You what the worse part about my job is? Surprisingly, it's not the stupid lame-ass jokes. The ones that everyone thinks they came up with. "Hey, if you make a mistake counting sheep at night, do you stay awake until you've found the mistake?" "How does an accountant do for birth control?—He talks about his business." "What's the definition of an accountant? Someone who solves a problem, you didn't know you had, in a way you don't understand." These are not funny, folks, really I beg you stop, please, by all that's Holy just stop with the jokes...
Where was I? Ah, the worse part of my job. It's trying to make heads or tails out the receipts that get routinely directed to me. I don't mind the hen scratch, I don't mind the little rust color dots (that was until someone finally told me was blood -yech). It's the fact that those Section 2 guys must think I'm a lame brain. Some of their explanations—tore pants toppling an evil regime. Yea, right, more like running from the farmer whose daughter you ruined, you mean. I'm not stupid, I have a degree, I'm a CPA for crying out loud!
They turn stuff in, I turn it back, they protest, I counter-protest, yadda, yadda, yadda. It would just be easier if I dumped everything into the garbage and made up my own figures. Still, it's a job, a well paying one and you can't say the days are boring. Take what happened about a month ago...
I come in, ready to face the day, whistling, carrying a nice lunch that Mother so thoughtfully packed for me, flirted a little with Shirley—got the cold shoulder—tried again with Ginny—better! Maybe next week, I'll even have enough courage to tell her my name. I head to my desk and surprise of all surprises, Liam Hanson is already in place...or Handsome Hanson as the ladies call him. He's only been with us a couple of months and I instantly disliked him. He's too polished, too perfect and yet, since he started, things have been a little off, bookwise. It's nothing I can prove- typical. I just knew he was up to something, so I watched him... This guy has too much of everything—too much good looks, too much height, too much hair; it isn't right than an accountant should have so much hair. Hanson would put that Russian Section 2 to shame.
And that got me thinking. The pair of them was due this morning for one of our usual 'debates.' The receipts those two turn in regularly make it up onto our "Bulletin Board of Wild Tales". This time the receipts were for: a jug of olive oil, dry cleaning, a new suit, several taxis to the Casbah, unauthorized hotel rooms (for parties undeclared—one of them got lucky!), wine, dinner, you name it, these guys voucher it—or at least try to.
Anyhow, I'm sitting at my desk and I notice something a little strange about Hanson. He's working on a ledger that I'd never seen before. It was small, almost like a steno pad and he kept his arm curled around it, like he was trying to casually hide it from view.
"Hey, Hanson, what you got there?"
"None of your business," he snapped and hurried stuffed the book into a drawer.
I'm sorry, I'm senior CPA. Everything in this department is my business! If he's doing some accounting, that's fine, but not on UNCLE's time. We get paid well to keep our nose to the grindstone. So I gather my mighty 5'8" frame up and stalk up to his desk.
"What are you doing?" I try to sound like that Solo guy does when he thinks he can sweet talk me into accepting yet another receipt for a suit. No one goes through three suits in two days—nobody!
"Nothing!" Okay, so now I get really curious. Some of my other fellow accountants are wandering in, but no one is paying us any attention. I look off into the distance and Hanson follows my gaze. Sucker! I grab the drawer and yank it open. The ledger is just sitting there, with a bunch of goobledy-gook embossed on the cover and that's when I see the Luger and part of a symbol. It's not a happy symbol—nothing like a swastika or anything like that. No, it was more avian in nature and I'm suddenly staggering back and turned to yell for help.
Hanson slams the drawer shut and stares at me. I'm thinking trying to decide how much I've already seen. His face is not so pretty anymore and his eyes are downright scary. I'm pretty sure he's going to drop me then and there and who should sudden come walking into the department but the Golden Ones—Solo and Kuryakin. And everything in the room shifts and takes on a different feel. We have Section 2 on the floor. And I can honestly say, for the first time in my life, I've never been happier to see them. Granted, neither of them is wearing their jackets and those guns look bigger and meaner than the ones the Section 3 people carry.
"If you say anything, I will kill you." Hanson says and his expression promises to keep his word. I stumble back to my desk and start thinking. Even a THRUSH agent, as I'm sure Hanson is now wouldn't be so crazy to provoke a fight with a couple of Section 2 boys.
But how to alert them, how to make them understand? Hanson's desk is beside mine, he can hear, he can see everything.
"All right, Mr. Goldberg, we are here, as requested." Solo sits and Kuryakin stands, that's the usual procedure with the pair.
"Mr. Kuryakin, would you like a chair?" I've never offered before and was hoping he'd pick up that something was different.
"No, thank you..." He seemed a little perplexed by my question, but he just shrugged it off.
"So about these expenditures...were they THRUSH related?" I emphasized the word and looked off to my right at Hanson. He was frowning and his hand was very close to his drawer. Ready for a quick draw I suppose.
"Ah... yes, yes, they were, as a matter of fact. Aren't they always?" Solo glanced up from his file folder and frowned. "You returned this receipt for the cab fare..."
"I've decided to allow it."
"Huh..." Solo exchanged this weird look with his partner. "And about the olive oil expenditure—there's a really good reason. You see, Illya..."
"What's a little olive oil between friends? Sounds like a wild party to me." Kuryakin actually sort of blushed. I had no idea why and frankly I didn't care at the moment. I pulled off my glasses, which is stupid because I can't see to change my mind with them off and Solo knew that too.
"It's only a party when you don't end up in the hospital," Kuryakin muttered, rubbing his head thoughtfully. Solo chuckled, but his eyes were wary, studying me. He was suspicious now and that was good. I never cut these two any slack—never. And Solo knew that. Likewise, Kuryakin was starting to pick up on something, but whether it was me or just his partner's uneasiness, it wasn't clear.
"So THRUSH, right?" I glanced over at Hanson with my eyes, but never move muscle. Solo suddenly looks over at Hanson and the man visibly cringes. He has that power with everyone...well, not his partner, but everyone else... I was fumbling with my glasses now, twisting them in my hands nervously.
"Absolutely, THRUSH." Solo repeats. "So, Mr. Goldbert, is there something that we need to sign to get this underway?"
He's never misspoke my name before. Napoleon Solo doesn't do that—ever—and my heart starts to slow down a little and my bowels stop clenching...he's gotten the message that something is wrong. Unfortunately, so has Hanson. He's moving toward to desk drawer and that's when I spring into action.
Well, actually I dropped my glasses and went to reach for them. Solo grabbed my arm and pulled, yanking me out of the line of fire. Things were a little blurry from then on until I got my glasses back on. But I know suddenly Solo and Kuryakin were in front of me, blocking me from Hanson, shielding me. Me, someone who gave them nothing but grief over things like parking fees, bar tabs, taxi rides and they were willing to risk death to protect me. Made me glad I was me and not them. I don't have that sort of generous nature that I'd be willing to risk my hide on a daily basis. But these guys did and without a moment's hesitation—I would have been dead if they had paused.
It's amazing how loud gunfire is. It was like the room imploded from the sound and when it ended, Hanson was down, but not dead and Solo was on the floor, bleeding, his partner knocked out of the way.
"What the hell were you thinking?" Kuryakin snapped at his partner as he crawled to Solo's side and tore open Solo's sleeve. It was abruptly clear to me how easily a Section 2 could go through clothes and why. "Get me a first aid kit," he yelled over his shoulder as he held a handkerchief to Solo's arm.
"You would have caught that in the lung. I'm just scratched," Solo said. His idea of a scratch is way different from my idea. "Think we're going to have to change plans...sorry, no olive oil tonight."
Kuryakin was scowling now, but it was tempered with relief as he examined Solo's arm. "Not a problem. That stuff has an excellent shelf life or so I'm told. I'm not going anywhere." I wasn't getting the joke, but they sure were and that was okay. You could tell it was just something between them, almost a spiritual connection, something I had yet to establish with any of my fellow human beings... Kuryakin's tone got softer as he rendered first aid via a kit one of the girls had hauled over. There was an almost tenderness in the way he handled the cotton, the peroxide, the bandages—I'd never seen that side of him before. His hands were big, yet nimble and very careful.
"That was well-played, Mr. Goldberg," Solo said. "A Thrush in our midst—I can't wait to hear the story he tells when he wakes up. Illya, I do believe you have an appointment with Mr. Hanson this afternoon."
"I'll make sure he keeps it." Kuryakin pushed the kit aside. "That should hold you until you get down stairs to Medical. You're going to need stitches in that. Honestly, Napoleon, now you don't even need to leave the office to destroy your wardrobe."
"I'm imagining that I'm not going to have a problem with this voucher, Mr. Goldberg?"
"I think I can see my way clear, gentlemen...this time." I wasn't going to back down entirely, but I did have a better idea of just how they managed to incur some of these losses.
"I think it was tremendously brave of you, thwarting that THRUSH agent like that." I hear this soft voice, like honey and figure one of the girls is hitting on Solo or Kuryakin, but it's Shirley and she's looking at me. Makes sense she'd be attracted to action, but my eye drifts back to Ginny, who still looking a bit scared in spite of the fact that the Section 3's have arrived to drag Hanson's sorry ass off to wherever they drag people off to at HQ. I'd never really thought of it before.
Solo winks at me and with Kuryakin in close attendance, he heads for the door. Two steps and Solo's knees sag a little and his partner is there bracing him up, his own shirt bloodied as he slips an arm around Solo and helps him.
Section 2's—what the hell are you going to do with them? Say what you will, they're a pain in the ass, but it's still nice to know that even accountants can count on someone...
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