Title - The Sumerian Codebook Affair

Immortals are born (nobody knows where or how) and grow up as normal humans until their first "deaths", at which time their Quickening fully manifests and heals them. From that time on they no longer age, and are subject to "The Game", a ritual combat fought with swords and ending with the beheading of the loser. New Immortals either die at the hands of a more experienced opponent or find Immortals willing to teach them to fight, and the rules for The Game, the first of which is: "There can be only one."

Act I: "It looks like cuneiform."


He knew they were close, but if he could make it to the drop point he could forward the package and draw them off. It was going to be a close thing, but UNCLE hadn't trained him to fail.

There was the bookstore, just ahead. He chanced a glance around and saw no suspicious people -- good. It meant he was far enough ahead of them to make the drop. He pushed open the door and entered.

"May I help you?" the proprieter, an elderly man with muttonchop sideburns, asked.

"Do you have any books about thrushes?" the man replied, placing the package on the counter. "I was hoping to buy one for my uncle."

"Thrushes can be dangerous things," the older man said.

It was the correct countersign, and the agent slid the package over. The other man quickly whisked it out of sight, handing back a similiar sized package. "This should be just the kind of book you need."

The young man took the offered package and left. A few blocks away his pursuers caught up with him, taking the package and leaving him for dead.

By the time they discovered the switch, the original package was well on its way to New York.

=======================

U.N.C.L.E. North America Headquarters

New York, New York, USA

The two men picked up their badges from the receiptionist after entering thruogh the tailor's shop. While the slender, fair skinned, blue-eyed, blond accepted his badge and politely thanked her, his dark haired, brown-eyed, olive skinned partner paused to flirt until the other man reminded him they had an appointment.

"Really, Napoleon, must you always annoy her like that?" the blond remonstrated.

"She wasn't annoyed, Illya," Napoleon Solo, Chief Enforcement Officer, said. "If she had been, she'd have passed me my badge with the hand which wasn't chemically treated." The chemical was an extra security precaution, designed to keep invaders from simply overpowering the receiptionist, taking badges and passing themselves off as agents.

"One of these days you're going to run into one who is, and then where will you be?" Illya Kuryakin, Number 2, Section 2 and Solo's partner, asked.

"Perfectly safe, since I'll have you there to identify me," the other man replied with a smirk.

Kuryakin would have replied to the outrageous statement, but they'd reached their goal -- the office of their superior, Alexander Waverly, Chief of UNCLE's North American Branch. Waverly's secretary smiled at the pair and waved them past, saying, "He's expecting you."

The two men entered the office and found Waverly scrutinizing what appeared to be a stenographer's notebook. There were several more sitting on the table before him. The elderly Englishman looked up as they approached, and spun the table to place the notebooks before the two men. "What do you make of those?"

Each man picked up a notebook and looked at the writing within.

Solo thought the triangles and lines looked familiar, but he couldn't quite remember where he'd seen them before.

"It looks like cuneiform," Kuryakin said, "but beyond that, I can't help you. Do we have an Assyriologist on staff?"

"It is indeed cuneiform, Mr. Kuryakin," Waverly said. "It also appears to be THRUSH's newest code, and our cryptologists are at a loss to understand it. Unfortunately, we don't have an Assyriologist on staff, but my contacts tell me there's a young man who's absolutely brilliant when it comes to ancient languages. He's here in town, doing some post-doctorate work at one of the smaller colleges."

The UNCLE head pulled out a leather folder and sent over to the agents. "The man's name is Matthew Peterson. He's British, here on a student visa. Lives alone in a small apartment near the campus. No known family; he claims they were all killed in the war."

Solo picked up the folder and held it so Kuryakin could read over his shoulder. The black & white photos showed a tall, slender, dark haired man with a penchant for full length coats, even in summer. A head and shoulders shot showed a thin, high cheekboned face with a hawkish blade of a nose and intense eyes.

"Your assignment, gentlemen, is to make contact with the young man, and bring him here if he's at all willing. THRUSH is by now aware we have a copy of their new code, and may be watching anyone they think might be able to decipher it. If they're watching Peterson, bring him in, willing or not. Good luck, Mr. Solo, Mr. Kuryakin. Dismissed."

The two younger men departed the office, on their way to a small campus and a large amount of trouble.

=======================

Prof. Matthew Peterson -- known as Matt to his friends, at least the ones on campus -- had just finished up a lecture on the importance of the Rosetta Stone in translating Egyptian hieroglyphics, and was gathering up his lecture notes prepatory to leaving when the two men entered the hall. He at first thought they were there for the next lecture until they came up to him.

"Prof. Peterson?" one asked.

"Yes," he replied. "May I help you?"

"Actually, we're here to warn you," the other man said. They were wearing identical off-the-rack charcoal gray suits, with white shirts and skinny black ties.

"Warn me of what? Are you policemen?"

"Not as you would think of them. We represent an international organization dedicated to order."

"We needed to warn you about another group who oposses our goals."

"They recently came into possession of our newest codebook, and we believe they'll contact you for assistance in deciphering it."

"Why would they do that? I'm a professor of languages, not a code-breaker."

"The code is in cuneiform, which you're an acknolwedged expert in."

"It might be possible for you to work it out if you had the proper guide."

"Between your expertise and their own, our entire organization could be threatened."

"We don't know exactly who will come to you, but they will say they are from the U.N.C.L.E. Go along with them at first. Get them to agree to bring you the codebooks if you can."

"They're not likely to agree to that," Peterson said.

"Do you think," the first man asked, "you could retrieve the books if we gave you facsimilies to leave in their place?"

"I might not have the opportunity. They might search me to prevent that. Hell, they might just keep me wherever they have the codebooks."

"If they wish to do that, you must tell them you need time to get your affairs in order. We will be nearby and ready to help if you need us."

"Couldn't I just tell them I'm too busy, and recommend one of your people go in my stead?" Peterson had no intention of playing spy vs. spy if he could get out of it.

"We can't get a believable cover story into place in so short a time. It will have to be you."

While the three men had been talking, the lecture room had begun to fill with students waiting for the next lecture. It was easy enough for one small, blond Russian to slip in among them.

The UNCLE agents had shown up some minutes earlier and recognized one of the men talking to Peterson as a THRUSH operative. They'd immediately pulled back to keep the Assyriologist out of danger. Now Kuryakin watched from the rear of the room and waited for a chance to speak to Peterson alone.

Act II: "I've no idea what you're talking about."

As the three men started out of the room, Kuryakin spoke into his communicator. "Napoleon, they're leaving!"

"The hallway's fairly crowded," Solo assured his partner. "I'm sure I can keep out of sight and follow them until the birds have flown."

"I'm right behind you. Let's hope they're not planning to make off with him."

The two UNCLE agents relaxed as the THRUSHes left their target once they'd exited the building.

"Do you think they saw us?" asked Kuryakin.

"No," replied his partner, "but it's certain they're keeping an eye on Peterson. We'll need to find a way to contact him without raising their suspicions."

=======================

Matthew Peterson, aka Methos, the world's oldest Immortal, sighed as he entered his office. It looked like it was time to move on once again. He didn't want to leave, especially in the middle of the term, but he was well aware getting between two espionage organizations was equivalent to painting a target on his back. Being shot was painful, messy, and annoying, even if it was only temporarily fatal.

He'd been happy here, buried in academia for the past several years. The few other Immortals he'd sensed over that time had been easy to avoid, and he'd managed not to draw the attention of the local Watchers. He himself hadn't had a Watcher in over 2 centuries, since shortly after taking his last head. He'd slipped in among a group of indentured servants and sailed to America, spending the next decade working his way out of debt.

He looked out the window and spotted the pair who'd spoken to him earlier watching the building, and probably his window as well. They'd probably try to stop him if he attempted to leave in his car, which left making a getaway by taxi. He knew once he got into a taxi he could get to the airport and his getaway bag, which contained cash, a set of ID and passport, papers for his sword, a checkbook in the same name as the ID, clothing and toiletries. He'd placed it there shortly after arriving in New York, and had moved it from locker to locker around the airport every few months. The next step would be to catch the next flight to anywhere outside the US, where he could disappear completely.

=======================

While Kuryakin kept watch on the THRUSH pair, Solo quickly procured what he needed from a passing student. He slipped into a nearby men's room, removed his suit jacket and tie, donned the sweater and picked up the books he'd just paid to borrow, and left the lecture hall looking like a student. He entered the building Peterson had gone into, flirted with a coed to find where the man's office was, and knocked on the door. He heard a call of "Come in!" and entered.

Peterson's office was small but tidy, with shelves of books, a small desk and three chairs, one behind the desk, currently occupied by the professor, and two others on the other side of it, empty. Solo took one of the empty chairs.

"May I help you?" Peterson asked.

"I certainly hope so," began the other man and launched into an explaination of why he was here, pulling out his UNCLE ID and showing it to the professor. "We're aware THRUSH has already contacted you, and that they're watching this building."

The professor shook his head. "I've no idea what you're talking about. Have you ingested something illegal?" He reached for the phone as if to call security.

Solo intercepted his hand on the receiver. "I'm completely sober, I assure you. You were seen talking to a pair of men after your last lecture. One of those men is a known member of an organization called THRUSH."

Peterson glared into the UNCLE agent's eyes. "I strongly suggest you release my hand," he said in a soft, dangerous voice.

There was something in the professor's eyes which told Solo he should back down. 'This is no ordinary academic,' he thought as he released the other man's hand.

"I think you should leave now."

"I'm sorry, but that's not possible. What did those men want you to do?"

"A moot point, as I'm not going to do it."

Solo's communicator chose that moment to go off. "Solo."

"I hate to bother you, Napoleon, but you've got company coming."

"Understood. Solo out." He glanced around the room; there was nowhere to hide and the window was blocked with an iron grating to prevent vandalism. "I don't suppose there's any other way out of here?"

Peterson shook his head and gestured under his desk. Solo scrambled and was barely in place when the knock came.

There was a short conversation, ending with the professor saying he was just leaving for the day. Unable to stop Peterson lest he endanger the man, he had to wait until the man left and locked the door behind him.

"Open channel A."

"Kuryakin."

"Illya, he pulled a fast one on me. I'm locked in his office. Can you intercept him?"

"Will do, Napoleon."

=======================

Peterson ditched his two companions by the simple expedient of telling them he needed to speak to the dean about something, then ducking out a side door. He hadn't survived 5 millenia without learning a few tricks, and he used another one now -- hiding inside a group, in this case some of the campus jocks who were fortunately going in the direction he wanted.

Unfortunately, they changed direction before reaching his goal -- the taxi stand near the dorms. He tried casually walking to his goal, hoping he wouldn't be noticed, but a shout from behind him alerted him the game was up. He took off running, and hoped he'd make it before they caught him.

=======================

Even though Kuryakin was annoyed with the man, he was equally impressed with his ability to evade pursuit. He'd been in a position to see him duck out the side door and join the athletes, where his height would be masked. He was working his way closer as he paralleled the group, when they changed direction, leaving Peterson visible. He continued on alone until a shout from behind alerted him he'd been spotted, then sprinted for the safety of a taxi.

The UNCLE agent was faced with a choice, but only for a moment; the THRUSH agents were reaching for weapons. Preserving innocent lives outweighed attempting to stop a fleeing man, especially one who'd done no wrong. He flung himself at the further man, using his legs to bring down his nearer partner. As he rolled on the ground with the THRUSHes, he saw Peterson diving into a taxi and it pulling away.

Fortunately, the spectactular spill drew the attention of nearby students, and the two men could do nothing more than grumble as they regained their feet. Kuryakin used the students as a screen to escape. He located Solo and explained what happened, then the two men alerted Waverly.

Act III: "All I ever wanted was to be somebody famous . . ."

Fortunately, Illya saw and remembered the license number of the taxi Peterson escaped in, and every UNCLE agent in the New York area was told to watch for the cab and report its location and direction of travel. It didn't take many reports to determine he was headed to the airport. Solo and Kuryakin were picked up by a helicopter on campus and whisked into pursuit of the fleeing man, receiving relays of his position from agents on the ground. They were in no position, however, to keep THRUSH from stopping the taxi with a fake accident.

Peterson/Methos dived out of the taxi when he saw the men with the bulging left armpits approaching. He passed through a nearby store, remembering it had entrances on two streets, and mingling with the throng of pedestrians to throw off pursuit. He repeated his actions twice, and was just considering himself safe when he felt it.

The spine-shivering buzz of Immortal presence.

He glanced around to see if he could spot the source, hoping it was simply one of the local Immortals on an innocent errand. It had happened a few times before; they'd simply nod to each other and go their seperate ways.

Not today though -- when he looked around, he spotted someone he'd rather not have seen.

And suddenly realized where THRUSH had gotten their new code.

=======================

IRAQ, 1878

It had been nearly two millenia since Methos had been in this part of the world, and he had no fond recollections of that time. He had put his past behind him, however, and joined the expedition as physician, and interpreter. Dr. Jacob Pearson had learned the local dialects, he'd explained to his employers, during the days he'd practiced medicine here. He just hadn't mentioned how long ago it had been, or that he'd used a different name then.

Sir Colin Wilcox, who was both funding and in charge of the expedition, already had a translator -- the adopted son of his younger sister. The lad had been discovered by the newly-widowed woman some twenty years before, digging through the trash behind the hotel where she was staying. She'd insisted on taking the boy in and bringing him back to England with her, and had lavished him with all her affection and everything money could buy. This was the first time the young man, who went by the name of Edward Danvers, or Neddy to his friends, had been away from England -- and his mother -- since his adoption.

Danvers was quite anxious to be away from his mother, and even moreso to make his mark on the world. He hoped to make a great discovery and return to England covered in glory. He was just over middle height, somewhat stocky, with golden brown hair, dancing moss green eyes and features which had made many a young -- and not-so-young -- woman sigh and hope.

The expedition had left Bagdad a few days earlier, their caravan of camels and horses headed southeast to where the locals has reported some interesting ruins and mounds. Sir Colin had taken a position near the front, and his nephew and the doctor had joined him. All three were mounted on desert mares. The expedition leader was a vigorous man despite his nearly 60 years, lean and wiry, with a full head of snowy hair, peircing blue eyes and a hawklike face.

"Did our guide say how soon we'd be reaching the ruins, doctor?" he asked Pearson.

"Just before dawn," the other man replied, "so we'll be able to do a little surveying before
the sun gets too hot." They'd been travelling at night, to save themselves and their beasts from the worst of the heat.

They arrived just as the sky was starting to lighten. There were a few lines of rubble which might, at one time, have been walls, and several mounds which looked worth investigating further. While Dr. Pearson directed the set-up of the camp, Sir Colin and his nephew did a preliminary survey to examine the mounds with an eye to deciding where to begin.

They worked until the sun became too much to tolerate, then retired to tents which had their sides raised to allow breezes to pass through. During the break they would have lunch and nap, play cards or find other ways to pass the worst of the days heat. Later they would return to their dig until it became too dark to see.

Days passed to weeks, and weeks to months as the work progressed. They made several good finds, but nothing extraordinary, and as the holy month of Ramadan approached, Danvers became more and more desperate to find something which would make his name in academic and social circles.

"I'm beginning to think we came to the wrong place," he said to Pearson one day.

"It's only your first season," the doctor replied. "The most famous of the archaeologists -- Botta, Layard, Thomsen, and Worsaae -- took years to make their names. Schliemann spent four years recently digging through 9 levels of occupation at Hissarlik to find Troy."

"What good is a reputation if you're too old and whithered to take advantage of it?"

"You'll have more time than you think." Pearson wondered if he should tell the other man he was pre-Immortal, and with a bit of luck he'd have centuries to build a fortune, if not an academic reputation.

The matter was rendered moot a few nights later when bandits hit the camp and killed everyone in it, taking everything of value.

Including all the food and water.

It had taken weeks for the two Immortals to stagger out of the desert, and years to return to England.

=======================

NEW YORK, NY, 1966

Methos tried to duck away from his nemesis, but a gun jammed into his ribs changed his mind. He was forced down a nearby alley and into a deserted building, with Danvers -- or whatever he called himself these days -- following a few minutes later.

"Wait outside," the THRUSH code expert told his lackeys.

He didn't draw his sword until he heard the door shut. "I knew when I developed a code based on cuneiform and leaked its existence to UNCLE, they'd get you to help translate it.

I'd tracked you down but could never find an opportunity to challenge you."

"I don't suppose we could discuss this like gentlemen?" asked Methos.

His opponent snorted. "Gentlemen? I lost any chance of being a 'gentleman' in the desert of Iraq."

"You can't blame me for an attack by bandits. We'd been warned, and your uncle discounted the tales."

"Oh, I don't blame you for the attack. What I blame you for was talking me out of returning to England and claiming my inheritance -- both of them, since my uncle had no heirs and Mother died from the shock of losing us both."

"I compensated you for that as best I could."

"Bah! All you gave me was money! Even when I married into a title, I eventually had to give it up because people noticed I wasn't aging properly! What good is living forever if you have to change identies every quarter century? All I ever wanted was to be somebody famous -- and you and those damn bandits took it all away from me!"

"I'm not responsible for what you are. None of us know where we came from or why we're Immortal."

Danvers' response to this was to declare, "There can be only one!" and attack.

Act IV: "I was too busy trying not to get killed to notice."

Solo and Kuryakin lost no time locating the taxi, and were shortly canvassing the neighborhood for traces of the missing professor. They quickly discovered his trail and just as quickly lost it, but ran into a bit of luck -- two men guarding a deserted building. They drew back before either man could notice them, and made plans.

A short while later, a filthy, tattered drunk staggered down the alley towards the two guards. He swayingly confronted the pair and slurred out an offer to share the contents of the paper bag covered bottle he waved in front of them. While their attention was focused on Kuryakin the drunk, Solo neatly sleep darted one of the pair, while the Russian suddenly sobered and overpowered his partner, taking him down but leaving him conscious to answer questions.

The THRUSH agent admitted he had helped capture Peterson and had left him alone with his boss in the building he and his partner were guarding. As the two UNCLE agents reached the door, having secured the THRUSH agents, they were surprised to see several flashes of light from within the building just before the windows blew out.

=======================

Methos picked himself up and wiped the blood from his sword, remembering too late why he had promised himself he wouldn't take any more heads. Danvers' Quickening, relatively weak as it was, had dropped him to his hands and kness and left him weak as a kitten. He knew he needed to get out before those guards came to investigate. He staggered to the doorway --

-- and straight into the young man he'd locked in his office earlier that day. Both men took an involuntary step backwards, but, unfortunately for the Immortal, Solo recovered first.

"Care to tell me what's going on here?"

"Would you be satisfied with knowing THRUSH won't be able to create new versions of their cuneiform code?" As Methos spoke, Kuryakin joined his partner in the room and noticed the headless corpse. His only reaction was to pull out his communicator and request a cleanup squad.

"While that's good to know, it might have been better if you hadn't killed him -- and in such an odd fashion," Solo replied. "Why the swords?"

"I'd say 'ask him', but I don't want to sound facetious," the Immortal said.

Kuryakin, meanwhile, had been examining the walls and windows. "May I ask what caused these scorch marks and blew out the windows? The epicenter appears to have been here," he indicated a spot on the floor near the body, "but there's nothing at this point to have created such an effect."

Methos cursed inwardly. How the bloody hell was he going to explain the effects of a Quickening? "I've no idea," he said, "I was too busy trying not to get killed to notice."

The Russian frowned but let it pass, and when the clean-up squad arrived, he and Solo escorted Methos/Peterson back to UNCLE HQ.

He was taken to Section IV and shown the codebooks. Working with UNCLE personnel, he was able to render a translation in less than a week. After the professor was released from custody, he disappeared within hours, without returning to either his office or apartment.

EPILOGUE

Illya Kuryakin walked into the office, a file in his hands and a frown on his face.

Solo noticed the look on his partner's face. "Experiment go wrong?" he asked.

"No," the other man answered. "This is a report on the building where we found Peterson, along with an autopsy of the body we found there. It contains several anomalous findings."

"Such as?"

"The scorch marks on the walls were caused by a massive electrical discharge, but there was nothing anywhere in the building which would have produced such an effect. The electrical power in the building had been shut off the year before. There's also no explanation for the windows blowing out as they did."

"I suppose there are also anomalies in the autopsy?"

"He didn't bleed out, despite the severity of his injury -- the wounds on his neck appear to have been cauterized. There were also several other wounds which were partially healed, though there were corresponding tears on the clothing."

"Do you want to try asking Peterson about it?"

"He never returned to either his apartment or the college, and in fact appears to have dropped off the face of the Earth. Did you notice his clothes when we brought him in?"

"Not particularly."

"I did. They bore the same sort of tears the clothing of the corpse did, though Peterson had no wounds."

Whatever comment Solo would have made to that was forever silenced by the ringing of the phone. He spoke for a few moments before hanging up and turning to his partner.

"It looks like it's going to have to remain a mystery, at least for now. Waverly wants to see us."


The End