Illya's eyes narrowed in suspicion -power
outage...possibly, but he had been
taught to be cautious in all things. Especially
blackouts. He heard muffled
steps outside the door -that security agent was
certainly quick to return-
but something...*something* tickled at his senses as
the door inched open.
Something...

...a familiar scent...
 
...of hospital antiseptic and perfume.


Illya blended into the shadows and watched the door
warily.  It creaked slightly as it opened.  A new set
of footsteps sounded in the hallway. Squeaky. Rubber
soled.  A nurse. 

"Shelly," a voice said, probably belonging to the
second set of footsteps. 

"What?" answered a familiar voice from the doorway. 
Nurse Fredericks.  

"What are you doing?"

"Checking on our patient," Nurse Fredericks explained
in a stage whisper.

"What do you think happened to the power? I mean, this
isn't supposed to be able to happen in UNCLE
headquarters.  Bobby was just telling me he thought it
might be an inside job."

Bobby?  Illya thought about who that could be. Oh.
Yes. Security man. 

"He thinks," the disembodied voice of the second nurse
went on,  "that commie partner of Napoleon's is behind
everything."

There was a heavy silence, then the door scraped the
floor as it slid shut.  Illya slid to the door and
cracked it enough so he could hear the rest of the
conversation.  

"Don't you people have anything better to do?"
Fredricks was saying.  

"Come on, Shelly. He's a communist.  You know they're
all bent on destroying the American way of life."

There was another pause, then Nurse Fredricks spoke in
a soft tone.  "I had a friend in high school named
Helen. She was full-blooded Navajo. She was born on
the reservation, but her parents had moved off of it
when she was a baby." 

"One day she didn't show up to school. They found her
dead that afternoon.  She'd been murdered.  The word
'squaw' had been carved into her forehead and she'd
been scalped and stuffed into a trashcan." Emotion
caught in her throat.  "She was a kind, generous girl
with a loving heart who hated hurting anything or
anyone.  She'd catch a spider in a jar and put it
outside rather than kill it.  Yet someone murdered her
simply because she was an American Indian. 

"The people at school called her a savage.  Well, I
think people like those who murdered her, and like
you, are the savages. You all make me sick. I'm going
to inform Mr. Waverly tomorrow of the type of
prejudism is going on here in U.N.C.L.E., an
international organization in existance to combat such
petty thinking.  I would start looking for a new job
if I were you."

With that, she turned to go into Solo's room.

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

The man who called himself Joseph Hinkle stared at the
packet the courier had just delivered.  He held it
gingerly almost as if he was afraid it might burn him.


It might, at that.  He had been sent here almost six
years ago, and in all that time, his masters had not
once activated him.  Not once.  At this point in time,
he rather hoped they'd forgotten about him.  The plain
manilla envelope in his hand said otherwise. 

Might as well get it over with. With a sigh, he sat on
his faded, but comfortable couch and opened the
packet, turning it upside down over a dinged-up coffee
table.  An 8x10 black and white photo and a single
typed page fell out.  He picked up the page. 
Assassination instructions.  How, when, where. No why.
Need to know and all that. As for the who...  

The man who called himself Joseph Hinkle picked up the
photo and raised an eyebrow.  The name neatly typed at
the bottom of the photo was that of one of his own
countrymen:  Illya Nickovetch Kuryakin. 
 

---

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.