Tuesday, May 6, 1969

Paul Farthing, owner of the Left Bank Café, a small and rather charming coffee shop on Carmine Street in the Village, walked to the front of his establishment and placed a help wanted sign in the window. He had just lost his best waitress, a sweet girl who waited tables at night to pay tuition at NYU while she pursued a degree in English. Had pursued. She was dead. Damn, thought Paul, what a goddamn shame. Such a nice kid. Seemed to be in good health. I guess you never can tell about heart problems. She was in her Comp Lit class when she keeled over. Dead before she hit the floor. Massive heart attack. Some kind of unusual defect maybe or drugs. You could never tell these days. She didn’t have any family to speak of, and no one had really been interested in the cause of death. He hated to put the sign up so fast, but then he really needed to find a replacement.

*********************************************************************

Wednesday, May 7, 1969

The day began as countless others had before. The alarm roused Illya Kuryakin from a peaceful sleep at precisely 6:45 a.m. Kuryakin stumbled into the tiny shower in his cubicle of a bathroom and let the warm water wake him up the rest of the way. A few minutes later, after a quick shave, he pulled on a wrinkled white T-shirt and sweat pants and headed to the tiny kitchen. He put some water on to boil for tea and popped his last two slices of bread into the toaster. It was a sparse breakfast, but there were always doughnuts in the cafeteria at headquarters. He could pick up a couple and some coffee before heading to his office.

He walked up the narrow spiral staircase with a book and his breakfast to the small living room upstairs. It was already a sunny day so he ate his breakfast on the veranda that was the reason he chose this apartment. He loved the view that it provided of the city. He smiled as he thought about the job he and his partner, Napoleon Solo, had just completed last week. He had finished his paperwork yesterday for a difficult assignment that had really been a long shot. Careful planning and flawless execution resulted in the rescue of the son of a senator who had angered some two-bit colonel who had managed to stage a coup and had taken over the government of a backwater South American government. Officially since the coup, the U.S. had severed diplomatic relations with the new fascist regime so Senator Gordon Moore, a long time friend of their chief, had appealed to UNCLE for help for his son, a college student who had been in South America with a human rights group. Waverly was pleased with the results and had complimented the agents, particularly Kuryakin, who had risked capture to free the boy from his prison cell. Waverly’s compliments were scarce and thus all the more appreciated. At 7:30 Kuryakin descended the stairs to the kitchen and walked the long, narrow hall to his bedroom to dress. By 7:45, he was on the street and headed to the subway just two blocks from his Greenwich Village apartment.

The car was crowded when he got on so he held on to a pole with one hand and his scientific journal in the other and read as the subway made its way uptown.

*********************************************************************

Ola Cwiklowski dressed quickly in the studio apartment she had subleased in Tribeca. She could be a pretty woman if she would spend some time to fix herself up, but today she wanted to be inconspicuous, slightly on the dowdy side. She pulled her hair back tightly and fastened it into a neat bun low on her head. She wore no make up and sported a pair of eyeglasses that looked five years out of style. Her gray suit was businesslike and defeminizing. She had the look of an efficient secretary who worked for a boss whose wife would not have to worry if he spent a couple hours going over details alone with her. The only thing in her dress that looked at all decorative was a large ring that she wore on her right middle finger. It looked totally out of place and just a tad ridiculous, a piece of cheap, tawdry jewelry picked up at a bargain price at a flea market.

Ola Cwiklowski grabbed a few books and exited her building, walking the short distance to the subway stop. The uptown car was crowded and she had to stand.

She saw him get on the train at Christopher on the car ahead of hers. He always got in at the same place on the same car. She had been riding the subway for a few days to make sure. Slowly she made her way to the next car. He was standing near the middle, holding on to the pole and reading a magazine. Slowly she walked by him, and as she passed, she clumsily dropped a book.

“Ma’am,” the blond man called. “You dropped your book.”

“Oh, th-thank you,” she stammered, looking shy and awkward and embarrassed by her clumsiness. “I don’t know what is wrong with me this morning.” She smiled weakly and then looked down at her feet.

‘It is no trouble,” Kuryakin said, glancing at the book as he handed it to her. “Turgeynev?”

“Yes,” she said softly. “I am taking a class at NYU in Comparative Literature. A few Russian writers, some German, some Irish. It is kind of a crazy mix.”

Her shyness seemed to fade as she talked about what she was reading. Kuryakin usually did not exchange pleasantries on the subway. His magazine was as much a shield to keep away anyone who wanted to talk as it was a device to occupy his time on his morning trip, but there was something sad about this lonely looking woman. A few minutes of his time would not cost him much.

The train stopped at 28th and more passengers boarded; the car was now packed to capacity. As it started again, it lurched, and the woman stumbled. Her right hand grabbed at Kuryakin for support and he felt a tiny scratch.

“Oh, my, I am so sorry. Now I have scratched you.” She was breathing quickly and her face was flushed. “I am just so clumsy. I am so sorry,” she repeated.

“It is nothing, just a tiny scratch,” he said. “Not to worry.” He smiled sympathetically at her. The subway train continued on.

“Oh, my stop!” she exclaimed as the subway slowed to stop at 34th. “Again, my apologies,” she said as she stepped onto the platform, a look of embarrassment and regret on her face. She gave a little wave as the train pulled out.

When the train had pulled away and she turned around, Ola Cwiklowski had a smile on her face that could only be described as diabolical. The pained look in her eyes had been replaced by a coldness that could freeze vodka.

*********************************************************************

A car was waiting at the corner as Ola Cwiklowski exited the underground station into the bright May sunshine. The chauffeur opened the back door, and she slid in.

“Did everything go as planned?” asked a man seated next to her.

“Yes, the drug has been administered,” she replied, looking into a compact and powdering her face. “My god, I must get out of this dreadful outfit. I could scare someone to death looking like this. Home,” she said, turning her attention briefly to the driver.

“Let me know what our mole inside of UNCLE says about Kuryakin’s behavior. I am anxious to see how effective the drug is when administered in passing. Our little lab rat should put on quite a show. I regret I will not be there to see it.”

The car pulled in front of the building on Fifth Avenue, and the man in the back seat handed her an envelope.

“We will wait and see how this first encounter turns out. Do you have plans in place for step two?” he asked.

“Yes, but I am afraid I will have to take a rather mundane job in a dreary little coffee house. It is near Kuryakin’s apartment, and there is an opening.”

“Are you sure he won’t recognize you from the subway?”

“Don’t worry, little brother. We have been planning this for two years. Between us, we have thought of everything. In just a few short weeks, our father’s death will be avenged.” She put the envelope in her purse and said, “I am going upstairs to change. Meet me here for lunch at noon, and we can talk more.” Ola Cwiklowski got out of the car and walked to the entrance of the luxurious apartment building. The doorman held the door, and she disappeared inside.

*********************************************************************

Kuryakin walked into UNCLE headquarters just a few minutes before 8:30. He was scheduled to meet with Napoleon Solo and Mr. Waverly, head of Section One, in forty-five minutes. He was already in a bad mood when he arrived. One rude pedestrian after another had darkened his path on his walk from the subway station to the UNCLE building. They usually didn’t bother him this much, but today it seemed that every ill-mannered oaf in Manhattan was walking on the same sidewalk as he. He entered Del Floria’s and walked into the tiny dressing room that led to UNCLE headquarters. Marnie, a new girl from the Los Angeles office, was handing out ID badges today. She picked one up and began to attach it to Kuryakin’s lapel.

“Are you stupid or just lax in your job, Miss Featherstone? My badge is number 2, not 12. Is this job beyond your abilities?” he snapped with a flash of fury in his eyes. “I am so tired of people not doing their jobs properly.”

As he stormed off, Marnie wiped a tear from her eye before anyone could see her. She didn’t want to cry on her first day. The move had been stressful, but she was excited about her new job. She had heard that New Yorkers were abrupt, but this guy was just plain rude. A few of the women whom she had met during her orientation meeting had warned her that Illya Kuryakin could be cold. Cold? That didn’t even begin to describe him, she thought. What an asshole!

Kuryakin walked to his office to pick up a report before his meeting. When he left the night before, the only folder on his desk was the report he had completed for the end of the operation in South America. Now there were three other folders, numerous papers scattered around, and a note in his partner’s unmistakably graceful penmanship.

Illya,

I didn’t have time to finish these last night. Something came up. I have stalled the meeting with the boss till after lunch. Could you tidy these up for me?

Napoleon

“The arrogance!” Kuryakin said harshly. “As if I don’t have enough of my own work to do.”

He picked up the paperwork and stormed out of his office, thundering down the hall to Solo’s office.

“I am sorry, Mr. Kuryakin, but he is not there,” said Solo’s secretary, a curvy blonde from Section Eight who was replacing the regular secretary who was on vacation for two weeks.

“So where is he?” he bellowed.

“I am not sure. I think he went to get coffee and something to eat.”

“You think? You don’t know? What kind of secretary are you?”

He didn’t wait for her reply, bursting out of the room and storming down the corridor to the staff commissary. Solo was standing near the coffee pot, his eyes glued to a shapely redhead from research. He looked as if he were undressing her with his eyes, but she didn’t seem to mind. She batted her eyes just enough to be flirtatious and flashed a seductive smile. The Solo charm had her sold; here she was with a PhD in molecular biology, and she was acting like a high school girl who had just been charmed by the captain of the football team. Kuryakin fumed at the sight. He wasn’t sure what angered him the most: Solo’s flagrant disrespect for women or this scientist’s lack of respect for herself.

He walked briskly up to the pair and shook the stack of papers in Solo’s face.

“Illya, you’ve found…”

“What the hell is this?” He didn’t wait for an answer. Like a car speeding down a hill with no brakes, there was no stopping Kuryakin. His face red and veins pulsing, Kuryakin spat out his anger at his partner.

“So whom did you seduce last night? What trollop kept you from your work?”

The redhead blushed and walked away.

“I am so tired of picking up the slack for you!” Kuryakin fumed. As his voice got louder, every eye in the commissary turned on him; he didn’t notice nor did he falter in his invective.

“For five years I have picked up the slack, done the dirty jobs while you screwed Angelique or romanced some school teacher from Iowa. I have finished your paperwork, covered up your blunders, and saved your ass more times than I can count. And you have the nerve to expect me to do your paperwork because you can’t control your dick? You, Napoleon, are a consummate asshole.” He tossed the paperwork on the ground. “Do your own work, you arrogant, conceited prick!”

For at least ten seconds after Kuryakin flew out of the room, no one moved or made a sound, their complete shock at the verbal attack by one half of UNCLE’s most respected team on the other half completely immobilizing them.

No one was more shocked than Napoleon Solo. In all the years he had worked with Kuryakin, he had never been the recipient of that much anger. Irritation, yes, but anger like that, no. Where did it come from? And he didn’t think he ever remembered Illya using that kind of language. Everyone joked about his rather formal demeanor. Additionally, Solo was aware that his partner’s outburst had attracted everyone’s attention. He laughed uneasily, not quite sure what else to do. “Well,” he said, “I wonder what has Mathilda so ruffled this morning?”

It cracked the stony mood and the room laughed, a strained laugh meant to break the tension. Solo picked up his papers and made a quick exit. His smile had disappeared, and a worried look replaced it.

“Tovarisch,” he said, poking his head into Kuryakin’s office. His partner was busy rereading the report he had done the day before. “I am sorry,” Solo stammered. “You’re right, of course. I know I take advantage of your...”

“Get out of my office,” Kuryakin interrupted, “before I throw you out! I think you have a report you should have finished last night.”

“Yeah, I know,” he said, “but I thought I could...”

“If you thought with your brain instead of your dick, you would have stayed home last night to do your report. I am not going to bail you out of this one. You’ll just have to suck it up and let the Old Man chew your ass out. Now get out!” he repeated.

Solo decided that a quick retreat was his best choice at the moment.

*********************************************************************

He retreated to his office to enlist his secretary’s help in finishing his report. He dictated to her for an hour and asked her to type it up for his perusal. “Close the door as you leave, please,” he requested with an ingratiating tone.

With his work done, he sat back to ponder the events of this morning. Something had gotten into his Russian friend. Illya was often cranky and easily irritated, but he never displayed his anger so venomously or so publicly, not unless faced with the enemy. Never had he directed it at his partner. And Napoleon was sure he had done plenty to tick his usually stoic friend off. Had he just finally blown his stack? Or was there something wrong? A set of blood work might be in order. Maybe someone had slipped something into his morning coffee. He would see to it as soon as his report was completed. Besides, he rather preferred to stay out of Illya’s way right now.

*********************************************************************

Kuryakin finished checking his report; as usual there was nothing to correct. He frowned as he thought of the impertinence of his partner. How often over the last few years had he felt anger at being used? While Napoleon lounged around with Salty at the governor’s mansion, he had been stuck in a South America prison, baking in the hot sun. While Napoleon babysat a clairvoyant from the Ozarks in a fancy New York hotel, he had been handcuffed and thrown into a cage with vicious, bloodthirsty bats. While Napoleon lounged around the pool with a fashion model, he was tortured in a Thrush prison in Portugal.

Yes, somehow Napoleon always got the cushy end of the job while he got the other end. And to top it off, he had a throbbing headache. He found an aspirin, reached for his coffee mug and took a gulp. “Cold!” he spat out and threw the cup across the room, shattering it to pieces. “I am getting out of here before I break something more valuable.”

Kuryakin tossed his badge at the new girl in reception. “I will be back in a few hours, Miss Featherstone. I have some important personal business.”

He didn’t look at her or wait for a response. He was out the door of Del Floria’s in a flash. She was relieved. She had heard about the blow-up in the commissary - everyone had - and she didn’t want any more of his venom aimed at her. She put the badge back and called Solo’s secretary to let him know that Kuryakin had left the building.

*********************************************************************

The air was warm, and there was a soft breeze as Illya stepped onto the street. He took a couple of deep breaths and started walking west. The air and the walk appeared to do him good. He could feel the tension start to drain from his head. The pain in his head dissipated. Fifteen minutes later, he arrived at 6th Avenue and plunked down a few dollars to enter the photography museum. This month it featured a collection of Ansel Adams’s work. The clean, simple, yet stunningly beautiful nature studies in black and white acted like a balm to his soul. An hour later, feeling calmer and in more control, he walked back into the warmth outside. He frowned as his stomach growled. He remembered his vitriolic behavior in the commissary and then realized that he had never had his second breakfast. He wasn’t that far from Carnegie’s Deli, just one long block west and dozen uptown. With a purpose he walked briskly, a pastrami on rye his ultimate goal. Forty-five minutes later, fed and sated, he decided to splurge on a cab back to HQ. He wanted to arrive a few minutes early to check his report one more time. And maybe Napoleon needed some last minute help he thought with a smile.

The smile lasted just a moment as the realization of this morning’s performance dawned on him. What had come over him? He didn’t quite understand it himself. He had seemed out of sorts since the subway. His head hurt, and everything seemed to bother him. Crimson chagrin spread over his cheeks as he recalled his treatment of the new reception girl and Napoleon’s temp. Okay, so maybe Napoleon deserved a little of what he had said - not quite so bluntly - but the women had done nothing to deserve his treatment of them. As he thought of his irritation at Napoleon’s disrespectful attitude towards the redheaded biologist, he felt even worse at his own behavior. They deserve an apology, he thought, and maybe something else. He asked the cab driver to stop just a few blocks away from HQ so he could pick up some flowers as a peace offering.

*********************************************************************

Illya walked into Del Floria’s and into the dressing cubicle. He pulled the hook and walked through the secret door into the shining, sleek UNCLE offices. Marnie looked up hesitantly and handed him his badge. “It’s number two,” she said, trying to sound efficient.

“Yes, it is,” he said softly, flashing a warm smile at her. “And I do want to apologize for my very rude behavior this morning. You did not deserve to be treated that way.” He handed her a small, multi-colored bunch of flowers. “My small way of saying I am sorry.”

While the Solo charm was powerful, it lost some of its impact because, like stars that came out every night, it was so predictable. The Kuryakin charm was only taken out once in a while, causing its effect to be much more potent. Marnie smiled dreamily back at him.

“It’s okay,” she mewed, staring into his blue eyes. “Everyone has a bad day.” As he walked away, she said to no one in particular, “What a dream.” The smile did not fade for several minutes.

*********************************************************************

Kuryakin walked down to Solo’s office.

“He is still not there,” the secretary said, somewhat defensively.

“It is certainly not your job to keep tabs on him Besides, I didn’t come by to see him. I just want to say how much I regret my surliness this morning. It is not the way I usually treat a lady. My apologies again,” he said, handing her a bouquet. “But if he does come in, would you buzz me. I don’t have any more flowers, but I do think one more apology is in order.”

“Sure,” the blonde temp said. “I will be happy to. Hey, do you think I could ask a favor of you?”

“After this morning, of course.”

“Could you send me on a quick errand or something? I forgot to deposit some funds yesterday, and I am afraid I am going to bounce a check. Mr. Solo had me retype his report, and I didn’t get to leave at lunch. I don’t want to ask to leave. I was kind of hoping to continue in this section when his secretary returns and don’t want to look like I am slacking off.”

“Not a problem. I will cover for you.”

“It will just be fifteen minutes. My bank is not too far from here.”

*********************************************************************

What an idiot, she thought as she left the building. She walked two blocks to a bar near Second and Forty-sixth. “You got a pay phone here?” she asked the bartender.

“Yeah, in the back,” he said, motioning with his bar towel to an old fashioned booth with a folding door and a chair.

She dropped a dime in the slot and dialed a number that she knew by heart.

“Miss Cwiklowski? This is Jenny McNeely. I have a report on Kuryakin.”

“Yes?” said the voice on the other end.

“He arrived around 8:30 and put on quite a show. After treating me and another secretary rudely, he made a scene in the commissary.”

“Continue.”

“Well, he had it out with his partner. No one could talk about anything else this morning. He shouted obscenities and came very near to striking Solo.”

“How long did it last?”

“I am not completely sure. He left the building about an hour later still agitated and didn’t come back till noon. He was fine - more than fine - by that time.”

“Thank you for the information.”

“If I have more, I will contact you. I better be getting back. I said I was going to the bank,” McNeely said.

*********************************************************************

Napoleon was hurrying out the door of his office to get to his one o’clock with Mr. Waverly when he almost collided with Illya. “Oops, I’m sorry. Didn’t see you,” he said.

Illya quickly replied, “No, it is I who am sorry. I don’t know how to explain this morning. I...I cannot quite believe what I said to you.”

“Well, I guess I had it coming,” Napoleon said with an awkward smile.

Illya’s face reddened. “No, it was totally unacceptable. I had no right to speak to you that way, not as my superior, not as my friend.” His formality would lead anyone else to think that there was little emotion attached to his words. Napoleon knew him long enough to know that when Illya became very formal it was often to cover up strong emotions.

“Are you all right, tovarisch?” Napoleon asked. “To be honest, I was more worried than mad. It just isn’t like you.”

“You’re right. I don’t know where it came from. All I know is that from the moment I got here, I have been rude to everyone I have spoken to. Then, as suddenly as it came, the anger was gone. I don’t know...”

“I think we ought to get you down to medical for some blood work. Just to be sure.”

“All right, but it had better wait till we finish with our meeting. You have already put Mr. Waverly off once today, and I don’t think he will be pleased to be kept waiting twice.”

The two partners walked to the office of Alexander Waverly, number one of section one, who was puffing quite deliberately on his pipe and looking most disturbed.

“Mr. Kuryakin, I have heard disconcerting reports of some completely unacceptable behavior.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Have these been exaggerated?”

“Mr. Waverly,” interrupted Solo.

“Mr. Solo, I am directing my concerns to Mr. Kuryakin, not to you.”

“Yes, sir,” Napoleon replied.

“I am afraid that I have been somewhat out of sorts today,” Kuryakin said trying to sound contrite. “I promise it will not happen again.”

“See that it doesn’t. I will not tolerate such unprofessional behavior!” he said, the lines on his forehead deepening. “Is there some problem that I ought to be aware of? Do I need to assign you to another…”

“No, sir,” Kuryakin interjected. “Everything is fine. I have expressed my apologies to Mr. Solo, and….”

“And to the ladies?”

“Yes, sir.”

Solo risked Mr. Waverly’s further reproach. “Sir, I want Illya to go to medical for some blood work when we finish here. I’m a little worried. This, as I am sure you know, is not characteristic behavior.”

“A good idea, Mr. Solo. Now let’s finish with this business and get on with your report.”

A half hour later, Kuryakin and Solo walked out of Waverly’s office. His early displeasure vanished as he read the report of the complete mission. Not only had they successfully rescued the senator’s son, but they had also managed to plant some very damaging information that was likely to lead to the downfall of the junta. A very successful affair indeed.

“Okay, as you promised, let’s get you checked out,” said Solo. Kuryakin would normally have argued with him. He hated going to medical almost as much as he hated being tortured by Thrush. But he had no argument left in him, and he felt he owed Napoleon some compliance.

An hour later the lab called the office of the Chief Enforcement Agent.

“Mr. Solo? This is Marcus Stahl with the results of the blood work you ordered.”

“Yes?”

“As far as our tests show, there is nothing out of order in Mr. Kuryakin’s blood sample. We have rechecked our results twice.”

“Thank you,” said Solo. Frowning, he put down the phone down. He had hoped the lab would find something that could explain his partner’s bizarre behavior. No toxins, no virus, nothing. Well, they had been working hard, and Illya had been knocked around quite a bit in the last few affairs. First baking in the hot sun in a third world prison camp and then being attacked by frenzied bats in Europe. The latest affair in South America had not helped. Illya had smuggled himself into the prison where the senator’s son was being held and had endured several days of mistreatment at the hands of sadistic guards and other prisoners. The ordeal must have taken more out of him than Napoleon had known.

Well, he thought, Illya would be at headquarters for the next two weeks helping to install new computer system. That assignment would provide some much needed relief for the Russian.