“Refused.” Waverly’s voice was proper bordering on dry rage as he stared down the man before him.

“You have no right to refuse me anything.” Napoleon glowered.

“I do and I have, your leave has been cancelled there are urgent matters here at UNCLE that require your assistance. You have paperwork to do Mr. Solo, I suggest you get to it.” Waverly raised his voice a tone higher, enough so that the secretary outside could hear.  Anxious for any gossip that would brighten her mundane existence this confrontation seemed to be all that she could hope for and more.

“Then I shall resign.” Solo braced his hands on the table as he leaned over the old man, menace clearly evident in his posture and words.

“Preposterous.” Waverly snorted.

“You think so?” Solo’s voice dropped; calm and reasonable, too reasonable for any who knew him would recognize the approaching storm. “You will have my resignation within the hour. Effective immediately.” Solo stood up and stalked towards the door.

“Do you honestly think that Illya Kuraykin would bow to your more base wishes Mr. Solo? That the depravity in his soul is such that he would welcome your advances?” Waverly’s voice brought the American up short.

“Think what you will Mr. Waverly.  My resignation gives me free will to do as I please without the cloistering effects of stereotypical phobia that have become the daily measure of a man in this place.  Good day sir.”

Solo stalked out the door and down the corridor aware of the astonished looks that followed him.

It was with relief that the door to Solo’s office whooshed closed as he started to clear the few personal possessions from his desk. Almost on cue a soft tapping noise started at his door and with studied calm he opened it.

“Napoleon?” Miss Harrow asked softly.

“Yes?” he felt a brief pang of guilt as he saw the large tears form in her luminescent brown eyes.

“Tell me it’s not true.”  She begged softly.

“Tell me what you’ve heard.” Napoleon, ever the gentleman, moved her in to his office and sat her down before wiping her eyes with his handkerchief.

“That you’re leaving us.”

“Us?” solo smiled and sat on the edge of his desk. “If by us you mean UNCLE then I am afraid the answer is yes.”

“But why?” finally the dam burst as the tears streaked her face and she looked up.

“It’s a little hard to explain.” Solo hedged.

“Marcy says that you’re going after Illya.”

“Well it seems the rumor mill is alive and well.” Solo looked down at his watched impressed with the speed information circulated, eleven minutes and twenty seven seconds. “Yes, I am going to find Illya.”

“Is he in trouble?” Miss Harrow sniffled woefully as she used the abused cloth to wipe her face before twisting it in nervous fingers again.

“Not precisely.”

“The boys down in the lab keep joking that your in love with him, that’s not it is it Napoleon?” Miss Harrow looked up again her large eyes full of sad adoration.

“Karen.” Solo crouched down in front of her and took both of her slim dark hands in his own, “I trust Illya with my life and somewhere along the way I think that I have fallen in love with him. I don’t know but I have to find him and figure this mess out.”

Miss Harrow drew back her hand poised in mid air as horror and anger twisted her pretty features. The slap that stung Napoleon’s face was hard and firm and left his cheek reddened. “I should have known. The way you two follow each other around and you’re always touching. Its sick.”  Stiletto heels clicked out the door, which shut behind her with a welcome click.

Solo smiled. So far so good. He opened the pen communicator and twisted it over to the secure channel before speaking.

“Phase one of the mission is complete.” He said softly as he put the small device it away.

“Phase two.” Napoleon muttered, “May be a little more difficult to orchestrate.” And then he remembered the soft gentle smile of his recalcitrant Russian as he was awarded with the gold lighter less than a week before.  Solo smiled, the task at hand not quiet so daunting and maybe, just maybe his admission to Miss Harrow was not too far off the beam.

Waverly blew wreaths of sweetly scented smoke into the air. He chewed on the end of his pipe as he listened intently to the report given by his senior agent for Internal Affairs.

“The net was cast just over twenty minutes ago on your orders sir.  So far, we have traced over seven hundred different transmissions, of which we have six in doubt.”

“Source?”

“Four we suspect to be routine from the enforcement section, two others though appear spurious.”

“From two separate locations?”

“Yes sir,  one from Miss Carters' station in supplies the other one from your office sir.”

“My office?” Waverly stared at the Arab and smiled.

“Yes sir, and the destination of that call, though unconfirmed, appears to be to a known clearing house for THRUSH. Do you want us to pick Miss. Ward up sir?”

“No. That is precisely what you must not do, catalogue all information and put an IAD guard on Miss Carter and Miss Ward and inform me directly of any transmissions. I want the complete transcripts Mr. Raj Hassan.  I am certain that I do not have to explain to you the need of secrecy.”

“Of course not sir.” Yousef stood up and bowed formally. “I’ll hand deliver them within the next fifteen minutes.”

Illya dozed barely aware of the drone of the planes engines, he looked down the world already donning her evening shroud as a myriad of twinkling lights came on in the cities below. His head pounded and his mouth tasted stale and dry as he moved in his seat.

Hushed words hastily spoken around him put him on alert and he closed his eyes just as rapidly feigning sleep to listen to the conversation.

“Are you sure you used enough of that drug?” Roland asked his companion, a mysterious dark haired woman who sat in the seat in front.

“Patience my pet, we used plenty and soon our masters will have exactly what they want.”

“Yes, and I expect my reward to be generous.” Roland answered with quiet disdain.

“We are always generous, to finally have Illya Kuryakin back in Russia and at the mercy of our masters will give you riches you can but dream of.” Her hand tipped in blood red nails caressed his face as he leaned forward.

Her smile was triumphant as she reached around and kissed him deeply, the needle appearing  in her hand  scant seconds before she plunged it into Roland’s neck.  He spasmed once underneath her and fell limp.  Carefully arranging his body into a sleeping posture, she tucked blankets around his rapidly cooling form and returned to her own seat.

Roland Quinlan’s would have to collect his reward in the afterlife.