THE TURKEY DAY AFFAIR

by

GM

“Happy Thanksgiving.”

The tone belayed the words and had nothing remotely hinting at happy anything. Glancing at the clock, Illya Kuryakin realized it was indeed after midnight. Just finishing up the paperwork on their near debacle of their last assignment, he was in no mood for his friend’s Western culture sentimentality.

Grunting a “hmmm,“ he continued the tedious details of his report.

“So, what are you doing for Thanksgiving?”

Illya glanced up from the form he was scribbling on and lowered his glasses to bring Napoleon Solo into sharper focus. Partners for a few years now, the Russian could read his colleague with incredible accuracy. He could tell by the tone of voice that Napoleon Solo was more than merely curious. This inquiry was something beyond the chit-chat the American engaged in when bored with paperwork.

While Kuryakin evaluated the question he analyzed his response. In years past, he would have been suspicious -- that this was some ploy by an American to pull him into some kind of capitalistic trick. Old Soviet suspicions and prejudices did not die easily, and for his first months in New York he had been overly critical and guarded against all of his American associates. Thrown together with the convivial Solo on several occasions, he grew even more wary. Could any professional spy really be that obvious and friendly? He was amazed Solo had such a vaulted reputation with UNCLE operatives.

A few missions in the field gave him a developing understanding of the quixotic nature of his new associate. Solo used his unorthodox, disarming openness, his charm and gregariousness as assets. They were not only part of his nature, they were tools he utilized time and again to lull the enemy off guard, then take them down in various and amazing methods and situations.

Then Solo became the department head of Section Two, with Illya assigned as his partner. Instead of contempt and superiority, the Russian came to respect and -- yes -- like -- his partner. Despite his defenses, he came to rely on this sometimes obnoxious American, whom he now unhesitatingly called his friend.

Knowing there was an ulterior motive, Illya nonetheless took the bait.

“Doing?”

“You know, for Thanksgiving.”

“Working.”

“Mmmm,” Solo nodded.

Waiting for more with amused anticipation -- knowing he was being dragged into something -- he accepted his role in the scenario. Typically, Solo tempted him with an innocuous bit of lure that hooked his natural curiosity. These games they played were part of the continually fresh aspects of their partnership and provided more amusement than Kuryakin would ever admit.

“What?”

Solo shrugged and leaned back from the desk. Further loosening his tie, he stretched back and yawned. He made a show of rolling up his already folded back sleeves. Stalling. For dramatic effect or summoning courage?

“I know we’re working,” the American admitted with a hint of exasperation.

A policy Solo had held over from the last leader of Section Two. Married operatives, or those with family close by, had the holiday off when possible. Yet another example of the sentimentality within Solo. A trait Illya initially thought of as a weakness, but came to appreciate when it was directed at him as a byproduct of friendship.

The current assignment promised to keep them busy for at least several days. Tracking a paper trail from a THRUSH front -- a florist shop in Toronto -- to an agricultural conglomerate in Ottawa. From there the trail went cold. Trying to reconnect with various Canadian holdings, had taken most of this Tuesday afternoon and all of the night. Since their hasty meals of sandwiches and gallons of coffee from the cafeteria, they had shed their jackets, literally and figuratively rolled up their sleeves, and committed to staying at the search until they found the new THRUSH base that harbored a threat to North American.

Solo rubbed his face. “I meant what are you doing for Thanksgiving dinner?”

Illya chose to play obtuse. “Eating.”

Solo threw a pencil at him and chuckled. “You know what I mean.”

Living in America, ignoring holidays and festivities here became incredibly difficult. Residing in New York, Illya could not avoid Thanksgiving, Macy’s and the long weekend that marked the start of the holiday shopping season. Teamed with this particular Yank, Kuryakin would never be allowed to forget or ignore any kind of American tradition. And not even as a death bed confession would he reveal that he had come to cherish the effort Solo made to include him in these ridiculous rituals. Not that he liked Thanksgiving any more than he liked baseball or Dodger dogs, but it was part of the fabric of Solo that made him so uniquely Napoleon, and Illya secretly acknowledged he would never want it any other way.

Perversely teasing, Illya drew it out. “Why? I am sure you are already booked with a dozen different offers from female operatives. All dying to show off their domestic skills for you, under the most traditional of circumstances.”

Solo shook his head. “Ha, ha. As a matter of fact, Mr. K, you still don’t quite have the bead on the locals.”

Another lecture from the know-it-all-Solo about women? Illya hid his momentary irritation.

“You only get invited home if the girl is serious about introducing you to the family. And if you’re one of the drifting singles in the big city, you don’t want to invite some casual acquaintance who might dump you the next day. And since I have a reputation for one-night stands, you can understand why I have no date for Thursday.”

Glancing up with yet another new respect for his partner’s skillful insight, he lowered his glasses. “Really?”

“Really.” A Cheshire grin appeared and the brown eyes twinkled. “I bet you were wondering why that cute little redhead in Section Five didn’t ask you over for Thursday night, huh?”

Kuryakin smirked, then turned away, not giving his friend the satisfaction of knowing exactly what he thought.

The intercom buzzed and Solo snapped it on, accepting a call from an agent in their Vancouver BC office. He reported the possible discovery of a THRUSH safe house. Could the New York office send some experienced agents to help?

Kuryakin was already tidying the mass of paper on his desk. He knew what was coming next. From Solo’s long-suffering expression it was easy to guess what team of agents would be flying out to western Canada tonight.

Napoleon told the Canadian agent they would be joining him as soon as they could get a flight. After closing the connection he turned to his partner. “Pack your warm coat,” he advised as he came to his feet and rolled down his sleeves.

“Napoleon, Canada is nothing compared to Russia.”

“Oh, joy,” Solo quipped, “More stories about Mother Russia and the bitter cold.”

***

The only visible evidence that daylight had arrived was the weak grey wash in the eastern sky. The clouds were low and dark, intermittently showering the airport windows with snow and sleet. Travel under such conditions was never pleasant, but Solo’s disagreeable attitude made this time even worse.

Inaction gnawed at their nerves. Usually Kuryakin was the one pacing or jittering, but this time the Russian had settled into a pose of dejected acceptance. This assignment proved miserable; he suffered in morose silence occasionally broken by his acrid grievances to his partner. It really was no fun when his partner flung back comments just as irritable. Napoleon was not being his usually glib self, cracking corny jokes, eyeing girls, or making absurd comments to get a rise out of the Russian. In other words, Napoleon was not playing his part in their usual game for some reason. The disparagement in routine further served to aggravate Illya. Since there was nothing he could do about the abominable weather, when they finally connected with the THRUSH louts causing this discomfort, he was going to have some fun taking them out.

“It could be worse.”

Solo turned a baleful eye at his friend.

“We could be in the Yukon.”

This did elicit a smirk from the American. “Okay, it could be worse. Stranded in the airport in Calgary isn’t much better.”

While catching a connecting flight to the coast, an impenetrable storm front grounded all flights in Canada’s western provinces. Thursday evening in the airport was not something to look forward to under any circumstances. While Illya didn’t agree with American holidays, he was sorry his friend would be missing out on such an important sentimental celebration as Thanksgiving.

Commenting he was going for more coffee, he ambled away from his friend and strolled the concourse. He soon found a cafeteria serving various food items. None looked particularly appealing, but he was hungry, and in the strained conditions this would have to do.

Arms burdened with goods, he quietly he came up behind his friend. “Sorry there is no cranberry sauce, but Happy Thanksgiving, Napoleon.”

Solo turned around and glanced at the pathetic assortment of packaged sandwiches, soda pop, macaroni salad and bags of chips. Helpfully taking some of it, he smiled and steered them over to some empty seats.

“Thanks.” Once settled, he hesitated to open the plastic wrap.

Illya, already munching on his food, paused. “What?”

“Well, this isn’t what I had in mind for your first Thanksgiving as my partner. I was going to treat you to something a lot better.”

Visions of warm, roasted turkey with all the trimmings came to mind. Norman Rockwellian apparitions he had seen in commercials and advertisements. He never expected to experience such a thing himself, and was surprised Napoleon might have imagined it for him. Or thought that he wanted it.

“I’m sure it is a disappointment to not have the traditional spread while you watch football or the Macy’s parade.”

Napoleon laughed while he picked at his macaroni salad. “No. I mean, no, I’m not used to that. I was thinking of taking you to some nice restaurant and having a decent turkey dinner.”

“You did not want a return to your childhood holiday traditions?”

“No,” he flatly assured.

Surprised to discover something new about Solo, Illya learned his friend was not sentimental about Thanksgiving because his childhood memories of the traditional feast were not conventional. Most of the time he was not even at a home, but in a boarding school or overseas. He did, however, want to make this special for Illya.

“Would you settle for unforgettable?” Illya wryly suggested, giving a nod toward the cascading snow outside.

He would never admit to the pang of sentimentality that washed over him now. Eating cold, mediocre food, sitting in a cold airport amidst a blizzard. Knowing there was one person in the world who cared about him enough to want to include him in such inconsequential things as holidays and turkey dinners.

Studying the meal, Solo ruefully admitted, “It is that.” He lifted up a Coca-cola bottle in a toast. “At least we’re spending it together. Happy turkey sandwich day.”

If this was a new tradition for both of them, he liked the direction of their partnership. Clicking his bottle to his partner’s, Illya nodded. “Happy Thanksgiving, Napoleon.”

THE END