Part 13 of TMT
The Meanest Thing Part 13
By Hazelayes
"It says here my name is Stuart Crawford-Smith. Of all the... What's yours?"
"I'm supposed to be Andrew Rossi."
Solo reached around and twitched the sheet from Sanders' fingers. He slowed to a stop as he read them and Sanders peered over his shoulder like a commuter after a free read.
"Change of plan. I'm Rossi," Solo pointed, "you're Crawford-Smith."
"Okay, Chief."
They continued walking down the corridor together for a few paces and a door opened in the steel wall on the left. Solo continued through it into the room but Sanders hesitated.
"Come in, won't you?"
He walked in. It was 'their' office... Solo and Kuryakin's inner sanctum, and Sanders thought it felt oddly empty, even though there were still the same number of men in it. "Sit down."
Sanders glanced around for a chair.
"Use Illya's desk... for now."
Sanders moved quickly to the neat desk with the big typewriter on it, a pot of pencils and two trays, one of them empty - in the the other was a sloppy pile of folders which he thought had probably not been there when Kuryakin left on his assignment.
He sat down, feeling slightly intimidated by the situation. Here he was, looking across at Napoleon Solo over the top of Illya Kuryakin's typewriter... sitting at his desk and... about to open his drawer? No. he had no reason to do that, beyond a sudden intense curiosity, so he wouldn't pry... not yet, anyway... And would you just listen to him! Was he a teenage girl wetting her knickers over a pop star or a trained UNCLE agent, tough and deadly? He folded his hands (to keep them still) and leaned on the desk, then realised Solo was standing watching him. He noticed also, almost as an afterthought, that Solo was holding out a slim file and was waiting for him to take it. So he did. He was to become Stuart Crawford-Smith apparently, so he'd better start getting to know him.
Later, and for Sanders it seemed a very little time later, Solo swore softly and put down the papers he was looking at.
"These won't work. We'll have to make our own backstories." He grinned suddenly, wickedly. "You any good at making things up Sanders?"
"Chief! Do one legged ducks swim in circles?"
Solo's eyes twinkled but he dropped the grin a second later. "Seriously, they have to be good. We've got to get close to that area and this salvage boat is the only vessel with permission to be anywhere in the same hemisphere it seems. We don't get on it, or more importantly, stay on it, unless we have a cast iron reason to be there. Can you see the pair of us getting very far if we pretended to be..." and he peered at the words with a disbelief that was only partly exaggerated, "... shipwrecked fishermen on a liferaft?"
"No chief. I was wondering myself what we'd do if they just picked us out of the water, dried us off and dumped us back on dry land again."
"Can you cook?"
"I burn everything."
"I've never even got that far... and call me Napoleon."
"I'd better call you Andrew hadn't I? Or do you want Andy?"
Solo looked pained.
"No, I thought not. Okay Andrew," and Sanders stood and put out his hand, "My name's Stuart and I'm pleased to meet you."
Solo took the hand and the game was on. He had to become 'Instant Andrew'... and it occurred to him that... he'd had an Italian father, a hard man, who he'd been afraid of as a child... and a Scottish mother who he'd doted on. Both now deceased. He knew he was well off and sophisticated... that was a no-brainer, for a start!
"Glad to meet you Stuart." Solo was delighted that Sanders had the nerve to 'take charge like this' and some of that joy shone in his eyes as he clasped the young agent's hand... with both of his own. Hey! It seemed right.
"British, yeah? What brings you to New York?"
The eyes and the hands were not lost on "Stuart" and he left his hand in Napoleon's custody, making no attempt to retrieve it. He smiled back but then put in a very quick, 'kinda shy' downwards flick of the eyelashes. He was telling "Andrew" that he accepted him as the dominant male here. Then he looked up, directly into Solo's eyes, to say "English, actually," and Solo was caught.
This was going to be a very interesting affair... and, if he was not mistaken, quite enjoyable, for an assignment with an agent other than Illya. Sanders... no, "Stuart" was obviously a man with hidden depths and he had a feeling that "Andrew" was going to turn out to be the very man to plumb them. Meanwhile, UNCLE agents Solo and Sanders would observe and report on this new way to spring better aliases for agents on undercover assignment. Some of the things they'd been given... it was a wonder more agents hadn't been killed, and even Illya had given up when faced with that red indian outfit.
--------------------end of Part 13
More to follow soon, when we go back under the sea to Illya. Danger, drama and excitement is the task I've set myself!
By Hazelayes
"It says here my name is Stuart Crawford-Smith. Of all the... What's yours?"
"I'm supposed to be Andrew Rossi."
Solo reached around and twitched the sheet from Sanders' fingers. He slowed to a stop as he read them and Sanders peered over his shoulder like a commuter after a free read.
"Change of plan. I'm Rossi," Solo pointed, "you're Crawford-Smith."
"Okay, Chief."
They continued walking down the corridor together for a few paces and a door opened in the steel wall on the left. Solo continued through it into the room but Sanders hesitated.
"Come in, won't you?"
He walked in. It was 'their' office... Solo and Kuryakin's inner sanctum, and Sanders thought it felt oddly empty, even though there were still the same number of men in it. "Sit down."
Sanders glanced around for a chair.
"Use Illya's desk... for now."
Sanders moved quickly to the neat desk with the big typewriter on it, a pot of pencils and two trays, one of them empty - in the the other was a sloppy pile of folders which he thought had probably not been there when Kuryakin left on his assignment.
He sat down, feeling slightly intimidated by the situation. Here he was, looking across at Napoleon Solo over the top of Illya Kuryakin's typewriter... sitting at his desk and... about to open his drawer? No. he had no reason to do that, beyond a sudden intense curiosity, so he wouldn't pry... not yet, anyway... And would you just listen to him! Was he a teenage girl wetting her knickers over a pop star or a trained UNCLE agent, tough and deadly? He folded his hands (to keep them still) and leaned on the desk, then realised Solo was standing watching him. He noticed also, almost as an afterthought, that Solo was holding out a slim file and was waiting for him to take it. So he did. He was to become Stuart Crawford-Smith apparently, so he'd better start getting to know him.
Later, and for Sanders it seemed a very little time later, Solo swore softly and put down the papers he was looking at.
"These won't work. We'll have to make our own backstories." He grinned suddenly, wickedly. "You any good at making things up Sanders?"
"Chief! Do one legged ducks swim in circles?"
Solo's eyes twinkled but he dropped the grin a second later. "Seriously, they have to be good. We've got to get close to that area and this salvage boat is the only vessel with permission to be anywhere in the same hemisphere it seems. We don't get on it, or more importantly, stay on it, unless we have a cast iron reason to be there. Can you see the pair of us getting very far if we pretended to be..." and he peered at the words with a disbelief that was only partly exaggerated, "... shipwrecked fishermen on a liferaft?"
"No chief. I was wondering myself what we'd do if they just picked us out of the water, dried us off and dumped us back on dry land again."
"Can you cook?"
"I burn everything."
"I've never even got that far... and call me Napoleon."
"I'd better call you Andrew hadn't I? Or do you want Andy?"
Solo looked pained.
"No, I thought not. Okay Andrew," and Sanders stood and put out his hand, "My name's Stuart and I'm pleased to meet you."
Solo took the hand and the game was on. He had to become 'Instant Andrew'... and it occurred to him that... he'd had an Italian father, a hard man, who he'd been afraid of as a child... and a Scottish mother who he'd doted on. Both now deceased. He knew he was well off and sophisticated... that was a no-brainer, for a start!
"Glad to meet you Stuart." Solo was delighted that Sanders had the nerve to 'take charge like this' and some of that joy shone in his eyes as he clasped the young agent's hand... with both of his own. Hey! It seemed right.
"British, yeah? What brings you to New York?"
The eyes and the hands were not lost on "Stuart" and he left his hand in Napoleon's custody, making no attempt to retrieve it. He smiled back but then put in a very quick, 'kinda shy' downwards flick of the eyelashes. He was telling "Andrew" that he accepted him as the dominant male here. Then he looked up, directly into Solo's eyes, to say "English, actually," and Solo was caught.
This was going to be a very interesting affair... and, if he was not mistaken, quite enjoyable, for an assignment with an agent other than Illya. Sanders... no, "Stuart" was obviously a man with hidden depths and he had a feeling that "Andrew" was going to turn out to be the very man to plumb them. Meanwhile, UNCLE agents Solo and Sanders would observe and report on this new way to spring better aliases for agents on undercover assignment. Some of the things they'd been given... it was a wonder more agents hadn't been killed, and even Illya had given up when faced with that red indian outfit.
--------------------end of Part 13
More to follow soon, when we go back under the sea to Illya. Danger, drama and excitement is the task I've set myself!