The com tech pulled the duty log from its place even as he pushed the button to identify the signal. There were no teams out this time, he noted. The duty logs showing that all agents were accounted for. He rapidly checked the sign in logs, yes he was in the building. The computer in front of him beeped, spewing out the identity and location of the rogue communication. His eyes wide, he opened the frequency for the Boss.
Napoleon Solo, Number One Section One of UNCLE NYC, leaned back in his chair behind the big mahogany desk that he had inherited so long ago. Idly he looked around his office. Sometimes, it struck him as odd, to be the Old Man. Those thoughts usually came to him as he watched the younger agents come and go. Many came through the doors into his domain, some returned, some didn't. It was then that he really felt his age. He sighed pulling his thoughts from the dark path they were wont to tread upon. He pushed the stack of files in front of him in irritation. Paperwork had never been his strong point and it still wasn't. Even with the competence of his personal assistant he had an inordinate amount of signing to do. I wonder if its possible to die from paperwork, he wondered as he opened one more file waiting for his signature before being sent into the annals of UNCLE history. Just as he was ready to start reading, his intercom bleeped.
"Mr. Solo I am sorry to bother you, but something has come up here in communications. Sir, the computer has red flagged a transmission for your eyes only." The solemn voice of the com tech seemed strained. Napoleon's eye brow inched upward at his words. Odd, he thought.
"I'm on my way." He stood and hurried from his office. What transmission would trip the red flag program? He wondered as he walked briskly through the halls. He reached the com room in just a few minutes and peered over the tech's shoulder at the computer screen. The words there made his breath catch and for a moment, a hand squeezed painfully in his chest. "Have there been any other transmissions?" he asked once he had his control back.
"No sir, just the one."
"Is the channel still open?" He closed his eyes against the hope.
"No, sir. It failed shortly after we received the first transmission." He nodded sharply. Reaching over the tech, he hit the print command and waited as the printer spewed out the requested documents. He ripped the page from it and folded it carefully. Then deliberately he cleared the screen. Without saying a word, he commandeered the key board and with a few deft strokes, erased all entries related to the transmission. The tech looked at him in shock. The look in his eyes forestalled anything the young agent might have said.
"Listen well, nothing came through the com this evening. This conversation never took place and you never received ANY transmission." Solo ordered sternly. The chill in his voice reminded the agent of HOW Solo had become Number One Section One. The tech nodded slowly. Solo spun on his heel and stalked away, carrying the single piece of paper in his fist like a talisman.
He reached the sanctity of his office and locked the door behind him. For a moment he stood, not seeing it's familiar confines, his gaze turned inward, lost in the memories that came unbidden to his mind. With an effort he crossed to the settee that graced the wall across from him where he sat heavily. The crackle of paper from his fist caught his attention and he carefully smoothed the creases from the fragile piece he held. He spread it on his knee, drinking in the words that held so much hope for him. For someone who meant so much to him. Their computer precise blocking blurred as the tears began to fall from his eyes. Their outlines softened and he rubbed a hand against his face and raised his eyes to the ceiling in silent supplication. "Please." He whispered to whatever or whomever might be listening. "Please."
Once he had regained his composure he reached into his jacket and pulled out a slender pen that he carried, more for nostalgia than anything else these days. And with a deft twist freed the radio antenna from its confines. He moistened his suddenly dry lips and cleared his throat. "Open channel D."
Across the globe, the atonal whistle of the communicator split the night. Instantly awake, years of conditioning coming to the fore, he reached for the item laying on the nightstand next to him. His hand brushed over the butt of his gun for a moment, closing on the slender pen. "This had better be good." He said softly into the communicator. 'It's late, and I'm tired, Napoleon." His soft accent was more pronounced, fatigue making his voice husky. He sat up in the bed and turned on the lamp, it's soft light turning his silver blond hair white.
"Illya, I-- you need to get back here as soon as you can." Napoleon's voice sounded strained.
"Napoleon, is everything all right?" He was wide awake now, one hand reaching for his glasses as he spoke.
"Yes, no-- Illya just, get back here." There was silence for a moment. Then Napoleon's next words sent his world careening out of control. "A transmission came through about twenty minutes ago. On your communicator. The one we have been looking for." He couldn't breathe. His hand trembled and his head thunked against the headboard. "Illya, we got a location."
"Nap--?"
"I don't know."
'I'll be on the first flight back that I can get." Illya threw the covers back from his legs and swung them over the edge of the bed.
"I'll have the jet ready when you get to the airport, tovarich. I'll be waiting."
"Spasibo tovarich." He said softly. "Out."
Thirty minutes later found him boarding one of UNCLE's private jets at Orly, the pilot greeting him with a small smile. He didn't ask questions of agents, and most especially not of the CEA of Global Operations, Illya Kuryakin. He watched the slim blond buckle in then closed the cabin door. His preflight was done, he was just waiting on the tower to give them the green light.
Illya leaned his head back against the leather covered seat, and allowed his mind to wander back in time. Painful though they were, his memories were better comfort to him than the hope that he was attempting to keep under control. The lights of the Paris airport faded replaced by the lights of what had once been Alexander Waverly's office...
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