stay on the island? Once we've explained, you can get a good night's sleep and be on your way in the morning.”

Napoleon looked to his partners for a consensus. After the problem with Cheri's room, a sojourn on Angel Island could alleviate any further
incidents with potential involvement of innocents. “Sounds like a good idea. We'll check out. You have a car?”

“I'll get a taxi. We have a boat.”