Author: Kei

Disclaimer: see Part 1

Notes: Trust me -I live here. The weather does get this way.

THE WILDING AFFAIR,
Chapter 2
 

6:35 A.M.

The sun was just peeking over horizon, turning the still dark sky into an almost equally dingey mid-November grey. It was probably going to rain...or snow. Again. The fact was that he couldn't actually swear  that he had seen the naked sun or a dry day since he had arrived in  this country a week ago to investigate the possibility of a new THRUSH outpost. Maybe Canadians didn't have any other kind of weather for  all he knew.

Napoleon Solo ran a free hand through short wavy black hair, further neatening a hastily combed coif while dumping an empty Styrofoam coffee cup into the nearest waste receptacle with the  other as he made his way to the cordoned-off area around what was  or had been THRUSH's Toronto satrap.

An UNCLE reconnaissance and clean-up mission was usually a lot quieter and unobstrusive than this, he thought, giving the parked  police cars and gathered uniformed officers a visual once-over, but someone besides Mark and April had heard something -and that someone had called the local police who had gotten there first -probably  the only reason that THRUSH hadn't decended on the area -remaining low profile was important to them as it was to UNCLE and there were now too many witnesses.

Solo easily stepped over the feeble barrier of yellow cautionary  tape, flashed his UNCLE I.D. to one of Toronto's finest and headed towards what was probably the first of many altercations of the day. The plainclothes detective, a member of the RCMP by his I.D. and  badge, gave the American UNCLE agent an ambivalent once-over himself. "So...you're the UNCLE agent who's supposed to be taking charge here?"

"That *is* my role here, detective." For a moment, Solo considered  giving the detective one of his famously mollifying smiles, but quickly decided against it, suspecting that it wouls likely be a  pointless effort. Nothing unusual about that when locking horns with  local constabulary that almost invariably remained territorial despite the fact that they knew that when it came to certain  international matters, especially THRUSH, UNCLE held jurisdiction. "What's the situation?"

"Humph... Someone heard shots being fired at about 4:15 this morning, local police were called, they called us -we arrived about the same time that your men showed up." The RCMP officer glanced at the dour grey building. "And by orders, no-one's been in there yet.

"Thank you, detective."

"Mr. Solo..?"

Napoleon returned the unfriendly look guardedly. "Yes?"

"Just you remember, agent Solo," the detective said pointedly, "if  this turns out to be a simple homicide, jurisdiction over this case  returns to local authorities -and UNCLE clears out. Do we have an understanding?"

Napoleon offered a frozen smile. "Of course." But it wouldn't be a "simple" homicide -nothing with THRUSH ever was simple. There was always a plot, a macabre twist, an angle to whatever that  organization did. Some would say that he was becoming paranoid after one too many missions, but he preferred to call what he felt, a healthy respect for the enemy. Solo headed towards a group of men  and women gathered in a huddle satrap's main entrance, searching the human mass of UNCLE technicians for one particular face. His search  was quickly rewarded as he spied a familiar mop of blonde
hair. "Illya..."

"Napoleon..." his partner murmured in acknowledgement as he nudged his tinted reading glasses back towards the bridge of his nose as he bent over something that looked like a metal breadbox mounted on  tread-like wheels. He made some sort of adjustment to one of several  equally unrecognizable controls, his usually deliberately passive expression darkening with an open scowl of annoyance. "Chort!"

Solo winced slightly, knowing enough of Illya's native Russian to  recognize profanity when he heard it. "So...what're you up to, Tovarisch?"

"Waverly wants us to send in the remote unit first as a precaution," the blonde agent muttered sourly and then paused, resting one hand on the inert mobile camera, the other suddenly moving in a flustered search for-  Solo immediately pulled a handkerchief out of his breast  pocket and handed it to his red-faced partner just as he suffered a particularly explosive sneeze.

Amazing, Napoleon thought fondly -the younger agent had university degrees the length of his arm, could speak God-knows how many languages, could probably recite Pi to thirty digitd without even thinking hard, and yet, he could never seem to remember to take  proper care of himself when he caught the flu. Kuryakin offered a slight, sheepish smile. "Spaceeba." And then: "We will be sending it in when or *if* I get the stupid thing operational."

"Oh?" Solo reached toward the unit. "How about *this* button-"

"Napoleon, don't! You do not know how-"

Suddenly, the remote camera unit came to life with a familiar electronic hum. Solo grinned smugly. "Power switch ON, Tovarisch," he whispered into the openly mortified Russian agent's ear. It wasn't fair, he knew -after all, Illya was hardly at his best, but any win  in the battle of wills that they'd been playing lately was a triumph indeed...another chink in the Russian's icy armor which he had  realized that he had every intention of piercing one way or another.

Kuryakin merely sighed in exasperation and returned to the task at  hand.

In response to programmed commands, the little box-shaped robot unit moved forward on rubber treads towards the lone open door and entered  the still, former THRUSH stronghold.

As his partner guided the unit via the remote control in his hand, Solo suddenly found himself forced to wonder -*what* precaution? To send in an artificial reconnaissance unit *was* unusual. What did  their superior expect to be in there? Survivors? The shootist alive?  Or something else  -the informant who had led UNCLE to know of the existance of this satrap had also indicated the presense of a lab ...and that could have meant the production of anything from nuclear
bombs to bio-weapons.

The senior agent felt a cold shudder travel down the length of his spine, possessed by a sudden longing for the days when THRUSH seemed  to be nothing more than in irritating, predictable, and often clumsy  fringe terrorist group -high technology and its easy access was  pushing UNCLE and THRUSH into an ever escalating modern-day cold war with its attendant arms' race. Solo walked aside a ways, slapping his  hands against his arms against an increasing chill. In the background, Kuyakin continued to note control the robot's progress.

"We...seem to be leaving the main first floor corridor..." Illya's softly accented voice droned, hands manipulating the remote control, eyes trained on the transmitted images appearing on the digital screen before him. "...entering now what seems to be the foyer...and ...Bozhe moi!"

Solo snapped from his moemntary revere, woken by the horrified wonder that he could hear in his partner's almost whispered voice. If it was  at all possible, the fair-skinned Russian had blanched two or three shades paler, his ice-blue eyes wide in...revulsion? Solo pushed past the remaining gathering UNCLE technicians, his own eyes suddenly  rivited on the image on the screen.

"My...GOD."
 
 

End of Part 2