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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: Only a handful of agents went through Survival School with
better marks. Why does everyone seem to think she's a THRUSH mole when
no one questioned the others?

Pairing: Unknown

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Napoloeon awoke slowly, stretching and then snapped fully awake. He was
still in the overstuffed chair he’d settled into for a couple of hours. Illya was asleep
on one of the beds, fully clothed, stretched out on top of the covers. What the hell?
He crossed the room and shook Illya awake before grabbing up the key to Cheri’s room
and heading across the hall.

Realizing that just bursting in on Cheri was a bad idea; he knocked on the
door and listened for a response. For good measure, he knocked a second time and
called her name. With no answer and no sound from beyond the door, he used his key and found
she’d put the security chain on.

“Cheri!” His voice was sharp with concern.

“Hold on a minute!” She called from somewhere to his left. Her voice was
stronger than it had been. He heard the soft pad of bare feet on carpet before she
arrived. “Trying to break in?” she teased before pushing the door closed and removing the
chain to admit him. Still wrapped in the fluffy white robe, she looked as though she felt a
great deal better than she had the night before. “Good morning. You slept in your
suit?” She sounded puzzled.

“How do you feel?”

“Fine. OK, the throat’s sore from all the coughing and I think I bruised my
diaphragm for the same reason. However, the breathing seems to be back to normal. How’
re you? I mean, you got the stuff all over you, too.”

“Fine. Not a problem from it.”

“Good. If we run into it again, don’t inhale.” Her advice struck her as
humorous. “Oh, dear. I shouldn’t laugh. It hurts. Breakfast before we leave?”

“Sounds like you really are better. Illya said you weren’t hungry last
night.”

“Last night I was coughing up my lungs … or felt like it. Hard to eat when
the system’s that upset. Good morning, Mr. Kuryakin,” she greeted Illya as he joined
them.

He looked around the room curiously. “Good morning. You slept well?”

“Once I slept, yes.” She punctuated her answer with a yawn. “I could
probably use some more. Dibs on the back seat?”

“Certainly,” Napoleon agreed, watching his partner sweep the room visually.
“Why don’t we get packed up and go find a restaurant?”

“Sure.” Cheri was also watching Illya. “Uhm – If you’re looking for THRUSH
agents or strange people in my room, they’re not here. Really.” The chill of his look
was practically physical. “What did I do now?” she demanded.

“Do?”

“Somewhere between the drapes and the vat of goo, you turned into an
iceberg. Now, I realize I’m brand new and that this last little dust-up was a little weird,
but I don’t see anything to turn into an iceberg about.”

“Who’s Darnall?”

“I thought the guy I was dealing with yesterday was. I was apparently
mistaken … or he lied. Being THRUSH, I’d suspect the latter.”

“But who is he?” Napoleon followed up.

“High level THRUSH assassin. Or so I thought. Did some research. I like to
know who I might face.”

“You are an overachiever, aren’t you?” Napoleon gentled the comment with a
laugh. “Illya, let’s get out of here. We’re all on edge.”

“With you in a few minutes.” She politely shooed them out so she could
change.

Napoleon and Illya pulled their own things together and handled check out.
While they waited for her to join them at the car he asked Illya what was disturbing
him. The Russian looked at him and shrugged his shoulders.

“Not going to wash. I want an answer. What do you know that I don’t.”

It occurred to Illya that his partner was not going to let this go. “It’s
not what I know.” He stopped and thought about what he wanted to say. “There is no author
named Lovecraft.”

“There isn’t.”

“Nyet.” Why did he always get so Russian when he was in turmoil? “I looked.”

“Where?”

“At the university library.”

“You were expecting to find a reference to a pulp author at the university?”

Illya glared at him for the amusement in his voice, which netted a grin.
“Where else would I find a reference?”

“Public library.”

“You will see. When we get back, there is no Lovecraft.”

Napoleon clicked the latches on his bag with a thoughtful look. “We could
call the university here.”

“The Miskatonic? What does that mean?”

“I think it’s American Indian. Sounds like it. Here, there’s a phone book.”
He pulled the slim volume from the nightstand next to the bed. “M … Matthews ….
Merton … Here it is, Miskatonic University, Library.” He set the open book down and dialed
the number.

“Hello. My name’s Napoleon Solo …. Yes, it can be. Thank you. … I’m
researching an author and a friend recommended that I try your library. He’s a bit obscure. …
Lovecraft. … I beg your pardon? You do? Prolific? Indeed. I was only aware of a couple of
short items.… An entire section? Excellent. Thank you. You’ve been very … What was
that? …. Ah, well. I’ll certainly see that my recommendations are in order when I come in.
Thank you very much for all your assistance, Miss .. Whately.”

He looked at Illya as he returned the receiver to the cradle. “See.
Lovecraft does exist. Mind you, he was apparently a collector of folk tales and recorder of very
peculiar history.”

There was a knock at the door. “I thought you were ready to go,” Cheri
called.

“We are,” Napoleon confirmed, opening the door and ushering Illya out of the
room. “We were delayed.”

“Happens.”

“By the way, what was that author fellow’s name again?”

“Lovecraft. Howard Philip Lovecraft.”

“And you said he wrote fiction?”

“Yes …” she looked at him oddly as she answered. “As far as I’m aware, he
wrote a quantity of original weird fiction and died around 1938. You’ve discovered
something else about him?”

“It wasn’t fiction.”

She stopped. It took a minute for her to turn and look at him again. “What
do you mean “It wasn’t fiction.”?”