The Boxing Affair Ch 2
Behind a row of bars and second hand shops, across an alleyway littered with bottles and trash, and a few homeless men, a doorway was crowned with the illustrious signage, King’s Gym. Once you stepped inside, the world of the alley and the people in it became a distant memory. If you were in King’s, your life was now in the ring that stood in the center. Locker rooms and benches lined opposite walls, and a bevy of shapely punching bags were hanging at the end of the open room, just waiting to take the punishment for which they were created.
This place smelled of testosterone and anguish, mixed with pangs of regret at lost opportunities or desultory dreams. Only a few ever succeeded in this violent sport, so there was a deserved sense of astonishment at the number of young men who tried. To Illya and Napoleon, the contrast between these faux warriors and their own real life encounters was enough to give them pause at the sight of these combatants, pummeling one another in grueling workouts, the bruises and broken noses outnumbering the men who bore them.
“So, you boxed in the navy, eh Illya?”
The blond didn’t respond, merely closed his eyes against the recurring vision of his own failed attempts to best larger and seemingly stronger opponents. He had been young and even thinner than now. Some of the men he had faced in the ring were twice his size…he felt certain that was not an exaggeration.
“Hey, are okay with this?”
Illya only nodded, his eyes focused on the square of activity that occupied the room.
Napoleon felt as though going into this together was an advantage. His role as a trainer would mean they didn’t have to break contact with each other, a definite plus. Illya posing as a welterweight boxer in an amateur event was, he had to admit, a great cover for this affair.
The man they were to contact in Sao Paolo was competing on the team from British Guiana. He had been working undercover for the past year, trying to infiltrate a group they were certain was Thrush; the object of that criminal element was not fully defined, but seemed to concentrate around a covert mining operation that had discovered a new vein of gold, something thought long ago exhausted. If Thrush had their eye on gold mining in that country, then a coup of some sort wouldn’t be far off. The information they collected from the boxing competitor/agent would be their first real key to how UNCLE should proceed.
Illya would be competing, as a personal favor to Mr. Waverly, as a member of the Canadian team. One of their own had been found using copious amounts of illegal drugs and dismissed, leaving a spot for the UNCLE agent to assume. The fact that most of the team was from British Columbia would help the Russian to merge in, citing his home as Montreal. It wasn’t safe to pose him as a Russian defector, so he became an ex-patriot Frenchman, thereby explaining his accent and it’s non-Canadian timbre.
Napoleon would be able to make use of his Quebecoise French, a particular irritation to his more fluent European partner, but a perfect element of this affair.
Illya was the first to spot their contact at the gym; Burt Infield was a veteran of the ring, and the owner of King’s Gym. He had spent his life in boxing, both as a competitor and now benefactor to the various boys and men who aspired to the limelight in this precarious and, sometimes dangerous sport. Alexander Waverly had befriended Burt during a particularly hazardous event while he was in Germany with a group of boxers doing exhibitions across Europe. The details had been put away with other secrets that both men kept locked in their past, but the friendship had endured between the two unlikely chums. It could not be said of Alexander Waverly that he held anyone at arm’s length because of their occupations or aspirations. That he hadn’t been able to persuade Infield to join UNCLE had only added to the older man’s admiration of him.
The owner of King’s had been given a portfolio of the men being sent to him for training in the ring. The one playing the part of the boxer had some experience, but now, looking at him, he felt a sense of near despair at the sight of the small man. Wearing a turtleneck and jeans, he didn’t look as though he would last the first round, let alone compete on a world stage among the best athletes in the western hemisphere. Alexander must have his reasons for thinking this guy could do the job, but they weren’t apparent to him…yet.
“Mr. Infield? I am Illya Kuryakin, and this is my partner, Napoleon Solo. We are…”
“Yeah, I know why you’re here…Illya. Let’s get down to business, okay. You aren’t exactly what I was expecting…’
Napoleon cut his eyes discreetly to gauge his partner’s response to that. This guy didn’t know who he had here, appearances aside.
“Go and get changed. We’re gonna start you off in the ring, so grab some sweats and let’s see what you’re made of”.
Illya shrugged imperceptibly and headed for the locker room. He was used to this, had expected it. How much of his life had been consumed with proving himself to disbelieving opponents? A resolve to overcome his own doubts and those of this Ingram fellow surged from that place within him that always supplied the fuel for his frequent need for fire.
Stepping up into that ring had a déjà vu effect on the blond. Napoleon, on the other hand, seized the experience as another chapter in his always open book. He and Illya had spent more hours than he could count grappling and wrestling on the mats at headquarters. Their ability to gain and regain control of their matches had held more than one spectator spellbound as they wound around one another, looking for an opening and, oftentimes, drawing blood with their no holds barred encounters.
The boxing ring was a new addition to this story. Even though the partnership was only a couple of years on, these two knew each other better than most in the organization. Their ability to communicate without verbalizing their intentions baffled some, but saved them a lot of time and confusion when in the field. Their success rate proved it to be true, and the senior agent had little doubt that this one would be no exception. He welcomed the opportunity to show what he had, even if the Russian was slated to be the star of this show. What good was a boxer without a great trainer? Napoleon reckoned he could be great at this, just like any role he took on. It was his lot in life to excel.
“So, you two have any experience in the ring…besides your navy gig?”
Infield nodded in Illya’s direction at that, still doubting that the smaller man had enough power to knock down a dummy. What the heck was Alexander thinking when he signed this guy up?
“No, Mr….’
“Uh uh…it’s Burt”.
Napoleon nodded, a smile hiding behind his relaxed posture. He knew what the man was thinking.
“Ok, Burt. I haven’t boxed previously. Perhaps one of your guys could demonstrate with my partner…you know, sort of show me how it works”.
Burt Infield like this guy. Napoleon, though…what a name. But, hey, at least the guy was honest and willing to take some instruction. The blond looked like he had a bad attitude. Maybe it was a good idea to take him down a notch…
“Hey, Sanchez…Carlos…over here!”
A young Latino sauntered over, his muscled chest and arms an immediate notice of how fit he was. He climbed easily up into the ring, eyeing Illya the entire time, relishing the idea of putting the guy down. These types who came in to test the waters against the real fighters…he had no time for that. Well, time enough to knock him around some.
Infield motioned towards the other man in the ring.
“This here is Illya. He has some experience, but he’s needing a brush up course…a few pointers. You know what I mean?”
He jerked his head to the blond, winking as he did so, letting the younger man know he had his permission to go at it full throttle. He respected Alexander Waverly, and he wouldn’t want to insult him or his men. But, this little guy needed to know what he would be up against down in Brazil. Chances were, he was gonna get his brains scrambled but good.
Both men had on the gear; mouthpieces were in and gloves shielded their hands. Head gear would soften the blows, should they come.
Illya kept his eyes on Carlos, expressionless and cold. If nothing else, he was confident he could win in that arena. He was poised for the first punch, but willed his body into the dance, remembering the routine and the feel of his feet moving swiftly and rhythmically around his opponent.
As both men circled, their plans were forming. Illya noted a slackness in the left arm, as though the man might have been injured previously. It was slight, but he was trained to notice the small things. Not willing to wait now for the other man to strike, Illya feinted to his own left, then struck a blow that landed with a thud on Carlos’ left cheek. It had been quick, but the other man retaliated with a hard smack to Illya’s midsection.
He nearly doubled over, but reclaimed his posture in time to receive a second hit, this time to his right ear. He shook it off, dancing away and around, never stopping to acknowledge the dizziness that accompanied the punch.
Burt was watching the footwork, impressed that the Russian kept going. Carlos was centering in on something and struck quickly, but Illya had anticipated it and blocked it, landing his own solid blow to the man’s solar plexis, catching his chin as he doubled slightly to appease the catch in his breathing.
Illya was fast, and his strength, while not readily evident to these two, was more than enough to knock Sanchez back on his heels with a resounding left hook, leaving an opening to deliver the final punch. The faltering opponent went down hard, not a knock out, but as he touched the canvas beneath them, Napoleon was grinning widely enough to signal Burt that the blond was a ringer. He shook his head, calling to Sanchez to lay off, the bout was over.
Illya removed his gloves and leaned over to help the young man up from his prone position. While it was never a pleasant thing to be the one on the bottom of a match, Carlos had a new respect for the blond; he’d beaten him fair and square. This guy had some punch for little guy.
“Hey, you need a sparring partner? I’d be happy to step in for that role”.
Illya smiled, just barely, and nodded his head toward Burt.
“I believe that will be up to him, but thank you for the offer”.
Burt and Napoleon approached the ring, accepting the gear as it was passed to them. This would be the first of many such encounters as the two UNCLE agents prepared for their mission at the Pan Am Games. Illya hoped they would all be this easy, if it could be called that. He didn’t think it possible, however.
While Napoleon learned the role of trainer, talking and, no doubt meeting beautiful women who liked to hang around the ring, it would be Kuryakin’s head that was pounded, his body enduring the physical punishment.
All in all, it sounded like business as usual.