The moment of awkward silence stretched into several more, neither man quite
knowing what to say or even *if*. The Russian studiously stared at the
numbers above the elevator door as the floors passed by, unaware of the
American's own silent study.

//Hmmn...slight, blond, and blue-eyed -looks like a good stiff breeze would
blow him off his feet.// Napoleon allowed himself a small slightly puzzled
grin. He had heard through the UNCLE grapevine weeks ago that Section One
had decided to take on a new agent -a *field* agent at that- from one of the
Soviet states as a gesture of good faith and in an effort to encourage
countries from behind the Iron Curtain to take an active part in UNCLE.
Illya Kuryakin was not what he had expected. He had been entertaining
notions of some muscle-bound behemoth like those he had seen at the most
recent Olympics.

"You are staring."

Napoleon blinked, mortified that he had fallen so deeply into his silent
reverie. His response, understandably, was somewhat lame. "What?"

"Staring," the Russian repeated. He peered owlishly from behind the slightly
tinted glasses he had slipped on. "There is something wrong with my
appearance?"

"Oh! No! No." //Time to make a lightning-fast Solo-esque recovery, old
son,// Napoleon prompted himself. "I was just wondering where you'd like to
go."

"Go?"

"To eat," Solo said with his famous mega-watt smile. "I believe I invited
you to lunch."

"Ah, yes -so you did." Illya felt the tell-tale burn at his cheeks that
usually signaled the beginning of a blush. What *was* the matter with him?
This American was simply trying to be friendly. "Wherever you choose. You
know the city better than I."

"How about Italian?" Napoleon replied, expression brightening further still.
He knew just the place too -Mama Rosa's. He had been intending to take
Abigail there; not that he was certain now that she would have appreciated
the old-world ambiance quite the way he himself did. Then again... "I
mean...*assuming* you like Italian food. I know of another place -the
Russian Tea Room..."

The Russian chuckled and Napoleon found that he liked the sound. "Italian
would be fine," Illya said at last, his eyes twinkling with quiet merriment.
"I *like* Italian." Just then, there was an electronic tone and the elevator
doors slid open. "Ah, this is my floor."

"Oh -yes." Napoleon realized that he was stumbling over his words again.
"So...tomorrow? Meet you at the main entrance about, say, noon-ish?"

"That would be...fine." Illya's smile was uncertain, but it *was* a smile -a
smile that was mirrored by Napoleon even as he disappeared behind the
closing elevator doors. Strange...so very strange that the American seemed
almost eager to spend time with him. But pleasant.

Illya turned to resume his trek to Mr. Waverly's office when he was reminded
that not all of his host country's people were equally as charming as the
debonair Napoleon Solo. He practically walked into a wall of flesh (or was
it the other way around) and a scowling UNCLE agent just kept walking, not
apparently concerned that he had knocked the young Russian to the floor.
"Durog..." Illya muttered sourly as he picked himself up, collecting his
glasses-- A frown creased Illya's brow
as he noticed the slip of paper his assailant had dropped. Blue eyes widened
with recognition as the folded scrap fell open. To anyone else, but himself,
the scribblings would have looked just like that -nonsensical scribblings.

But to one trained by Russian Intelligence... Illya sighed with quiet dismay
as he read the message: 'Good work, Tovarisch. Keep the American's interest.
You will be contacted later.'

Illya crushed the scrap -he had known that this moment would eventually
come. There was no point in bemoaning the fact.

Now, he really started to work.

---

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.