Illya waited impatiently for the doctor to release the
nurse into his care.  He was surprised that Mr. Waverly wanted him
to personally escort her- it wasn't as if they got along well.  A
smile tugged at his lips. If she thought he was upset he should
introduce her to Napoleon.   His partner had tried to get permission
to interrogate her himself but Waverly took one look at his eyes
and refused the request.  He did not need to elaborate as to why.
Illya shook himself into attention as the nurse was led out.

"Here she is Mr. Kuryakin, they are expecting you upstate."  The doctor
said.

The woman pulled back appalled.

"I am not going anywhere with that, that COMMIE!"  she yelled.

"Would you rather go with me?"  Napoleon asked quietly as he
came up to stand by his partner.

The woman smiled nastily.  "You are no better than he is.
How could you even stand to be around this piece of filth?"

Napoleon balled his hands into fist despite the pain it caused
him.

"You sure you want to do this?"  he asked, looking at Illya.  "She is such a
warm and friendly person."

Illya smiled.  "I don't have much choice, Mr. Waverly assigned me
to."  He replied.

Napoleon raised his eyebrows.  "He did what?  I thought you were going to be
assigned to headquarters."

With a shrug of his shoulders, "It appears that has changed."
the blond agent stated softly.  Without another word he grabbed the nurse
and started down the hall.  She stumbled along beside him objecting loudly.
He continued without slowing down.

Napoleon grinned.  "Have a safe trip Illya."

With a wave he kept up the swift pace.

Joseph Hinkle met his contact at 8:00 that morning, by 9:00 he
was sitting on a hill waiting for the younger agent to drive by.
Though he had been in the states for over six years he was still the
top marksman in the KGB, well except  for the young man he was about to
kill.  Illya Kuryakin had out shot him on the range and in the
field; perhaps he should feel proud that the masters still held him
in such high regards, but he regretted that he had to end the life of
one so young and with such talent!  Shaking his head in disgust,
fools he thought such a waste!  He glanced at his watch and picked
up the rifle.  Settling in he put his eye to the scope and started
scanning the cars that drove by.  He had been told the make, model
and color of the car that he would be driving.  Whoever the informant
was, he was through.    Barely ten minutes had passed before he saw
the vehicle coming; he settled the rifle tightly against his
shoulder and watched the car advance.  He sighted the scope and
verified that the person driving was indeed his intended victim;
taking a deep slow breath he sighted in and slowly squeezed the
trigger.  A noise behind him caused him to jerk; he barely heard the
soft cough before the bullet tore through him. His shot missed the
driver but chewed through the radiator and hit the engine.

Illya was trying to avoid the shrill voice that was ranting
beside him. Hoping to end the journey faster, he was driving over the
speed limit by a good ten miles an hour.  He saw the smoke from the
radiator; then the engine seized.  He tried to retain control of the
car but at 80 miles an hour it was hopeless.  Somewhere inside his
head he knew that he was suppose to be dead by a bullet.  If he
didn't retain control of the car it was a good chance that he would
die anyway.

The woman beside him was yelling at him and trying to
grab the wheel; with a push to the right she put them in the lane of
oncoming traffic.  It was like moving in slow motion; he saw the
guard rail and tried to pull back onto the road but hit with such
force that they were airborne and seemed to sail endlessly. The last
thing he heard was the scream of the woman beside him.

---

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.