Somewhere in Greenwich Village

Illya jolted awake, hand automatically sliding under the pillow to grasp his customized U.N.C.L.E.  Special. Unsure of what had roused him, he lay still, listening intently, trying to blink the sleep from his eyes.  A loud banging from the direction of the tiny antiquated bathroom was reassuring.  The landlord was obviously working on the plumbing yet again.  The cacophony from that was usually enough to wake the dead.

    He blinked some more, then reached to wipe a light crust away from his eyes.  Great.  Just great.  Obviously that little dip in the Hudson yesterday had brought on a head cold.  Of course he had the dubious consolation of knowing the Secret Brotherhood of the Golden Gnu once again had possession of their sacred icon, not to mention possession of the treasury they used to insure the growth of democracy in their country.  Even better was the knowledge that the card-carrying Thrush posing as their Minister of Internal Security was in custody and singing like the bird he was.

    He sniffed loudly.  Once again it seemed no good deed went unpunished for Illya Nickovetch Kuryakin.  Sighing, he levered up in bed, noticing the brightness of the room for the first time.  Frowning, he glanced at the wind-up alarm clock perched on the night-stand.  The same one he’d apparently been too tired to remember to set last night.  Grabbing for his wristwatch, he stifled a curse that would curl a Cossack’s beard. Eight-thirty a.m. and he had a meeting with Alexander Waverly in half an hour.

    Shedding his pajamas as he went, he quickly started the shower only to leap back as the cold spray drove icy needles into his body.  Apparently the landlord had good cause to for his plumbing efforts.  Teeth chattering, he forced himself back under the glacial stream, chastising himself for getting soft and decadent, vowing to spend his next leave in the Antarctic.

    Shower finished in record time, he briskly toweled off, shaved and dressed before the blue tinge had left his lips.  On his way past the dresser, he grabbed an extra handkerchief―his nose was beginning to run most alarmingly and he had no intention of sniffing his way through a briefing.

    Outside, the street was predictably devoid of cabs.  Closing his eyes for a moment, he contemplated returning to bed and claiming later that he’d been waylaid by a flock of Thrush, but dismissed the idea as unworthy of an agent of his stature.  Not to mention unworkable, as Napoleon would no doubt track him down without mercy and never let him hear the end of it.

    Turning north, he loped towards the nearest subway entrance, managing to get within two blocks before the overcast sky opened up with joyous abandon.  Not quite soaked but considerably past damp, Illya managed to get a token and through the turnstile just in time to see the uptown train depart.  Moving to one end of the platform, he used his backup hanky to dry his face and sop the greater amount of water out of his hair.  A moment later his position was overrun by a large group of young children being shepherded by a very harried-looking teacher.  

A headache began behind his eyes, beating in cadence with the excited yells and squeals of the children as the next train ground to a stop.  Choosing a different car from the teacher and her noisy charges, Illya collapsed on an empty bench, hoping this was a sign his luck was changing.  A huge sneeze that caught him unawares seemed to indicate otherwise.

The ride turned out to be miraculously uneventful for New York City― a minor fistfight between two teenage boys, an elderly man panhandling for money, a beatnik in one corner strumming a guitar.  By the time he disembarked, somewhat dryer, but coughing and sniffing even more, he considered how humorous this morning would sound when he regaled Napoleon with it later.  Keeping a suitably dour face, of course.

    Once at headquarters, Mr. Waverly, who had been kept waiting for almost twenty minutes, was far from amused.

    “I hope you’re not allowing Mr. Solo’s, shall we say, less than sterling habits of punctuality rub off on you, Mr. Kuryakin.”

    “Yes sir.  I mean, no sir.  I apologize.”

    Napoleon, comfortably settled in his usual chair, smirked and brushed an imaginary piece of lint from his trousers.  His expression indicated that it was nice not to be the brunt of reprimands for a change.

    “Now then, gentlemen.  This is a delicate affair.  We have reason to believe someone is slowly poisoning Star of Heaven, the world-renowned thoroughbred owned by the Sultan of Malazar.  The creature is slated to run at Aqueduct this weekend.  I don’t need to tell you the repercussions should the Sultan’s prize possession be killed on our watch.  Therefore, Mr. Kuryakin, you have been placed as a worker at the facility housing the animal.”

    Napoleon snickered.  “A stable boy? And you thought that degree in quantum mechanics wouldn’t come in handy.”

    Illya limited his response to a steely glare across the table.  Unfortunately, the effect was promptly ruined by a loud sneeze.

    Waverly ignored the by-play.  “Mr. Solo, you will infiltrate the group of family members here for the race as a combination security advisor/escort for the Sultan’s daughter, Miss, er...,” a quick glance at the file in his hand, “Saala.”

    Disgusted, Illya could only watch as his partner beamed at yet another display of the famed Solo luck.

    “Saala? Uh, THE Saala who was first runner-up at the Miss World competition last month?”

    Waverly frowned.  “That hardly bears on your assignment, Mr. Solo.  You will be her bodyguard, not a prospective suitor.”

    “No, sir, of course not.” But the grin Napoleon turned on his friend was far from repentant.  Illya resisted the urge to grind his teeth and stood to go.

    “Oh.  One more thing, Mr. Kuryakin.  I realize you’ll be posing as unskilled labor on this assignment, but do dry off before you report to the stables.  The U.N.C.L.E. does have a reputation to maintain.”

    Nodding stiffly, Illya fled the room before Napoleon could begin the inevitable heckling.  Heading straight for his locker, he ignored the quizzical glances he got as he dripped through the hallways.  Slamming the door open, he sighed and leaned against the locker next to his.  Empty.  Belatedly he remembered changing into his last set of clean clothing the day before, following his impromptu dip in the river.  Resigned to a trip back to his apartment, he made his way back out onto the street where the rain clouds still threatened, prompting him to splurge on a cab back to the village―an action he had cause to regret as his headache was acerbated by the nonstop ranting of his unfortunate luck in cabbies.  The man had just received a ticket from one of New York’s finest and spent the entire drive detailing his plan to gather other unhappy drivers and picket City Hall.

An eternity later they arrived at his third floor walk-up.  Illya hurriedly changed into jeans and a flannel shirt that would blend in with the other stable hands, dry-swallowed two aspirins from his medicine cabinet and headed to his assignment.  Back in the subway once again, he caught the next train for Queens.

Queens

    Evening was well underway when Illya straightened up from shoveling out a stall.  No one seemed unduly interested in his presence or the horse in question, as they hurried about grooming and exercising the dozen entrants in the upcoming race.  He’d managed to use the time he’d been there to good effect, determining that all the horses were fed from a common supply of oats and water.  However the poison was being administered, it wasn’t in the usual feedings.

    Feeling a familiar tickle in his nose, he grabbed for the red bandanna that had replaced his tiny white handkerchief.  His head cold had progressed nicely over the course of the day, making him grateful for the additional size of the cloth.  Especially now that he could add watery eyes to his list of symptoms.  On a positive note, his stuffy nose had made the job of cleaning out the horses’ boxes far less onerous than it could have been.

    A commotion at the door drew his attention, just in time to see the Sultan’s party enter, dressed in evening wear, apparently intent on visiting their entry in the Aqueduct Stakes to be run on Labor Day, two days away.  Right at the front of the pack, one arm wrapped around the famed Saala’s trim waist, was a tuxedo-clad Napoleon Solo.  Illya allowed himself the luxury of a flash of genuine indignation that he was always the one to get dirty, wet, hurt or saddled with a cold while Napoleon generally sailed through missions looking like the cover of Esquire.  The moment of self-indulgence was savored then set aside.  There was a mission at stake.  Pausing long enough to strew fresh hay on the floor, he grabbed the broom and retreated just as Star was returned to the box from his exercise.

    Knowing Napoleon would keep his eye on the animal while the group was milling around, Illya slipped out the back, intending to check on the fresh fruit that was kept in a refrigerated building next door to the stable.  Crouched behind several large crates of apples to check for signs of tampering, he heard footsteps coming from two directions and stopping in front of his hiding place.  A man’s voice, thick with the distinctive Malazarian accent spoke first.

    “You have it?”

    “Right here,” answered a surly American voice.  “This time tomorrow that nag will be dog food.”

    “Give it to me now.  Saala will assume I brought it from the hotel kitchen.  Wait! Do I need to wear gloves?”

    “Nah, the poison has to be ingested.  You’ll be okay but your big brother’s prize racer is a goner and with it, his fortune.  In less than a week, you’ll be sitting on his throne with Thrush happily advising you.”

    As the men retreated, Illya peeked around the edge of the boxes.  Just as he’d thought, the American voice belonged to Russ Hampton, a stable foreman who oversaw the day-to-day care of the horses.  The other man was dressed in the traditional garb of the Malazar royalty, but the ornate embroidery around the hem should make him easy to identify.

    Silently sliding from his unintentional hiding place, Illya hurried outside, then raced around the building, coming in the wide front doors of the main stable.  Bursting in, he focused on a large bearded man in the act of handing a glistening carrot to Saala.  

    “Stop,” he cried, jumping forward to grab at the food.  Before he got close enough, two of the Sultan’s burly personal guards grabbed the Russian roughly, pinning his arms behind his back.

    “Mongrel!” One of the men backhanded Illya viciously across the face.  “You dare approach...”

       The agent’s considerably smaller size worked to his advantage as he twisted from their grasp and managed to get close enough to knock the poisoned vegetable onto the floor.

    “It’s poisoned, Your Highness.” His words came out in a rush, before the guards could grab him again.  “Your brother wishes to destroy your fortune and usurp your position.”

    All eyes turned to Mehmed, the Sultan’s younger brother who was now backing up, both hand held out in a placating manner.

    “No, no! It’s not like that.  I was duped.  He―” he pointed at the Thrush agent standing in the shadows at the entrance to the building, “he forced me.  I never meant you any harm, dear brother.  His organization...”

    “Shut up, you idiot―he had no proof until you opened your mouth!” Before anyone could move, Hampton drew the wicked-looking knife he wore at his waist and sent it flying to thud into his former cohort’s chest.

    “That’s how Thrush deals with traitors!”

    As the words echoed, he turned and raced out of the stable, followed quickly by Illya while his partner saw to the injured royal.  Out on the common, a group of riders exercising their charges halted, startled by Saala’s piercing screams from inside the stable.  Hampton took advantage of the confusion, ruthlessly pulling a man from the saddle of one of the race entrants, scrambling up and spurring the animal with a brutal kick.  Illya took in the situation at a glance.  

    “Sorry, I’ll bring him right back,” he gasped, grabbing the reins of a thoroughbred being walked to cool off.  Leaping into the saddle, he tucked his knees in close and bent low over the animal’s neck, much like a jockey normally did.  Swiftly he urged the animal into a gallop following his quarry.  Had their situations been equal, he never could have shortened Hampton’s lead but the Thrush agent was considerably taller and heavier, a fact that soon proved critical as the horse he rode tired under a burden it was neither bred nor trained to carry.

    Within minutes Illya closed the gap enough to reach out and grab a handful of Hampton’s shirt.  Not having been able to use the severely shortened stirrups, the man had no leverage and was pulled bodily backwards off the horse, dragging Illya from his mount as well.  The steady rain during the day had softened the track to clinging mud that broke their fall and fortunately nothing else.

    A few well-placed punches by Illya quickly resolved the fight in U.N.C.L.E.’s favor.  Trudging back to the building, prisoner in tow, Illya noticed a grim Napoleon motioning him away from the crowd gathered in front of the stable.  Once in the shadow of a small shed, Hampton, arms securely bound with his own belt, slumped to the ground.  

Illya nodded towards the ambulance standing in front of the main stables.  “Is he...?”

    “Dead,” Napoleon confirmed.  “Mr. Waverly will not be pleased.”

    Any comment Illya may have cared to make was lost in an explosive sneeze.  Dragging out his handkerchief, the Russian could only stare at the sodden, muddy cloth.

    Napoleon grimaced but dutifully turned over his own pristine, ornately monogrammed linen.  With a barely contained snarl, Illya accepted the offering, then grinned evilly as he used it to wipe the gooey mud from his face before returning it to its owner.  Motioning for Napoleon to take charge of their prisoner, Illya turned towards the employees’ locker room where a steaming hot shower and some clean generic work overalls could be found.  With any luck, he could get cleaned up, escort the prisoner to headquarters, dash off a fast report and be in bed at a halfway decent hour to nurse his cold.  

All joy at having outmaneuvered his partner was short-lived as Napoleon shouted after him, “You know, you wouldn’t get sick so much if you could get through an assignment without getting soaked.”