Work Text:
There are some folks in our organization who think Waverly only answers to one man, the Big Guy upstairs, and there are times that I can’t help but wonder if he does, indeed, have a direct line. It wouldn’t surprise me.
My official title is ‘Recruiter,’ but I’m actually the opposite. I’m the one that Waverly sends in to make sure the person being brought into our folds is a good fit. Thousands of people try to get into UNCLE on a number of levels, but we are highly selective and extremely cautious. One wrong choice and we could have a THRUSH in our midst. Even with all that care, it does happen, but it’s not often and it’s never been on my watch. I’ll turn down an applicant if he or she did, considered, or, hell, even thought about doing something untoward as they were growing up.
I’m not the one administering all the psych tests and that stuff, that’s more advanced. I’m the first line of defense. I don’t like what I see and it’s all over. Rarely am I or my decision questioned. Waverly places a lot of trust in me and I try to pay him back with excellent candidates.
Unlike many of my colleagues, I don’t mind paperwork. It’s what makes every organization thrive. Without a paper trail, how would we maintain consistency of practice? Or even know where we had been and where we were going?
It was while addressing a rather substantial pile of paperwork that I heard my door open and saw the Old Man standing there. Waverly rarely pays me a visit, although we talk frequently enough that my hands have stopped sweating at the sound of his voice.
“Mr. Cassfield, I have a rather delicate and extremely important task for you.” Now my hands start sweating as nothing good can come out of a statement like that.
“Yes, sir?” Belatedly, I stood and gestured to a chair. “Excuse me, would you like to sit down, sir?”
Waverly nodded and sat. I had no idea how old the man was; he looked about ninety, but his mind was still sharp.
“As you know, I have, for quite some time, been pursuing the recruitment of foreign agents. However, until recently, one major player has held back.”
“The Soviets?” It was no secret that Waverly desperately wanted them represented within our organization. The other Section One heads weren’t crazy about the idea; the fit would have to be perfect. The recruit would have to be 100% loyal to UNCLE, highly intelligent, physically adept, an ace in a variety of areas and someone his government trusted without question. In short, not likely anyone the Soviets would be willing to share, if, in fact, anyone matching those qualifications even existed.
“They have put forth a candidate.”
“Sir?”
Waverly dropped a file folder onto the top of the closest stack of papers. Intrigued, I opened it and nearly gasped.
“He’s just a child.”
“Mr. Kuryakin is twenty three, two years past our normal age requirement.”
I started to scan the statistics, shaking my head as I went. “I can’t believe… all of this and he’s only twenty three? Is that even possible?”
“From what I am told, he is extremely focused.”
“He’s not human,” I blurted out and then realized I was arguing with the man who could terminate me with a snap of his fingers. Dumb, dumb, dumb… “I’m sorry, sir, it’s not my…”
“Oh, on the contrary, Mr. Cassfield, I would worry had you accepted this with complacency. You have doubts, as do I. This young man seems too good to be true. I am entrusting you with a great charge.”
“No harm will befall him if I rule against him?”
“I rather suspect the young man is ignorant of the firestorm around him.” Waverly stood. “I have booked you and an escort on the morning flight to London.”
“Escort?” That was a first.
“Yes, an up and coming young agent, a Mr. Solo, rather brilliant but all together too sure of himself. Quite capable, though, I assure you.”
“But why do I need an escort, sir?”
“I suspect we are not the only ones interested in the recruitment of Mr. Kuryakin, Mr. Cassfield. Imagine the damage he could create if THRUSH gets to him first.”
“So you think…?”
“I merely conjecture, Mr. Cassfield, but it is better to be safe than sorry.”
So, that’s how I found myself on a plane with an amicable young man who looked about as dangerous as tissue paper. In the course of ten minutes after taking off, he’d charmed nearly every one of our stewardesses and we had exceptional service because of that. I also found him to be a gifted conversationalist. The man could talk, easily and knowledgably, on a range of topics and what I had dreaded as six hours of hell flew by enjoyably.
“Okay, when I think of Cambridge, this isn’t it.” I kept from tripping over the cobblestones as we walked down one of the older streets. It was hard to not admire the buildings and focus on the uneven ground. “I thought the town was here and they built the university because of it, not the other way around.”
“Ah, you have to remember that the University of Cambridge is the second oldest university in England and the fourth oldest in the world.” Solo was keeping his attention divided between me and the immediate area. His eyes never stopped moving, never lingering on anything longer than a second or two.
“Is something wrong?”
“What? Oh, no, no…” His voice was like butter on corn, smooth and velvety. If he was as good at the other aspects of his job as he was at this, I could see why Waverly thought he would go far.
“Here we are.” I gestured to a building. “According to his schedule, he should be in Lucidity and Hypercredulity as Applicable to Quantum Mechanics.”
“He’s taking that class?”
“He’s teaching it.”
“Mr. Waverly is sure about this? How could anyone teaching something that even be considering a career in UNCLE?”
I grinned at the young man, “I don’t think he is… yet. My impression is that we are going suggest it to him.”
Quietly, we slipped into the lecture hall. I was actually surprised at the number of students in attendance.
“Must be a mandatory class,” Solo whispered and I smiled.
“No, an elective,” I murmured back. A young lady in front of us turned and glared us into silence.
After a few minutes, I could understand the draw; the young man spoke well, his English nearly perfect, his enthusiasm contagious. He obviously loved his topic and enjoyed teaching. “This is not going to be the easy sell I thought it would be,” I murmured to Solo as the class was dismissed. Several students headed down to the front podium. “Why anyone who can lecture like that would consider a career in UNCLE was beyond me, but I suppose that is what Mr. Waverly wants us to find out.”
We stayed put as Kuryakin moved towards an exit. “What are we waiting for?” Solo was obviously anxious to get started.
“If we are going to approach him, it would probably be better without an entourage.” I watched several young girls trail after the Russian.
The rest of the day was spent dogging his heels, first to one lecture class, then the labs, and then back to the lecture hall, but, whether by purpose or accident, Kuryakin never seemed to be alone for more than a few seconds at a time. By twilight, my head and feet were protesting that they were being cruelly treated. Solo chuckled and called me a greenhorn as we followed Kuryakin towards a small pub.
Greenhorn, indeed, and I took the lead away from him as we started down a narrow alley. There was a blur of movement and I found myself on the ground, gasping for breath, and my escort was pinned to the wall, the Russian pressing a forearm against his neck.
“"Успокойтесь, нечего волноваться за" (Calm down, there is nothing to get excited over). Solo held up his hands in surrender. I could see why Waverly had picked Solo. Not only was the man unflappable, he spoke Russian. That was… different.
"Ты за мной весь день. Я хочу знать, почему. Вы десять секунд,” (You’ve been following me all day. I want to know why. You have ten seconds.) Kuryakin snarled. Guess all that crap I’d read about his martial arts training wasn’t just window dressing
“We represent an international organization.” I tried to explain. Kuryakin flashed a look at me and responded by applying more pressure to Solo’s throat.
“Один.” (One.)
“Your government has recommended you to us as a possible candidate.”
“Два.” (Two.)
“Твой отец посылает вам свою любовь и твоя мать хочет знать, если вы получили шоколад она послала вас.” (Your father sends you his love and your mother wants to know if you got the chocolate she sent you.) Solo choked out in Russian and I watched the body language change.
“How did you know…?” Kuryakin switched to English. I was delighted as I didn’t have the faintest idea what Solo had been saying to him. I just hoped it wasn’t enough to start an international incident.
“Cassfield, Pat Cassfield from the U.N.C.L.E.” I brushed my hands off before holding one out. The hand that eventually grasped it was firm, the hand of a fighter, not a professor. “Illya Nichovetch Kuryakin, we have heard a lot about you.”
“And I have heard nothing of you.” Warily, Kuryakin took my hand. “And who is this one?” He looked over at Solo who was massaging his throat.
“Napoleon Solo.” Likewise, Solo offered him a hand. “That’s some technique you have there.”
“Why were you following me?”
“You’re a hard man to get alone,” I said as we started to walk again.
“As of late, it seems the more prudent of actions.”
“Meaning?” Solo was readjusting his jacket, shooting his cuffs, reseating his tie.
“You’re not the only ones following me and my temper is growing shorter with each passing day.”
Solo looked over at me and I hunched my shoulders. Solo’s arm drifted beneath his jacket. “Are you being followed now? Besides us, I mean?”
“Three of them, they have been with me since I left my lodgings this morning. Although the faces change, their pattern remains the same.”
“Have you been approached yet?” This was imperative to my plans. We had to be first.
“No, although that seems to be about to change.” I felt my gut twist at those words. Sure enough, we were being approached, one man at one end of the alleyway, two at the other. “Are you any good in a fight, Mr. Cassfield?”
“Bureaucrat,” I confessed, flashing him an apologetic smile.
“Дерьмo!” I knew what that meant and didn’t appreciate the sentiment. “Him?” Kuryakin’s blue eyes flashed in Solo’s direction.
“Guess we’ll find out.” Solo’s smile was easy.
“Чудесный. Я возьму два, если вы можете справиться один.” (Wonderful. I’ll take the two if you can handle the one.)
“Allons –y,” Solo said, Kuryakin grinned and I dove for cover. Okay, I’m a great bureaucrat, but I’m not a fighter. I can’t punch my way out of a grocery sack, nor am I inclined to try. I kept my head down and waited for the dust to settle. When I dared to look, Solo and Kuryakin were standing amid a pile of bodies, which had somehow multiplied.
Solo wiped a trickle of blood from his mouth with one hand and offered me the other. His head jerked at the sound of a police whistle.
“With me!” Kuryakin was off like a shot. Unless we wanted to call Waverly from a jail cell, we didn’t have any choice. We followed him down a confusing array of alleys and streets until he finally stopped in front of an old house. He pulled out a key, unlocked the front door and gestured us in, placing a finger to his lips. We’d gotten into the hallway when a voice yelled from upstairs.
“Mr. Kuryakin, is that you? You don’t have any women with you?” An elderly woman appeared at the railing and peered down at us. I couldn’t imagine what she must think of our disheveled appearances.
“Just a couple of chaps from the pub, Mrs. Gordon.” Illya jerked his head and we both murmured our hellos to her.
“No larking about now, you three, some of us need our sleep.”
Kuryakin led the way to a small room in the back of the house, turning off lights as he went. “She’s nearly blind, but she has the ears of a bat.” We entered the room and he pulled off his coat, tossing it onto an unmade bed. It was the room of someone who was living life faster than it was meant to be lived. Books were stacked everywhere. There were papers, notebooks, pencils, slide rule, more paper, and empty dishes were strewn about. There was a small phonograph in the corner and a guitar. Along with a couple of chairs, a dresser and the bed, that was all the room could hold.
Kuryakin went to the dresser and pulled out a bottle of a clear fluid. I didn’t have to guess what it was. He opened it and drank deeply, then offered it to Solo. He took it politely and tipped it back for a quick drink and then he handed it to me. My first instinct was to wipe off the mouth of the bottle, but then I figured anything that could live through 100 proof vodka deserved to and took a careful drink.
It slammed into my stomach with the force of a pile driver and I gasped, coughing and trying to catch my breath.
“It’s good vodka, yes?” Kuryakin was grinning at me and looking even younger, if that was possible.
“If that’s good, I’d hate to taste the bad,” I managed to squeak out.
“If it was bad vodka, you’d be dead,” Solo allowed and took another swig before passing the bottle back to its owner.
Kuryakin dropped to the bed and toed out of his shoes. He finished the bottle and sighed. “So you said you wanted to talk to me alone, so talk.”
And to his credit, he listened. For a long time I spoke of UNCLE, its tenets, its importance to world peace, the need to keep THRUSH from world domination. Solo talked about Section Two, making it sound more like an amusement park ride than the life and death battle it really was.
I watched the young man’s eyes, so guarded at first, soften and grow curious. His government trusted him and Waverly wanted him, but it all hinged upon me. As night gave way to dawn, I was able to creep past the façade he’d erected to the man behind it; honest, caring, determined to do the right thing and not afraid of the consequences. Make no mistake, he was a Communist, but he was also a thinker. UNCLE offered him greater freedom than the USSR ever would and he knew this.
“And my family? What is their fate should I refuse?”
“It was my understanding that they would be neither punished nor held responsible for your decision. Your government has assured us that this is to be your choice alone.”
“Do I have time to consider my answer?”
“Providing our friends don’t come back and burn this house to the ground,” Solo muttered. “THRUSH is not what I would consider good losers.”
For a long time, Kuryakin sat and drank, then he nodded. “I will need at least two weeks to finish my obligation to the university and I would like to visit my parents before I travel to your country.”
“You’ll do it?” I was inwardly delighted, but outwardly cautious. We were asking so much of him.
“All my life, I have done what my government has told me to do. I have been rewarded by being allowed to travel, attend foreign universities and provide an adequate living standard for my parents. I have no intention of disobeying them now. I have already spent as much time in Siberia as I care to.”
The next morning, we shook hands again and within a month, Kuryakin was stateside.
And the rest, as they say, is history. I guess I knew from the start those men were destined to be partners. It was apparent from that first night. Those two formed an instant bond conceived in violence and innate trust in the other. If I’d gone alone, I’d probably have wound up dead and Kuryakin in the hands of THRUSH. It was the only time that Waverly ever sent me out with an escort, although my travels took me far and wide after that. I couldn’t help but wonder as to his insight.
And I had to wonder, for the umpteenth time, whether or not Waverly’s phone was a direct line to someone more Divine than just the world leaders. God knows, that partnership was made in heaven… I just wonder how Waverly knew that.