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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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As Caleb Moorecock, current owner of the manor on Angel Island, finished making the appointment with the woman who shared a name with his only companion, he turned to find that companion standing barefoot on the stairway behind him. She was wrapped in a thick terry cloth robe, her hair twisted up in a towel and she looked livid. He shut down his immediate
reaction and just looked up at her. “Yes?”

Her voice shook with fury. “What the hell did you do that for?”

Reaching in a pocket to retrieve a pharmacy vial, he tossed it to her. “You took too many. I need you awake and functional. Now.”

“That's the way you deal with it?!” Had there been more sibilants to work with, she'd have hissed at him.

He quashed any feeling of sympathy. The matter at hand was important. Between the visit from Winston Rayne trying to consolidate a deal for the house to be returned to the Legacy and her lost luggage, his day was not going well. “It worked.”

“It worked,” she repeated. “You son of a bitch!” she damned him and stormed silently up the deeply carpeted stairs. The tail of her hair not caught in the towel left a trail of water droplets on the carpet behind her.

He watched her go wondering if he had overreacted. It was too late to change the action now; he needed her with him when he reclaimed her luggage. He was hoping the similarity of name did not indicate a similarity of look and
psychology. “Hurry up. I'm leaving,” he called after her just before a door slammed in the upper hallway.

Twenty minutes later, clad in funereal black, her hair twisted into a tight bun at the back her head the nearly anorexic looking woman joined him at the quay. As Angel Island was not connected to the mainland by a bridge, most of
the inhabitants either took the twice-daily ferry or maintained water transport either on the beach or in the cove harbor. Caleb's manor sat on one of the bluff's overlooking the ocean. A winding gravel path led from the drive down to a well-maintained dock and the speedboat that would take them into San Francisco.

He looked her up and down. “Funeral?”

“Always a possibility.” She glared back at him.

With a sigh, he apologized for his behavior, before annoying her further by pointing out she had agreed to lighten her wardrobe. “Looking like an Iron Curtain refugee calls attention,” he pointed out and waited for the explosion. Her response surprised him.

“I am not comfortable in the additions to my wardrobe. I will wear them at the manor for a while to become more … I am sorry, I did dress to annoy you, but I cannot see what is fashionable as … as …” she stumbled to a halt, her look asking him to understand.

He put a hand over hers, calming the fidgeting fingers. “It's all right. There is time. Dreams?”

She nodded. “Nothing I understood, just … terror.”

They passed the trip to the mainland in silence, each thinking their own thoughts. Both ignored the suitcase at their feet as though it was of no consequence.