The Night He Came Home Affair
by Charlie Kirby

Napoleon Solo shifted uncomfortably in the padded chair, not so much from the numerous bruises and scrapes he suffered, as from the iron gray scrutiny of his supervisor's eyes. He could hear the thoughts going through the Old Man's head. How could his two top agents show such flagrant displays of incompetence and amateurism?

But Waverly hadn't been there - he hadn't seen, first-hand, how the Chief Inspector had single-handedly flushed out one of THRUSH's big strongholds while he and Illya looked like walking ads for an emergency ward.

At least, Napoleon speculated as he raised a self-conscious hand to the patch of adhesive tape on his forehead, the Russian had fared as badly as he had. Then he glanced over at their guest, the source of all his current injuries, and the man responsible for the lecture he knew was coming.

For his own part, the Chief Inspector was engaging Waverly in a colorful and descriptive account of their evening's activities.

Napoleon knew he should have bailed out while he was still ahead of the game, but it has been a simple airport pick-up, something he'd done a hundred times before. Nothing new, nothing terribly difficult that would have prevented a lesser Section 2 man from being able to carry it out. Yet Mr. Waverly insisted that it was to be he and Illya that would accompany the French detective to the airport to pick up the man who would eventually blow the whistle on most of France's drug running. Had he only known, he certainly would have refused the Frenchman's first request. Napoleon leaned back and, half closing his eyes, began to reminisce.

"Do you really think we should let him drive, Napoleon?" Illya Kuryakin pulled on his ski park as he posed the question to Solo. "After all that mess he caused earlier this evening, it might not be such a good idea."

"Nonsense, my skeptical Russian, the man is, after all, a member of the French Sutre. He must be competent at something. That mess beforehand was a fluke - we've both had days like that, haven't we?" Solo pulled on his gloves and waited for an answer. "Well, haven't we?"

"I'm not so certain," Illya mumbled as the elevator door slid open and let them out into the ground level of UNCLE HQ-New York.

The topic of their discussion spun at the sound of the elevator and he lowered his hand into a vain attempt to straighten the deerstalker he had donned.

"Well, boys, are we ready for the grand adventure?" He slapped his black gloved hands together in a gesture of impatience.

"As much as I need to be," Illya replied as he pulled off the yellow badge he wore and handed it to the relief receptionist. "Where's Miss Fulton?"

"She...um...had a headache," the woman fidgeted beneath the Russian's blue-eyed scrutiny and mumbled her answer into her desk blotter.

"Never mind, I'm sure you'll do just fine." Solo offered, recognizing the nervousness of a first timer. True to form, the woman smiled up at him, finding some comfort in his face, and Napoleon knew he'd set up all the preliminaries for a New Year's Eve date.

"C'mon, Don Juan, all of France awaits us." Illya nudged him forward, while digging in his pocket for the keys to the UNCLE car. "Inspector..."

"Chief Inspector," Solo corrected a split second before the Frenchman could jump in. "Remember the proper titles, old boy."

"Of course," Illya scowled at his partner and tried again. "Chief Inspector, are you sure you want to drive? The roads can be rather hazardous in the city this time of year."

"My dear Ivan, a great detective must be ready for a little hardship, must be prepared to face the elements with only his wits at hand. It's part of the job, doncha know."

"Whatever." Illya tossed the keys to him and turned back to Solo, not before, however, seeing the Frenchman drop the keys and scoop them back up again in a hasty motion. "Wonderful, do you want to toss to see who follows in the back-up car?"

"Of course not!" Solo was jovial. "I will go with the In..Chief Inspector. I'm certain of his skill."

"It's your life, old friend," Illya murmured softly before accepting Solo's keys. "I'll give you a five minute lead and park outside the south entrance to the airport. That should give me enough of a chance to keep any uglies off your tail."

"Great, we'll be looking for you. Shall we?" He gestured his driver onward.

Illya shrugged his shoulders and followed the two out into the cold December night with an air of resignation.

The Inspector stopped in his tracks at the sight of the UNCLE car as it sat, almost invisible among the snow banks that lined the streets.

"The Silver Hornet!" He slid his way up to the car and ran a hand lovingly along a fender. Suddenly, a jolt of electricity shot up his arm and sat him down in a nearby pile of snow.

"Inspector!" Napoleon ran up to him and helped him sit up, brushing the snow away hastily.

"Chief Inspector." The man shook free of Solo's grasp. "What kind of swine car is that?"

"Anti-tampering device." The dark-haired American reached into the pocket of his suit coat and pulled out a cigarette lighter. Taking deliberate aim, he flicked it on. "There you go, all disarmed. The boys in the lab gave it a ten second delay trigger so we wouldn't go shocking any careless passersby, but dogs tend to leave it alone." Napoleon popped open the passenger's wing door and climbed in.

"So I can well imagine." The Frenchman cautiously approached the vehicle as he brushed the last bit of snow from his trench coat. He rounded the car and darted a hand out to cautiously touch the door handle. Receiving no shock, he prepared to grab it, just as the door swung up. In a panic, the man unleashed a tremendous karate chop on the metal.

Suppressing a cry of pain, he clenched the hand and shoved it behind his back.

"Chief Inspector, aren't you coming? That plane is due in soon and your guest mustn't fall into the wrong clutches." Napoleon leaned over the seat and looked up at him.

"Of course, of course," he answered loudly, then muttered, "Swine door," before climbing in to join the American UNCLE agent.

He looked around the dash for a long moment until he located a suitable slot and inserted the key.

"Now, Chief Inspector, I would advise you to take it easy. This little car has a lot of power and Illya might have trouble keeping up."

"Right!" The car took off like a scared rabbit and Napoleon found himself holding on for his life.

Any urging for the man to slow down only brought a new burst of speed from the car. Luckily, the heavy snow of the night before kept many other would-be travelers home and the roads were fairly clear of obstacles. However, when the Inspector tried for a sharp right onto 46th, the wheels locked and the car started to spin.

"Grab onto something!" Solo shouted, bracing himself in the bucket seat for the impending crash.

He didn't exactly see what knob the Frenchman chose, but the car suddenly shuddered, then bucked violently like a rope bridge in a storm. Napoleon turned to see what could have possibly occurred and he pitched forward into the padded dashboard.

He opened his eyes an undeterminable amount of time later to a gentle patting on his face. He blinked up at the face before him until the features settled down to be those of his Russian partner.

"Welcome back," Illya murmured. "I was about to give you up as lost."

"What hap...?" Solo tried to sit up, then groaned and sunk back down against the blond.

"Let that be a lesson to you. Just lie still and be glad you're alive. As to what happened, I'm not really sure, but as far as I can tell, the Inspector launched one of the rockets without lifting the door first. Blew the hell out of that side of the car."

"The Inspector!?"

"Oh, he's all right. Currently, he's off scouting the area for plug uglies." Illya dabbed at a trickle of blood on Solo's forehead with his handkerchief. "I should get you to the hospital though. You might have a concussion."

"I'm fine." Solo sat up and rubbed his neck.

"And/or a whiplash too. You must have been going at quite a clip when you hit that snow bank. Sure made a mess of that building's wall." He pulled out a pen, removed the cap and extended the antenna. "I suppose I should let Mr. Waverly know what's going on. He'll probably want to send a back-up."

"That's far enough, UNCLE."

Illya swung in the direction of the voice, his hand reaching for the Walther P-38, but he checked the movement at the sight of too many rifle barrels pointed in his direction.

"I think we've been gotten by some of THRUSH's finest." Solo rose groggily to his feet. "But why? We're not even on an assignment."

"Oh, sure, you blow the wall out of our New York headquarters and you're not on any assignment." The head THRUSH reached into Solo's coat and removed the holstered P-38. "Try some other angle, Mr. Solo."

"I've passed that building a thousand times and never gave it a second glance," Illya said, incredulous as he was searched and his weapon removed.

"We know, but now you've seen it for the last time. Inside!"

The two UNCLE agents walked quietly in front of their guards, hands above their heads.

"You think the Inspector got away," Solo asked, sotto voce, to Kuryakin.

"No muttering. If you have to say something, speak up so we all can hear it," commanded the nearest THRUSH.

"I just said I think I'm going to be sick." Napoleon collapsed down to his knees just long enough to attract attention, then came back up, ramming both fists into the nearest guards. He brought them down and grabbed a rifle as Illya was finishing up with the two remaining men.

"Sneaky, Napoleon, very sneaky. I didn't know you had it in you," Illya granted as he retrieved their guns from the half-conscious guards.

"All right now, fellows, you are now under UNCLE's protective eye - move!"

Illya edged behind Solo to gain a better vantage point on them and then let out a yelp of pain as the wall swung open, catching him neatly in the back, knocking both the gun and his wind from him. The impact threw him into Solo, who in turn was slammed into the opposite wall. Just before losing consciousness, he heard a vaguely familiar French accented voice.

"Yes, I know I pushed the wrong button, you fool. That is why I pushed this one."

Napoleon draped his hands over the crossbar of the cell door, looking slowly over his shoulder at the sound of a groan.

"Hi. How's your head?"

"Did you get the number of that tank?" Illya rolled over and swung his feet to the floor. "Now it's my turn. What the hell happened?"

"Apparently, our French guest isn't as foolish as he appears to be. He not only found the secret passageway into this fortress, but he's also managed to convince the head THRUSH that he's part of them."

"I'm not so sure that he isn't." Illya stood and took a staggering step sideways. "I've never had one of our guys bang me up like this."

"Whether you consider him friend or foe, my Russian pessimist, he is our way out of here. Unless you have any ideas of how to break out of this cell and then make your way up or down several floors through enemy territory to freedom."

"Well, give me a minute or two, I just got here. Do you have your tie tack or cuff links?"

"Nope."

"Belt, buttons anything?"

Napoleon turned, his formerly clean and starched shirt hanging agape. "I have been stripped bare of everything. They even found the explosive elastic in my underwear. I'll wager you're equally clean."

The sound of approaching voices interrupted him and Illya walked over to join Solo at the cell door.

"And these are the holding facilities," an unfamiliar man was saying to the smaller slender man beside him as they rounded the corner.

"I see. And is this where you would be holding the madmen I captured this evening?"

Solo rolled his eyes at his partner and Illya grunted, dropping his head to rest on his braced arms.

"Yes, here they are, Mr..."

"Jacques, please."

"Whatever you say, sir. Anyhow, there are your prisoners. I hope you don't mind, but I have notified THRUSH Central of their capture. They'll be sending an interrogation squad as soon as possible. In the meantime, they are under the strictest of conditions. This pair has the unnerving habit of being able to get out of just about any cell."

"By all means, take the measures you think are necessary."

"If I had done that, they'd both be dead." The man broke off in a laugh, hastily joined by the Chief Inspector.

"I was wondering, would it be all right for me to ask them a few questions of my own?" The Frenchman slammed one gloved fist into another. "I used to be quite good at this in my younger days."

"Go right ahead, although I don't know why you'd want to waste your time on them. Our experts will take what they want and ship what's left back to Waverly in a manila envelope."

"Where have I heard that before?" Illya muttered, glancing up at the man through blond bangs. He wasn't quite fast enough to get out of the way of the THRUSH's riding crop. It caught Illya's right forearm with a viciousness that made Solo's stomach wrench, but the Russian merely regarded him, not giving the man the satisfaction of knowing how much that had hurt.

"Go ahead, Jacques, question away. And don't be afraid to use force. It's all this one knows," he said, pointing to the Russian, who had straightened and tactfully pulled away from the man's reach. "You have to get their attention first, if you know what I mean." He handed the riding crop over to the Frenchman.

"Of course, I shall be quite strict. Excuse me." The Inspector pulled away from the THRUSH and walked closer to the bars. "That should teach you a lesson, you scum UNCLE agent," he spoke loudly, then more softly "Heads up, boys." He fumbled something from his pocket and dropped it on the floor, kicking it into the cell with the tip of his shoe. "You can't fight us."

Napoleon immediately covered the object up with his foot, especially as the THRUSH had stuck his head back around the corner, a frown on his face.

"We have to." Napoleon countered. "They're the bad guys, we're the good guys."

"Not anymore." Then, softer, "I'll create a diversion."

"Jacques," the THRUSH spoke loudly. "There's a lot more of the facility to see. Don't waste your time with them."

"Quite right, quite right." The Inspector slapped his hands together.

"What kind of distraction do you think he'll try?" Solo murmured to Illya as they departed.

"Nothing big, I hope." Illya watched the two men move down the corridor before rubbing his forearm. "I'll wrap that stick around his throat if he's not careful."

"Take it easy, Illya, we're going to need to attract as little attention as possible if we're going to get out of here." Solo stooped and picked up the object.

"The key?" Illya was amazed. "I never would have guessed pick pocketing was one of his hidden talents."

Napoleon reached through and around the bars until he could fit the metal into the proper slot. He twisted and pushed at the bars with a shoulder, but it met against unyielding steel.

"Ow."

"Try turning it over," Illya suggested, half-heartedly.

"No luck, it doesn't fit this door."

"I wonder what it does fit." Illya walked back to the cot and laid down.

"Who knows?" Solo considered tossing the key over his shoulder, instead choosing to stuff it into a pants pocket and sunk down to the cement floor. "Who cares?"

Napoleon was sitting, leaning against the wall, hands dangling between his knees, when a commotion from the hall drew his attention to the corridor.

Stiffly, he rose to his feet and moved closer for a better look. Several guards ran by, seemingly more in panic than pursuit mode. Solo pondered this for a long moment, and then limped over to the bed and the sleeping Russian.

"Hey, Illya, there's goings-on out there." He shook a shoulder gently.

"Huh...ow..what do you mean?" Illya moved slowly, grimacing.

"Well, either all those men stampeding down the hall have just seen the biggest rat in New York's history, or the Inspector has started his distraction."

"For all the good it's going to do us." Illya sat up and reached for his boots. "Hey!"

"What?"

"The floor's all wet. Why didn't you warn me?" Illya shook water from a stocking foot.

"I didn't know." Solo frowned down at the water. "He's flooding the place? That's really ingenious. Why didn't we think of that?"

The lights started flashing on and off.

"Hmm, he must have found the generator," Napoleon guessed.

"Let's hope that's all he finds. If the water gets into the main computer bank, the whole place could go up."

"I didn't need to hear that." A distant rumble shook the cot the two men were sitting on. "Did you feel that?"

"No."

"Neither did I. Nor do I see our wall about to crumble." Napoleon pointed to the wall as water started trickling through cracks in the mortar.

"I think some wild, abandoned panic might be appropriate now, wouldn't you think?" Illya pulled his boots on, despite the 'squish' his foot made as he did.

"More than anything else. Let's use these mattresses as a cushion. When that wall goes, we're going to need all the protection we can get."

When the wall finally gave, a surge of water roared into the cell, the full impact hitting both him and Illya with enough force to make Napoleon think he might have just met his own Waterloo.

However, after the first wave, the water quickly found other exits with less resistance and drained away, leaving two drenched, coughing UNCLE agents behind it.

"Where in the name of heaven did he find all that water?" Illya pushed the mattress away from himself and shook his head.

Napoleon grappled his way to his feet and to the still draining hole, looking through it to the restroom beyond.

"I don't think you really want to know." Napoleon stepped over the bricks and into the flooded room. "It looks like he plugged everything up in here."

"I can see it now in our report - two of UNCLE's finest rescued by a French Flush."

"Royal Flush, Illya," Solo corrected.

"Not in this case." He joined Solo, still coughing water from his lungs.

"I suppose we can leave now." The lights flicked off except for a few emergency bulbs.

"Napoleon, that's the best idea you've had all night." They splashed through the room and to the exit. "Hey, do you still have that key?"

"I think so, why?" Solo reached into his pants pocket and dug for a moment before pulling it out and tossing it to Kuryakin.

Illya took the key and fitted it into the lock that graced the face of the door. "That's what I thought. The executive washroom."

"Will you come on?" Solo moved into the corridor and looked around.

"You know, gallant leader, if that water finds the computer room, there is going to be an explosion that's likely to wake the entire South Side."

"So, we find the Inspector and leave."

"I don't think there's time for that. Besides, I have a feeling we'd be doing all of France a service by leaving him here."

"Somehow, I think you're right. C'mon, let's try the stairs."

They sloshed their way over to the stairwell and fought the door open. Inside wasn't much drier as water from upper floors dripped down upon them.

"How did he manage all of the bathrooms?" Solo was amazed.

"Did you ever question Hitler, Rasputin, or Genghis Khan? Better to ask how we're going to get out of here."

"No problem. We leave the way we came."

"I don't know about you, Napoleon, but I was unconscious on the trip in. However, knowing how these buggers love to dig, let's try up."

They half ran, half stumbled up the flight of stairs and were ready to take on another flight when the fire door swung open on them, knocking Illya into the wall and Napoleon down several stairs before he was able to grab onto the banister.

"Boys, am I glad to see you!" The Chief Inspector rushed out to them, falling back a step as Illya turned from the wall, blood dripping from his nose.

"Don't be so sure. I can make you very unhappy."

"Now, Ivan..."

"Illya!" The Russian demanded, dragging a sleeve across his split upper lip and leaving a smear of red on the white cotton.

"Take it easy, Illya." Solo grappled back up the stairs. "First we get out of here, and then you wreak revenge. Okay, Inspector, how do we leave?"

They were barely clear of the building when a soft rumble from the bowels of the building grew, becoming an all-out roar. The resulting blast went up the center of the building, blowing off the roof.

In the flames of the explosion, Solo could swear he could see the Inspector's face. Illya turned to him, but when he opened his mouth, it was Mr. Waverly's voice that came out.

"Mr. Solo!" The voice cut in on his reverie. "I asked you if you could think of anything to add to the Chief Inspector's report."

"Yes, sir, I was just thinking over the affair. I think he got it all." He stopped at Illya's sneeze. Or rather, we got it all, he added mentally.

"All right, gentlemen, you're excused for the moment. Go home and change. Stop by Medical on the way out."

"Yes, sir..." Wearily, Solo rose, holding onto the back of the chair until the dizzy spell passed. A buzzer sounded, threatening to rip the top of his head off until Waverly silenced it with a practiced move.

"Yes, Miss...Green."

"Sir, the taxi is here to take the Chief Inspector and his prisoner to the airport for the trip back to France."

"Oh, that's the best medicine money could buy," Illya murmured to Solo as the Frenchman exchange good-byes with their chief.

"Amen to that," Solo was forced to agree.

"Boys!" The Chief Inspector grabbed a bruised hand and pumped it enthusiastically, while Solo suppressed a groan. Illya was more vocal, his groan sounding more like a plaintive sigh than anything else. "We shall probably never see one another again."

"Pity." Illya left it at that.

"Yes, my little Russki friend, it is, but if you're ever in Paris, you know where to find me."

"That's a comforting thought." Solo turned to follow Kuryakin out and the Frenchman joined them, pausing to deliver a killing karate chop to Waverly's door as it slid shut.

They were halfway to the entrance when they saw the relief receptionist approach them. Napoleon smiled as gallantly as possible.

"Oh, Mr. Solo, look at you." She gently touched his forehead. "Looks like you may be out of commission for New Year's Eve."

"Not necessarily. A private celebration can be as satisfying as a noisy, crowded party. Some excellent feminine company and one will never miss the others."

"When you decide who, give her my best."

Illya rolled his eyes as he recognized the patented Solo charm rising to the surface. He started walking towards the sickbay.

"Well, I was sort of hoping it would be you." Solo's tone was persuasive.

"Oh, Mr. Solo, I'm flattered." She batted her eyelashes at him. "But I'm afraid I'm already busy." She linked arms with the Chief Inspector. "Jacques has promised to show me the Arc de Triomphe in the moonlight. Are you ready, Jacques?"

"Of course, my dear." They walked away together, leaving Solo, his mouth agape, standing there with a snickering Illya, whose face grew somber when Solo turned back to him.

"Peace, I get no peace from that man."

"C'mon, Napoleon." Illya placed a sympathetic arm around his partner's shoulders. "We can slink away some place and bleed together. No use crying over spilt vodka."

"Milk, Illya."

"You cry over what you want and I cry over what I want. And right now, vodka is sounding better and better..doncha know?"

He grinned at the dark-haired American and they limped off down the corridor.

T.H.E. E.N.D.