THE STAKEOUT AFFAIR
“I hate this!” Illya Kuryakin groused in a
little boy pout.
His crime fighting partner, Napoleon Solo,
smiled to himself. Without looking at his friend, he said, “Would you
rather be chained to a wall and beaten?”
There came a long silence. “No…” Illya replied at length. “I hate
that, too!”
“Well, I’m sorry, Charlie. Stakeout duty is a dirty, nasty, vicious job
but somebody’s got to do it!”
Illya turned his sullen attention to the man sitting next to him in the
dark. They were parked down the street
from a suspected THRUSH satrapy where, rumor had it, THRUSH Operative Victor Marton would be arriving at
“It is, as you say, a nasty job,” Illya said quietly. “So why are you
here with me? Surely there must be at least one woman out there
that you have not been with…”
Napoleon spared Illya a quick glance before continuing the watch.
“Despite my much lauded reputation, I have not slept with every woman
I’ve ever met.”
“Very well. Why are you here with me if there are several women
out there you have not been with?”
“Are you trying to get rid of me?” Solo asked with a feigned look of hurt on
his handsome face.
“Of course not. I would much rather be with you than not,” the blond said
automatically, inwardly cringing at how needy he sounded.
“I couldn’t have put it better myself,” Napoleon waited until Illya met his
eyes. “I, too, would much rather be with you than not.”
Even in the faint glow of the distant street light, Solo could see the blush
which colored his friend’s creamy-white cheeks.
“Come on,” Napoleon cleared his throat and started up the car. “There’s
no telling when Marton will arrive ---or even if
he will arrive. I can think of better things to do on a Saturday night
than sit in the cold.”
“I am sorry the stakeout was a bust, Napoleon. But thank you for offering
to keep me company…”
“Still trying to get rid of me?”
The Russian Agent’s brow furrowed.
“The stakeout is over. I assumed you were taking me home.”
“If you’re game, I thought we could stop off at that jazz club you like for a
bite to eat.”
“Really…?” Illya asked, a hopeful note in his voice.
“Nothing would please me more!” Napoleon said with a wink as he pulled away
from the curb.
From a window on the fifth floor of THRUSH’s satrapy, Victor Marton watched the byplay in the parked car with
night-scope binoculars.
“Ah…such a sweet thing, to be so young and in love,” he sighed, turning from
the window...
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