The 747 Affair
by Charlie Kirby

Napoleon Solo stretched his legs out in the space that First Class seating afforded and, sighing with contentment, tilted his head back.

"It's nice to see how the rich fly," he murmured with a lingering smile. "We were fortunate that Mr. Waverly wanted us back in such a hurry. Otherwise, we'd be back with...them." He waved his hand towards the back of the plane.

"I don't know." Illya Kuryakin spared a brief moment from the report of their latest assignment to glance out his window. "Aside from the drinks being free and there being a little more leg room, I don't see much advantage. Scenery looks the same from here as it does from there." He pushed his glasses back into place with a finger and brushed a handful of blond hair off his forehead, returning to the papers before him.

"Perhaps for you, but the scenery I prefer doesn't entail eyestrain." Napoleon's eyes lovingly caressed the inviting sway of a passing stewardess.

"Napoleon, you are hopeless." Illya shifted, then winced.

"Something wrong?"

"No, I should have anticipated that the straps of this holster would shrink when they dried. Never trust new holsters."

"Or old enemies." He trailed off as their glasses of champagne were refilled, then raised his to his partner. "To drip-dry holsters."

"And the profound hope that we may soon never again need them." Illya touched his glass to Napoleon's. "Nostrovia."

Napoleon nodded and sipped delicately at the wine. "Not bad... not good, but not bad. Reminds me of a bottle I had in a small town in Italy, about two years ago. There was this girl--"

"There always is." Illya's dry comment was interrupted by a flurry of activity and a woman's panicky scream.

"Okay, none of you slobs move," a voice shouted and Napoleon's attention dropped to examine the meticulous crease of his slacks. Obviously, the comment was not aimed directly at him.

"We can run, but we cannot hide," Illya muttered.

The curtain was swept aside and two men pushed their way into the First Class section of the plane. The second man dragged a stewardess along with him, frequently waving a gun in her direction.

"Pity, even First Class seems to be slipping downhill." Illya tugged off his glasses and tucked them into a shirt pocket, casually slipping the P-38 from its resting place beneath his left arm. Just as easily, he lowered it, nestling it beneath the pages of his report before the gunman could react.

"You got a death wish, Blondie?" The large-barreled gun swiveled towards Illya's blue-eyed stare of innocence.

"No, just one for a little peace. You wouldn't happen to have a silencer for that, would you?"

"Probably not," Napoleon cut in. "They don't look very well prepared."

"You want to see the inside of a pine box, sucker?" The gun now found Napoleon as the first of the pair forced his way into the cockpit, threatening the pilots with harsh promises of crude violence if they tried to intervene.

"Pine? Illya?" The velvet brown eyes asked a silent, but pleading question.

"Mahogany, Napoleon, I promise. Only the best." Illya nodded slowly. "And your pall bearers will be the most beautiful women I can find. I swear."

The man backed away from them, closer to the cockpit, remembering to glare about at the other few First Class passengers. "Nobody get any ideas about playing hero, because if one of you makes a smart move, the girlie here gets her brains splattered all over--"

They never did find out the rest, for Illya's Walther P-38, resting on the armrest of the preceding seat, spat softly and the man crumbled, gurgling his protest at the mercy bullet implanted in his arm.

The remaining man spun from the Captain and, predictably bent on self-preservation, leapt into the compartment reserved for over-sized carry-on luggage. He used the thin plywood wall as a shield as he targeted the slender UNCLE agent.

"Okay, Blondie, you with the gun, drop it!"

"Silly, really," Napoleon observed, drawing his own UNCLE Special and aiming, all in one smooth motion. "They focus so much on one of us that they forget the other." The bullet sent the man back into the cockpit from the recoil.

"Their loss," Illya muttered.

The pilot looked down at the hijacker, then fearfully up at Napoleon, who was helping the stewardess to her feet. She smiled at him, thankfully, then looked back at the pilot.

"Not to worry, Captain. These are the men from UNCLE. Are they...dead?" She directed the question to Napoleon.

"No, they're just asleep and they should stay that way until we land in New York. Only a madman would discharge a weapon on an aircraft."

"How can I thank you, Mr...?"

"Napoleon, Napoleon Solo, my dear. Perhaps in New York, we can get together and discuss the topic further." His smile curled around each word as the cultivated Napoleon charm kicked up into full force. "Now I think you'd best attend to your other passengers."

As she walked hesitantly away, Napoleon returned to his glass of champagne as if nothing at all had occurred. "Remind me not to fly this airline again. This one attracts the wrong type of people."

"Doesn't it just?" Illya slid the P-38 into its holster, reseated his glasses upon his nose and returned to his report.