Illya Kuryakin paused in the red-carpeted hallway, listening to the rapid Spanish conversation of two hotel maids who were disappearing into an elevator. A smile quirked the corners of his mouth upward. Had the ladies known that the blond "gringo" lurking in the hall could understand every word, would they have discussed last night's menage a trois with _muy guapo_ Julio quite so explicitly?

Ah well. Waverly's instructions had been explicit as well. Intercept Solo at the Paloma Hotel here in Mexico City and tell him his holiday would have to be curtailed in order to pick up a certain laser-cut lens that was vitally strategic to the U.S. Space Program and would have to be safely delivered to Washington D.C.

Sounded simple enough.

Kuryakin proceeded down the hall, searching for the door number that matched the hotel register. Number 7.

Glancing at his watch -- it was 1 a.m. local time -- Kuryakin knocked on the door. He'd expected a sleepy response, but the voice on the other side of the thin door didn't sound at all tired. It said something about room service before the door came quickly open, and Illya was confronted by a shirtless Solo with an U.N.C.L.E. Special balanced cautiously in his right hand.

"Mr. Solo, I presume?"

"Not room service," the American agent said disappointedly, and casually ushered him in with a wave of the gun. "What? Did Mr. Waverly forget to add something to his latest vacation interruption?"

"How was that again?" Kuryakin turned a circle in the spotless room, taking in the balcony, open French doors, starlight, and the covers of the double bed turned neatly down, as yet unoccupied. "I, uh..." Kuryakin forced the question of Napoleon's missing companion out of mind and continued. "Mr. Waverly sent me to tell you your holiday would have to be rescheduled. There's a pick-up assignment..."

"Yes, I know. The Trillian laser optic lens."

Illya nodded. "Yes. How did you know?"

He saw puzzlement in Solo's eyes as he replied. "A special courier from U.N.C.L.E. He only just left a moment ago."

"A special...? I hate to tell you this, Napoleon,but _I_ am the special courier from U.N.C.L.E."

"Hm." The Special, which had never left Solo's hand, now preceded him to the balcony, where he cautiously examined the surroundings. "I thought he was a bit off somehow."

Kuryakin joined him on the balcony, stepping out into the smog-tainted night air of Mexico City's summer night. "What did he look like?" he asked noncommitally.

"Squirrely. But he knew all the passwords. He was out here for at least five minutes on his own while I was... er... showering He could have--"

The explosion sent them both scrambling for cover behind concrete planters on either side of the small balcony. Smoke and feathers billowed through the open glass doors. Solo was quickly on his feet and back inside the room with Illya close behind. They found a gaping, blackened hole in the midst of the bed, its edges still flaming. Feathers continued to rain on them, and the stench of burned protein hung in the room.

From somewhere, Solo had produced a seltzer bottle and was occupied with extinguishing the smoldering sheets when a rapid knock sounded from outside and simultaneously, the bathroom door was yanked open to admit a cloud of steam into the already hazy room. Kuryakin blinked, straining to see through the obscuring smoke and feathers.

A statuesque young woman had emerged from the bathroom. She wore a large blue bath towel wrapped loosely around her wet auburn hair. Nothing else.

"Oh," she said in a small, startled voice. Then when she realized that Solo was not alone in the room, she said again, "Oh!"

Solo seemed for the moment not to notice her. He dropped the empty seltzer bottle onto the steaming bed, dusted his hands and deftly moved to answer the door, where the insistent rapping continued. A waiter stood in the hall, fist raised in mid-knock, a tray of wine balanced primly on his left hand. Solo, ignoring his open-mouthed expression on sight of the smoke-filled room and its comely unclad occupant, took the tray from him and pressed a folded banknote into the upraised palm.

"Muchas gracias, senor. Buenas noches."

The door clicked shut on the waiter's dumbfounded stare. Solo swung round to face the towel-clad brunette then, and handed her the wine tray.

"There you are," he said glibly. "Room service."

"Napoleon--" she sputtered, but her companion had already disappeared into the alcove of the hotel room closet to begin hastily dressing. He emerged moments later, fastening the buttons of a white silk shirt.

"Sorry to keep you waiting," he said to Illya. "Shall we?"

The nude brunette, still holding the wine tray, said again plaintively, "Napoleon!"

Solo turned back from the door as though noticing her for the very first time. "Sorry." He kissed her quickly on her betoweled forehead. "Duty calls. Oh and... don't bother making the bed, hm?"

Illya paced Solo down the hall toward the hotel elevators. "Shouldn't we call in?" he wondered. "That courier and the bomb -- it means they already know all about this assignment. They may even have the lens."

"Uh-uh," Solo said as the elevator began its descent. "Thrush is one step behind and fishing. Wouldn't have tried to delay me if they weren't. Where is our pick-up, by the way?"

Kuryakin followed him out into the plush lobby at a trot. "The local soccer stadium. We have to contact a Miguel Orada in the northeast tier. Only..."

"Only?" They emerged into the warm night air and headed for one of the ubiquitous battered taxis waiting in front of the hotel.

"Are you sure we should risk the contact?" Illya wondered. "In light of Thrush knowing?"

Solo's grin widened as they slid into the cab. "Wouldn't miss it," he said. "They knew about the assignment, yes, but not where I was to make the contact. Their shill said that would be coming -- and it was. You. Besides, where's your sense of adventure?"

Kuryakin's answer was lost in the sudden wail of approaching sirens. Two fire trucks, ancient but apparently functional, crossed paths with the cab on its way to the main street.

Solo gave hasty directions to the cab driver in very bad Spanish, then said to Kuryakin, "Does our Senor Orada have the lens in his possession?"

Illya nodded, mindful of the cab driver's ears and wondering if he spoke English. Solo, however, appeared unconcerned. "It's been fitted into a specially designed pair of sunglasses," Kuryakin explained sotto voce. "All we have to do is find Orada, pick up the glasses, evade Thrush and deliver the goods to Washington."

"Is that all?" Solo settled back into the lumpy upholstery, smiling. "Piece of cake."

"Cake?"

"Yeah, you know, as in 'let them eat...'?" At Kuryakin's baffled look, Solo shrugged. "Never mind."

Once in the shadow of the ancient, deserted stadium, they slowly made their way to the northeast tier. Kuryakin cautiously approached the darkened stairwell and called, "Senor Orada?"

A soft voice came from the black rectangle of the stairwell "Do not move, por favor," it said nervously. "I have a gun on both of you. You will identify yourselves."

"Certainly," Solo replied, unruffled. "The cliffs at Mazatlan are steep this time of year. Don't you agree?"

Kuryakin shot a sideways glance at Solo, wondering how this obvious code phrase had been pre-arranged. The voice from the shadows responded hesitantly. "The cliffs of Guadalajara are higher."

A tall, lean man stepped into the moonlight. Without further preamble, he slipped an ordinary leather glasses-case from his pocket and extended it to Solo. "Take it," he whispered, "and go, quickly. I think there are--"

The muffled crack of a gunshot cut him off. Orada pitched forward with a cry. By the time Solo caught him, he was already dead.

Footsteps clattered on concrete, echoing up the dark stairwell. But they didn't wait to meet Orada's killers. Kuryakin saw Solo slip the glasses into a pocket, his Special emerging in the same hand. They scrambled down the aisle toward the field with bullets whining off concrete and metal at their heels. Even with no chance for a backward glance, Illya was sure their visitors were from Thrush. He was equally sure that they were in trouble. Waverly had promised him an air pick-up from the stadium field. But there was no sign of any such rescue on the black expanse of land below them.

A shot narrowly missed Kuryakin's ear as they vaulted over the metal rail to land amid a broad area of storage bins and equipment racks. The ensuing noise rapidly became a melee as half a dozen figures leapt over the railing and proceeded to augment the confusion by thrashing through the various containers in search of the U.N.C.L.E. agents. In the dark, it was nearly impossible to tell friend from foe. Taking advantage of the confusion, Kuryakin dumped over bin after bin of sporting equipment, pleased to see the Thrush thugs stumbling over each other in outraged frustration.

With blinding intensity, the stadium lights came suddenly to life, floodlighting their comedy of errors. One of the Thrushes had undoubtedly found the controls, but the exercise had backfired. Six men in business suits were left standing amid the storage containers, blinking and shielding their eyes. One of them spotted Solo behind the cover of a metal locker and fired a shot. The U.N.C.L.E. Special coughed once and the man dropped stone-like into a pile of cleated shoes. Kuryakin brought his own gun to bear on another of the blue suits and traded shots with him twice before sending him sprawling into an empty bin.

The remaining four agents had decided to try rushing Solo. Kuryakin dropped one of them on the way around to Solo's position. Solo met the other three head-on with a surprise ploy: he popped up from cover and snapped a soccer ball toward them with a crisp shout of "Catch!"

All three men instinctively ducked as the black and white ball sailed overhead. Solo's gun saw that one of them didn't rise again. The others had a sudden attack of wisdom and rolled into cover amid the equipment wreckage.

The roar of a helicopter's engines swept over them. In a moment, it had returned to hover above the stadium. The Thrush agents immediately turned their fire toward it, though the chopper remained carefully out of range of their handguns.

"Our conveyance, I gather?" Solo shouted before ducking another bullet.

"Our conveyance," Kuryakin confirmed. "Now how do we get to it?"

Solo's reply was lost in a renewed barrage of gunfire. A large bin propelled by two Thrush agents had begun a desperate charge toward him. It collided with Solo's locker, toppling them both, and the American agent's consequent sprint for safety was promptly blocked by the arrival of another blue suit. Must be the one who turned on the lights, Kuryakin realized, and charged toward the ensuing fight. The three Thrushes were all over Solo. Illya grabbed a coat collar and pulled, ducking a blow that came at him and returning one of his own, connecting with a fleshy stomach. The man doubled over and Kuryakin added a right cross to the jaw, sending him down for the count.

Someone shouted his name. He looked up to see Solo going down under the two remaining attackers, one hand in the air Something sailed over the Thrush agent's heads. The Russian caught it, recognized the glasses case, and swiftly pocketed the thing, aware that he'd just become the target as two bulky blue suits turned to descend on him. That lack of foresight cost one of them a splitting headache. Solo came up behind him and cracked the butt of the Special against his thick skull. He crumpled without a sound.

The last man had barrelled like a mad bull into Kuryakin, who dropped and let the bigger man's momentum carry him on over in a less than graceful flip. He landed with a grunt atop the overturned locker, started to get up again, then apparently thought better of it and collapsed in a limp heap.

"You do that very well," Solo said glibly, dusting his hands.

"Thank you." Kuryakin's response was equally flippant. "Shall we?" He motioned toward the copter, which was now coming down for a landing on the field. With a grin, Solo followed him out to it.

They scrambled aboard through the open hatch and had settled into the rather cramped cockpit before Kuryakin had occasion to notice their pilot. The copter lifted into the pre-dawn sky as the Russian agent took in what Solo had no doubt already noticed. Manipulating the flight controls was an exceedingly well-constructed redhead whose costume consisted of very little more than a pair of red leather boots, a few strategically placed fringes, and a large cowboy hat.

"I must remember to compliment U.N.C.L.E.'s ward master on his selection for the new flight suits," Solo said to her over the din.

The redhead grinned. "I'm Heidi Parfet. Happy to meet you too, Mr. Solo. And you're Kuryakin?"

The Russian nodded mutely.

"Sit back and relax," she announced before either of them could comment further. "This is a specially-equipped long-range chopper; we'll be taking her all the way over the border before we assign you a change of transportation at Vandenberg."

Solo and Kuryakin both smiled and sat back. The flight ahead of them might be long and the cockpit cramped, but the scenery was definitely going to be interesting.

Heidi had only just announced their approach to the U.S. border when abruptly something rocked them violently in the air. Heidi grabbed and fought the controls, and found Solo beside her helping to stabilize their unscheduled roll.

"What was that?" Kuryakin shouted as they finally leveled off.

"Someone took a shot at us," Heidi called back. "I can't see where they're--"

She was cut off by another explosion. The copter pitched starboard, righting itself more quickly this time, but coming up face to face with its adversary -- an unmarked solid black helicopter with distinct military lines. Heidi banked and flew under them, running. The black aircraft, banking in turn, followed.

"Our friends from Thrush?" Illya queried.

"Trying to stop us before we reach the border," Solo said. And then to Heidi, "I presume this bird has armament."

Her grin came back and she touched a control that flipped open a weapons panel on the flight board. Kuryakin recognized rocket-launching, machine gun and gas grenade controls. Solo reached to adjust the rocket bearings just as another barrage shook them.

"See if you can get under them," he shouted, and Heidi nodded, pressing the flight stick. Illya began pulling parachutes from the emergency bins as they dropped and tilted. In a moment, the lumbering black aircraft came into view overhead. Solo pressed the launch switch. With a roar, a streak of white raced for the other copter. It missed by scant inches.

"Can we get any closer?" Solo queried.

Heidi pulled back on the stick. "Hold onto your seats!"

They held, and the copter climbed, slaloming to keep up with their dodging prey. Solo fired again. This time, the rocket found its mark and their adversary mushroomed into flaming debris and smoke. Heidi's triumphant cheer died mid-cry, however, as they began to pitch sharply forward and back.

"Now what?" Solo twisted to search the sky around them. "Don't tell me he has friends!"

"No," Heidi answered, checking dials. "But he must have hit our tail rotor. Maybe worse. We're losing fuel!"

"Can you land her?" Solo shouted.

Panic tinged her voice. "No!" She hit her radio circuit and began broadcasting a may day call. When nothing responded, Heidi swore. "He's got that, too."

Illya proffered the parachutes. "Time to bail out, my friends."

Solo nodded. "I'll take the controls. You two bail out."

Kuryakin struggled into the backpack. Heidi donned hers, then took back the flight stick as Solo put on a third. He snapped the last buckle and promptly took the controls again.

"Ladies first," he said. "Looks like rough ground below. So aim for a soft spot."

Heidi started to protest, then conceded. The desert terrain was coming up to meet them far too quickly. She went out the port hatch, closely followed by Illya, who dropped from the starboard side.

Wind howled in his ears as free fall engulfed him. The sickening cough of a failing engine came from above, and he fought to catch sight of the copter, relieved to see a figure tumble from the smoking machine as it plummeted downward. Seconds later, the copter struck the desert floor and sent a huge cloud of black smoke billowing skyward. The sound of the explosion was nearly lost to Kuryakin in the roar of the air around him.

Just below he saw Heidi's parachute open, a silky white mushroom. Soon after, he pulled his own ripcord and braced himself against the violent tug that jerked him upward again when the chute caught the wind.

He hit the ground running, stumbled, rolled, and came up fighting to unbuckle the chute before it could drag him through a nearby cactus patch. He freed himself in time to see Solo land not far away and perform the same operation.

When he had covered the ground between them, Kuryakin asked, "Did you see where Heidi came down?"

Solo surveyed the area. "Wind must have blown her east. Just to be sure though, you try that way." He pointed northeast.

Kuryakin nodded and started off. "Wait," Solo called him back. "Maybe you should give me the lens, for safekeeping."

Kuryakin reached into his pocket and to his horror, found nothing. "It must have fallen during the jump!"

Solo squinted toward the plume of smoke rising from the downed copter. "All right. You look for the lens. I'll find Heidi."

Kuryakin shot him an acid look. "Thank you," he said. "I think."

Solo flashed a lopsided grin at him before disappearing around a prominence of sun-bleached rock. Sighing, Illya headed off to the northeast.

Two parched hours and a whopping sunburn later, he found his way back, empty-handed, to the point from which he'd departed. Two parachutes still lay some yards apart on the desert floor, buffeted in the hot wind. The Russian followed Solo's tracks due east, hoping the American agent had had better luck than he.

Coming over a small rise, the first thing Illya saw was the familiar flutter of white silk Heidi's parachute, no doubt. But it seemed to be wrapped around a cactus, and... Kuryakin squinted, certain he was seeing things, and started uncertainly down the sandy incline. As he did so, he noticed several other things about the expanse of land below. It was dotted with old wooden watering troughs, bales of hay, and cattle.

Not the most sophisticated signs of civilization, perhaps, but he was in no mood to quibble. He made for the nearest trough, dunked his head into the tepid water and came up sputtering. He drank several mouthfuls, ignoring the baleful stares of several curious cows. When he'd wiped the water from his eyes, the oddly-dressed saguaro cactus was still there, its two outstretched "arms" wearing the parachute like a choir robe. On closer inspection, he found it was also wearing three other things; the missing pair of sunglasses with the all-important Trillian lens, a cowboy hat, and a small fringed something that looked vaguely familiar...

"Napoleon? Miss Parfet! Where are you?" Illya turned a full circle and saw only the grazing steers.

Something moved just below the dressed saguaro, and Kuryakin noticed for the first time that several bales of hay formed a ring around the cactus. From behind one of these, a slender hand appeared and waved at him.

"Oh," The Russian said, and started toward the hand. "There you are. I see you found the--"

He stopped mid-sentence, having come within sight of what lay in the scattered hay beyond the bales. Blushing slightly, he backed away again. "Sorry," he muttered. "I mean, I didn't know you... I mean..."

Something unyielding met his ankles from behind, and he tumbled backward into more hay. Disgruntled, he lay there and kicked at the offending object -- a partially-eaten bale. "One of these days," he grumbled to himself. "Just once I'd like to--"

He was interrupted by the roar of an F-14 flying low overhead. From nearby, Solo's voice said, "The cavalry appears to have heard your bugle calls after all, my dear."

"Mm," Heidi's deep voice replied. "I knew we were on the U.S. side of the border."

"Really? How?"

"Because - these cows moo in English."

Her giggle was promptly smothered by something, and Kuryakin willed himself not to listen anymore.

The F-14 banked, circled and dipped its wings. The refugees -- or more likely their cactus -- had been spotted.

While Illya lay wondering how long it would be before the pilot would radio for another copter to pick them up, something large suddenly moved to block the light above him. He found himself staring into the huge, liquid brown eyes of an inquisitive cow.

"What do you want?" Kuryakin grumbled at her.

From the neighboring haystack floated an ecstatic feminine sigh. The cow dipped her head toward Illya and bawed.

"Forget it!" he said, and switched her on the nose with a loose straw. The cow, disappointed, loped away. More sighing came from under the saguaro. The F-14 roared by one last time. Kuryakin rolled over and let out a sigh of his own.

Some days, it really didn't pay to be a spy...
 

The End