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Round
Robin: Hobson's Choice Affair |
Napoleon looked askance at the wildly painted vehicle. "Isn't
that a bit too . . .?" He paused, groping for the right word.
"Visible?" supplied April as they boarded. "Well, that's somewhat the idea.
It's called hiding in plain sight."
"Ah, I think I see. It's so plainly in sight anyone looking for a getaway
vehicle would overlook it."
"Exactly."
The pair laid the nearly unconscious Illya down on a pallet and took seats
themselves as the bus pulled into traffic. It was only then the young playboy
noticed the elderly gentleman sitting a few rows behind them.
He resembled a professor emeritus or senior diplomat, if you didn't count
the Tommy gun across his knees. He smiled at the other man and said,
"You must be Mr. Solo. My name is Waverly. I'd like to thank you for your
help, and also to apologize for the problems it has brought."
"That's hardly your fault, sir," Napoleon replied. "It was my decision to
interfere when I saw your man in trouble, and to take him to my friend for
medical help."
"Yes, your friend." The old man's eyes dropped for a moment. "I am sorry for
your loss. I had no idea the situation was so grave." The eyes came back up
and bored into Napoleon's. "I've read the dossier the
CIA prepared on you prior to attempting to recruit you after you left the
service. Would you care to help us, and bring the killers of your friend to
justice?"
"You want me to join UNCLE?"
"Not necessarily, but Mr. Kuryakin needs someone to watch his back, and right
now there are far too few people I can trust with his safety. We need to get
him out of New York without THRUSH realizing he's gone." He reached into the
inner pocket of his jacket. "Here are two train tickets to Chicago. Mr. Kuryakin
will know how to locate and enter our offices there."
Napoleon accepted the tickets as the bus pulled up at a seedy-looking hotel
near Grand Central Station. Illya roused at the cessation of movement, and
as he stood to leave, Waverly said, "Gentlemen, don't forget your luggage."
He nodded at the two suitcases tucked under seats, each adorned with name
tags, one for Illya, the other for Napoleon. Each man took a bag as they left
the bus and entered the hotel.
Behind them, April Dancer turned to her boss. "Do you think it will work?"
"One can only hope, Miss Dancer."
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