The Northstar Affair
by Charlie Kirby

Illya Kuryakin paused in the dark and looked cautiously about. After a long moment, he gestured forward and crept on, closely followed by a group of enthusiastic, if inexperienced, troops.

Carefully, Illya approached the door and eased it open. Warning squeaks stopped him and he held out a hand. Immediately, an oil can was slapped into it. Two quick gollops later found him passing the can back and again he attempted the door. It moved quietly, without resistance.

Illya nodded and moved onward once more. He navigated past the slumbering form of a woman, who, in her sleep, clutched a meat cleaver to her ample chest, and came upon the purpose of their mission.

Grinning, he reached for a can.

Chapter One—ARE YOU READY FOR THE SUMMER?

Illya Kuryakin looked drearily into the cup of red liquid and decided that it must have cost two cents a gallon. No, he went gladly back to his coffee and wondered how the campers managed it.

His thoughts trailed off as the head counselor rose and cleared his throat.

"May I have your attention please?"

"Sure, Mickey!" a barrage of voices shouted back.

"That's Morty," the bespectacled man admonished. "It has come to my attention that the pantry was raided last night. Besides a chocolate cake and the cook's private reserve of soda, the camp's entire supply of spinach was taken. If the guilty party or parties... "

He was drowned out by cheering and Illya decided it was coincidence that Morty happened to be looking straight at him while addressing this problem. For the sake of brotherhood, he joined his table's shouts of approval and smiled at the nearest boy. Yes, a most successful affair.

Yet, even amongst the gaiety, he never let his attention stray from the sole purpose for his being here. The scrawny, over-active, brown haired boy was the son of an eminent scientist, who was a current target of THRUSH. Neither UNCLE nor Mr. Waverly could be sure THRUSH would try to put moves on the boy, but neither did they believe in taking chances. If THRUSH did, Illya was here to stop them. If not, Illya got to spend six supposedly-restful weeks at Camp Northstar, surrounded by pines, lusting teenage girls and a head counselor who resembled Bullwinkle the Moose.

Illya put down his coffee mug and toyed with the uneaten portion of his breakfast. During his time here, he'd taught his campers the subtle art of surviving, including removing hinges from a screen door, the Russian way of short sheeting beds and most importantly, the correct way of disposing of canned spinach.

All this was just a ruse, a smoke screen for the protection of young Byrne. With fifteen eight- and nine-year-olds on the alert, it would make it fifteen times harder for THRUSH to reach their prey.

For his part, the boy seemed blissfully unaware of being a target, seeing nothing more than a promising summer with a less than conventional counselor in training.

Morty had abandoned his table and Illya signaled his group to move out. Parents Day was a big event. Some of these kids were away from home for the first time. Illya was also looking forward to today for it would bring Professor Byrne and his bodyguard, Napoleon Solo.

Illya missed his partner, more than he'd admit to himself, blaming it instead on the lack of news from the world outside. His only brush with that had been a radio, possessed by a single minded female counselor. He had chosen, instead, to remain uninformed. Illya followed the boys out, watching them scatter, all getting into position for the first of the expected cars. It was not long before a single vehicle drove through the camp gates, then another and another after that, until the field was packed with various cars and trucks.

Finally, a dark sedan pulled in and Illya grinned with relief at the familiar visage of his partner, Napoleon Solo.

"Eric!" Illya shouted to the boy and gestured. That was all Eric needed; he was off, barely permitting the car to come to a stop. Professor Byrne was nearly as excited and Napoleon lagged behind, permitting the two a moment alone.

"Anything?" He nonchalantly posed the question to the blond Russian as he studied the surrounding area.

"Possibly, but it's hard to tell." Illya crossed his arms over his 'Camp Northstar' shirt and studied his partner. Napoleon had a fading bruise on one cheek. "You've had some trouble."

"Nothing I couldn't handle. Have you had any likely bird sightings?"

"We've had a few problems, but nothing to suggest that THRUSH is actively involved. We may have some across the lake at Camp Mohawk. Oh!" Illya snapped his fingers. "About four or five miles back up the road, there was a turnoff."

"I remember it."

"If you follow the path about a mile, you'll come to a shallow cove."

"So?"

"So, if you check under the bank to one side, you'll find 100 pounds of prime rib."

"Prime rib?" Solo repeated a bit too loudly for Illya's taste.

"Shhh!" Illya warned, looking over his shoulder for Morty. "It is the fruits of our labor from one of our more successful raiding parties."

"That's stealing, Illya."

"Napoleon, you stick around here for a few meals and you'll be ready to sink to a life of crime as well. Believe me when I say, the act was born out of desperation."

"It's still stealing. One hundred pounds..."

"...and five cans of caviar," Illya added, studying the ground.

"Five?"

"Bulgarian. Very good stuff, I kept a can for myself." Illya shrugged his shoulders. "Still, if you're not interested in doing me a favor... "

"What would be the nature of this favor, Illya?"

"Load it into the back of your car and give it to Mic...Morty. I can't. He doesn't trust me."

"He's not the only one. Where did you learn such subversive tactics?"

"My partner taught me well." Illya smiled and then straightened at the sight of Eric dragging his father towards them. Behind them hovered a pair of younger men and the Russian eyed them warily.

"Who are the tailgaters?" He posed the question casually to Napoleon.

"Ours, my suspicious Slav. Mr. Waverly didn't think I could handle this all by myself."

Illya reached out and touched Napoleon's cheek. "Probably a good idea. You are getting on in years, after all." He was spared Solo's comeback by Eric's arrival.

"Papa, this is Illya, our counselor. He's so much fun! He's taught us all sorts of things."

The scientist smiled as he studied Illya. "I have heard a lot about you during the past ten minutes, Mr. Kuryakin. It's been 'Illya this' and 'Illya that.' You have made quite an impression upon my son. Thank you for taking the time to take care of him."

"As he has me, sir." They shook hands and Illya turned his attention to the hovering boy. "Eric, why don't you show your father what you made in shop yesterday?"

"Right! You'll love this, Papa, and you said I wouldn't be any good with tools. Everyone else was making bookends. I made a guillotine!" The boy grabbed his father's hand and was off, all enthusiasm, leaving behind a satisfied Russian and an interested Napoleon.

"You taught a nine year old how to make a guillotine?"

"Who needs yet another set of bookends? This one will trim cigars nicely, which Eric tells me his father is quite fond of."

"Don't I know it."

"I thought that aftershave wasn't quite you." At Solo's look of despair, Illya chuckled. "Just kidding, Napoleon. Would you like me to show you around?"

Napoleon's eye was caught by a passing woman counselor. "No, I think I'll just poke around."

"Uh huh," Illya acknowledged with a grin. He'd heard that story before. "Good hunting," he murmured as Napoleon walked away and he returned to his campers.

Chapter Two—ARE YOU READY FOR THE HOT NIGHTS?

Napoleon Solo picked his way through the underbrush and sighed. He was certain Illya meant this particular bend. Yet he could see nothing of the package his partner had described. So intent was he on his search that he drew up a second too late at the sound of a twig breaking.

"Grab 'em!" The voice came out of nowhere and he tried to struggle, but was out-numbered as a sack was pulled over his head. Warm, dusty darkness replaced the cool, crisp mountain air and he coughed as the dust filled his mouth and nose. His arms were bound behind him and he was pushed forward and then more gently led on.

The noise of the camp grew nearer and he was directed up a flight of stairs and pushed down onto something lumpy. He guessed it to be a mattress. Suddenly, Napoleon became aware of giggling, girl giggling, and he struggled to sit up.

"What's going on here?" a loud voice demanded. Solo jumped in spite of himself and tried to identify it as the sack was jerked from his head. Napoleon made a face at the fading sunlight. Gradually, his eyes adjusted and he saw several girls, all between the ages of fourteen and fifteen, and an obviously upset woman.

"Another sex slave, girls? You can't just go hauling men back to your cabin."

"We were trying for Illya, but he's too fast for us."

"Fast?" There was a squeal of delight from some of the younger girls and Napoleon winced. He'd forgotten just how high pitched their voices could be.

"You've got to stop trying to kidnap anyone. You need to learn to do your own... chores."

"But my governess said that would make me go blind."

"Or get hairy palms."

"Or have to wear glasses."

"Illya wears glasses... " Napoleon shied away at another onslaught of squeals.

The female counselor pointed. "Go! Now, back to the lodge." She pointed to the door. There were several protests, dragging of feet, but the young girls all eventually departed.

"I'm really sorry this happened, Mr. ..?"

"Solo, Napoleon Solo." He smiled as she untied his hands. Immediately, he reached up to smooth his hair into place. "Sex slave, huh?"

"They got the idea from one of those romances they read. I'm just surprised it wasn't Illya. He's practically all they talk about. God help him if they grab him and I'm not around to save his... virtue."

"Mr. Kuryakin is a very good friend of mine and, I assure you, your girls would be safe with him."

"It's not the girls I'm worried about. One more wistful comment about his butt and I'll scream."

Napoleon's grin nearly wrapped itself around his ears. He rose and held out a hand. "Well, thank you for my timely rescue."

"Any time. Oh, my name is Andi Burke. Are you staying tonight?"

"I hadn't planned to."

"Nearly everyone has left, I'm afraid. It's almost eight."

"What?" Solo thought of a frantic Kuryakin, smiled at the devilish thought, and then turned back to the woman. "Well, then could you show me the way to the main lodge, possibly by way of a stroll along the lake front?"

Chapter Three—BIRDS AND BEES AND APPLE TREES

However, Andi didn't seem to be as romantically inclined as her girls - to Solo's great disappointment. Even the patented Solo charm failed to warm the lady's heart and he suddenly found himself alone, in the moonlight, by the lake, with no one but himself for company.

He sighed, reflecting upon the twist of fate when a movement from the lake caught his attention. He squatted and stared long and hard. Then, quickly he made his way back to the camp.

Illya Kuryakin lounged on his cot, reading over a comic book one of his kids had loaned him and listening for any suspicious noise. After last night and today, most of his campers were asleep before 'lights out' was sounded. They were over-stimulated, well fed and exhausted.

A noise startled him, bringing him upright, gun at the ready, as Solo barged in.

"So, there you are," Illya said calmly. "I thought Mr. Waverly might have called you back to New York."

"I get captured as a sex slave, stood up by a female and that's all I get?"

"Sex slave, huh? Must be Cabin Ten - the jail bait cabin. They're all dressed up with no place to go, if you know what I mean."

"I know exactly what you mean. They were ready to take me for a spin, only slightly disappointed that it wasn't you, but that's not why I'm here. I saw something out on the lake, and it's coming this way."

"What sort of something?"

"A boat, I think. Perhaps THRUSH has decided to make its move."

Illya grimaced and stood, stiff from one too many games of baseball. He paused to pick up a pair of infra-red binoculars and gestured. "Lead on."

He trailed Solo down to the landing and peered out over the black water.

"Not THRUSH, Napoleon, Indians."

"Indians? In this part of the state?"

"Mohawks, campers from across the lake. We've got a raiding party on our hands and they're bent on a little revenge I would say." He moved away and Solo hesitated.

"Where are you going?"

"Reinforcements. If Custer had only waited, it would have ended better for him."

Chapter Four—AND A WHOLE LOT OF MESSING AROUND

Napoleon Solo squatted in the low brush that surrounded the landing dock and waited, his attention split between the approaching canoes and the four kids who were half submerged in the water.

As soon as the boats beached and the occupants filed silently up the embankment towards the slumbering camp, Solo softly called out to the boys. "Okay, move out and make sure you make the holes just above the water line."

"Gee, Mr. Solo, you're nearly as good at this as Illya is."

"Nice." Quietly, Napoleon trailed after the raiding party. He kept a fair distance between himself and the others, his mind not even ready to contemplate what his partner was up to. He hadn't seen Illya quite this creative in a long time. Obviously, Waverly's decision to send the agent off with the boy had been a good one. Illya was rested, relaxed and apparently well in touch with his inner child...well, inner juvenile delinquent might be closer.

"I think we should shoot for Blondie and forget the mess tent," a smaller Mohawk objected. "He's the problem. Besides, what could we possibly find here that's edible?"

They entered, filing past the snoring cook and into the storage room.

"Boy, are these guys slobs," protested another. "This floor is as sticky as glue."

"Close, very close." Napoleon heard his partner murmur.

The party abruptly registered that this was not one of them and then the lights flashed on and the Mohawks were hit by water, a lot of it, followed by a storm of flour and several very determined Northstar campers.

The Mohawks yelled and clambered from the cookhouse, running helter skelter towards their canoes. One was tackled and his shirt ripped from him. A sharp whistle called off the attack and the Northstar boys disappeared into the woods as the camp began to react to the commotion. Napoleon stayed in the shadows and laughed.

The Mohawks hit their boats at a dead run, pushing off without a moment's hesitation. Napoleon's squad retired back to the safety of their beds and missed the excitement when the raiding party suddenly discovered themselves sinking halfway across the lake. Some things were better left unobserved.

It was an hour later when Morty came slamming into cabin. Napoleon and Illya, both sitting at small table, looked up from their card game.

"Hey, Morty, what's happening out there?" Illya lifted a bottle of beer in a salute to him. "What are you doing up at this time of night?"

"I could ask you the same thing."

"Besides the obvious? I'm playing cards with my friend here."

"Were you responsible for that ruckus?"

"I've been here all night, Morty. Ask Mr. Solo. He'll vouch for me."

"And your campers?"

"Sound asleep. Check on them if you'd like."

"I...have." Morty made a 'what's the use?' motion and snatched the bottle of beer from Illya. "Alcohol isn't permitted on the premises," he snapped and trudged out of the cabin.

"So," Napoleon said as Illya let out a sigh and reached under his cot for another bottle. "What do you do around here for excitement?" Illya reached beneath his mattress and pulled out a can of caviar. He held it up for Napoleon's inspection. "With beer? You really are part Cossack, aren't you?"

Epilogue

Illya Kuryakin watched his friend drive off and waved at the back of the car, taking a moment to glance up at the Mohawk tee shirt that waved merrily in the breeze from the flag pole.

Only two more weeks and he'd have to go back to the sweltering heat of the city, the paperwork, rush hour traffic. A man could get fond of this, he decided.

That was when a sack was thrown over his head.