As he served the meals to the passengers in the train's dining car, Illya wondered, yet again, why it was he who had the service industry role. Napoleon had once explained that his own look was too sophisticated, to which Illya had replied, 'That's what disguises are for'. His own, brown haired waiter, disguise was ensuring he could get close to the male and the female THRUSH agents at the corner table. He'd already approached them once to take their order and was planning on the delivery of the food to get a microphone under the table. He was planning on using the tried and tested 'drop something and pick it up' ploy.
Half way down the carriage, Illya reached the table at which his partner had positioned himself. On the seat beside Solo an innocent looking briefcase sat. Secreted within was a tape recorder, waiting for the activation of the microphone.
"Ah, Garcon," Napoleon enthused with unnecessary gusto, as Illya handed him his poached salmon. "This looks absolutely superb."
Dramatically flourishing his fork, Solo made a great play of taking the first mouthful, knowing that Illya would be in his usual state of hunger. The Russian was practically biting his tongue off in an effort not the say something to the American and therefore break character. He settled for rolling his eyes before moving on to the rest of the passengers.
Finally arriving at the corner table, Illya served half of the meal before a mug of coffee 'accidently' slipped from his hand. Apologising profusely, he dropped to his knees and began to clear the mess. He surreptitiously pulled the microphone disc from his pocket and attached it to the underneath of the table and switched it on. Beside Napoleon, the tape recorder automatically started up. With his part of the operation complete, Illya withdrew from the carriage and left Napoleon to listen in on the conversation.
Half an hour later, Napoleon sought Illya out in the guard's van.
"Napoleon? What are you doing back here?"
"We have a teeny tiny problem," Solo told him. "Those two people aren't THRUSH agents."
Illya frowned. "What do you mean?"
Napoleon opened his briefcase, rewound the tape and set it away.
"Listen Merv, my sister is expecting us to stay for a week, so we're staying for a week."
"Don't get me wrong Bea. I love your sister, but I can't stand the idea of a week with her lazy bum of a husband."
"He won't be there most of the time."
"No, he'll be off getting tanked up."
Napoleon switched the tape off and looked emphatically at his partner.
"That could just be their cover," Illya pointed out.
Napoleon shook his head. "Believe me, that isn't an act," he replied. "That discussion escalated into a full blown argument about Bea's feckless brother-in-law."
"I don't understand."
Solo slid his communicator out and requested to be put through to Mr Waverly. When his superior answered, Napoleon explained the situation.
"Which train did you get?" The Old Man asked.
"The 1:10 from platform 5."
"Mr Solo! You were meant to be on the 1:05 from platform 10. You and Mr Kuryakin are to report straight to me as soon as you return."
Napoleon put his communicator back in his pocket and gave Illya a concerned look.
"I have a feeling our next assignment is going to be somewhere very cold or very hot."
Illya said nothing. He simply shrugged his shoulders and sat down to wait for the next station.