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Friday the Thirteenth

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A coffee klatch, if you could call it that, of the four highest ranking Section II agents gathered at farthest table located in the back of the Commissary in U.N.C.L.E. headquarters in New York City.

They each had their empty breakfast plates in front of them, and were finishing off their coffee and tea before heading to their respective offices. There they'd stay put unless they absolutely had to leave.

None of them had assignments, so it was a good day to sequester themselves and work on backlogged reports and sundry paperwork. It was also the safest thing to do as Alexander Waverly would not have appreciated any and all of them calling out sick.

"Well are we ready to take the walk?" Napoleon Solo asked.

"I'm game if your are darling," April Dancer chimed in.

"Everyone have their weapons ready?" Mark Slate asked.

"I do," Illya Kuryakin reached into his pocket, withdrawing a handful of small objects, laying them on the tabletop. One of them stood out from the others, and that was a bright pink, and slightly worn rabbit's foot.

April giggled."Really Illya, pink?"

"Hey nothing wrong with that," Solo protested. He too reached into his suit pocket, producing an identical rabbit's foot, though in better condition than Illya's, along with an array of charms, a small vial of table salt and a blue-eyed glass charm to ward off the 'Malocchio' a Mediterranean superstition known as the 'evil eye.'

"All right April, I've shown you mine, now you show me yours," Napoleon snickered, the double entendre not lost on him.

"Get your mind out of the bedroom darling," she smiled.

"Hey, you're the one who brought up a bedroom not me. Now let's go Dancer, show us what you've got."

April reached to her wrist, removing her charm bracelet and putting it on the table. It was loaded with onyx, cat's eye, a blue eye charm (that she'd gotten from Solo as a gift) a guardian angel charm, just to name a few.

"There, satisfied?"

"That's my girl, armed to the teeth," Napoleon grinned.


Slate hesitated.

"Come on Mark, fess up," Napoleon jibed.

"All right all right. Don't get your knickers in a twist. I don't have much compared to the three of you but what I have has served me well."

Mark reached into the breast pocket of his suit and withdrew a piece of folded up white tissue. He laid it on the table and carefully opened it to reveal a dried four-leaf clover.

"Okay then, are we ready?" Napoleon stood.

The others nodded and followed suit.

Solo reached first for the salt shaker in the middle of the table, and taking a pinch in his hand, he tossed it over his left shoulder. Each of them took their turn with the ritual and gathered up their bits and bobs, ready to run the gamut, so to speak.

"Let's go mates, it's now or never," Slate somberly said.

The walked, single file through the door of the Commissary, with Solo leading. They followed him around a ladder, and heard it crash as the passed it; the member of maintenance unhurt as he fell to the floor.

A warning sign blocked their path, stating a wet floor lay ahead. Napoleon forged on, walking tiptoe along the wall, placing his hand against it for balance.

When they were safe, they turned the corner to find the elevator was out of order.

"The stairs," Illya pointed, taking over the lead of their determined group.

As they reached their destination the door to the stairwell suddenly and without warning opened, slamming into Kuryakin's face. He staggered backwards to the arms of his partner who caught him, keeping him from falling to the floor.

"Oh Jeeze Illya, I'm so sorry. I didn't see you," George Dennell blurted out. I was trying to get to my office before something bad happened. I even brought this with me."

Kuryakin grabbed his handkerchief from his pocket as his nose had begun to bleed. He flashed one of those 'if looks could kill' stares at Dennell, but said nothing.

He dug down into his briefcase, pulling out a rather large horseshoe. It slipped from his hand, dropping right on Napoleon's foot with a loud thud.

"Awwww, crap!" Napoleon barked. "I think you broke my toe! Oh man!"

"Oh my God Napoleon I'm so so sorry." George picked up the horseshoe, fumbling with it, and it fell again... hitting Mark Slate in the shin.

"You bloody ponce! What's wrong with you?" Mark hobbled in a circle, limping in pain and reaching for his gun.

"Mark I didn't mean it, I'm sorry. Please don't kill me?"

"Enough!" April said. She bent down, retrieving the horseshoe and dropped it back into Dennell's briefcase.

"George, I think you need to just leave darling."

"Right yes," he cleared his throat, raising his index finger in preparation to say something else, but the glares of the Section II agents stopped him.

They headed up the stairwell without further incident and finally to their offices.

"I think we need to rename Friday the 13th to George Dennell Day," Illya remarked before waving his farewell and disappearing into the office he shared with Solo who immediately followed the Russian inside.

April and Mark headed into their office, and like Solo and Kuryakin, locked the doors behind them; not planning to come out until after midnight...