MFU Fanfic: Baroque Pearls (Part I)
Jul. 27th, 2011 07:56 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
saki101This is the first part of a further continuation of the story which started with Blue Diamonds and continued in Black Sapphires. There is also a connection with a ficlet I wrote entitled When the Cherries Bloom.
Baroque Pearls has remained partially-written for nearly ten months and participating in![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-community.gif)
picowrimo, thanks to ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
elmey's recommendation, has finally gotten me to take it up again.
I am very grateful to the moderators and all the other participants of picowrimo for their encouragement and suggestions and toutopiantrunks for listening to my rewrites and patiently explaining the use of italics. All the shortcomings are mine.
Title: Baroque Pearls (Part I)
Author: saki101
Fandom: Man from UNCLE
Genre: Slash
Rating: R-ish
Word Count: 10K
Disclaimer: MFU is not mine and no money is being made.
Note: This section is a further development of the story and doesn't stand alone.
Excerpt: Napoleon and Illya dropped their bags just inside the apartment door. “Did you do something to aggravate him?” Napoleon asked.
“Who?” Illya mumbled, weaving towards the couch and collapsing onto it.
“Mr Waverly,” Napoleon answered, detouring to the kitchen and banging a few cupboard doors. “He seems to be trying to kill us.”
Baroque Pearls
Part I
“Anything to report?” Illya enquired of the young Section Two agent seated in the small lobby not far from the elevators with a clear view of the door to Agincourt’s hotel suite.
“Very little, sir,” the agent replied, standing. “Shortly after you left this afternoon, Mr Agincourt said he would like to go down to the ground floor to make a few purchases. I accompanied him and approximately an hour and a half later he returned to his room and has remained there since,” the young man answered quietly.
“You made notes of everything?” Illya checked. The agent nodded. “Coordinate it with the telephone log and I’ll review your report tomorrow,” Illya said. “Good night, Mr Rafferty,” he added.
The young man tried not to look too pleased at being released before midnight. “Yes, sir,” he replied and gathered his newspaper and notebook quickly. “Good night, sir.” He moved with alacrity towards the elevators. Illya waited until one had swallowed Rafferty before using his key to open the hotel room door.
***************
A quiet passage in the music was playing as Illya turned the key in the lock. Anton was sitting on the couch, looking over the top of an issue of The Economist when Illya slipped through the door. He closed it quickly behind him and paused to scan the room. Anton set the magazine aside and lifted a bottle of vodka that should not have been in the U. S. from a bucket of ice on the coffee table. Illya nodded and closed his eyes as the first movement of the sonata came to an end. Appassionata. He eased off his shoes and pushed them aside with one foot before re-opening his eyes. Anton was holding up a half-full glass. The peaceful second movement began while Illya headed across the room. He glanced at the phonograph; the record changer was pulled back.
Illya reached over the coffee table to take the glass. “You were sure I would return tonight?” he asked, cataloguing the deep bowl of caviar, the platter of smoked salmon sprinkled with capers, the pyramid of fruit, the assorted cheeses and the plate of toast and crackers.
Anton took a small cracker, spooned caviar onto it and held it up. “Are you sure I couldn’t eat all this myself?” he retorted. Illya regarded Anton for a moment, then bent forward and nipped the cracker from between his fingers. Illya heard the intake of breath and smiled as he straightened up to walk around the table. He took a drink from his glass and set it down, removed his jacket and turned to drape it over a nearby easy chair. He didn't unbuckle the black leather holster which puckered the cloth of his dress shirt, dividing it into distinct regions. Illya turned to face Anton. He was holding up another cracker. Illya pulled on one end of his tie, undid his collar button and sat down on the edge of the couch. Anton brought the cracker closer and Illya opened his mouth.
“Excellent caviar,” Illya said after he swallowed. He reached for his drink.
Anton’s hand hovered over the plate of salmon. Illya shook his head minutely and swung his legs up onto the white cushions, tucking one foot behind Anton‘s back and leaning the other foot against Anton‘s thigh. Anton pulled the coffee table closer to the couch and loaded another cracker with caviar. When Illya simply opened his mouth again, Anton took a deep breath.
Crinkles appeared at the corners of Illya’s eyes as he chewed, reclining against the overstuffed leather of the couch arm, his left arm stretched along the back of the sofa, exposing the gun nestled in its holster at his side. Illya extended his other arm to rest his glass on the table. The motion showed his shirt front to good effect, cinched under the arms by the holster and tapering into the narrow circumference of his cummerbund. Illya observed Anton’s eyes surveying the snowy expanse, then focussing on the row of studs, following their stars down to the black satin confining his waist.
Anton shook his head as though to clear it and offered the salmon again. This time when Illya parted his lips, Anton leaned closer to keep a cupped hand under the toast as he brought it to Illya’s mouth. Drawing back his lips slightly, Illya bit off half of the salmon with a faint click of his teeth. A caper rolled into Anton’s hand. Anton sat back, popped the pickled berry and the rest of the salmon and toast into his mouth and lifted another triangle. Illya sipped more vodka. Excellent vodka. Anton waited, the appetiser poised mid-air while Illya lowered his drink to the couch cushion, holding it lightly next to his hip. Illya watched Anton's eyes follow his hand. He glanced down. The creases of the white couch leather were magnified by the liquid at the bottom of the glass, the satin stripe of the tuxedo trousers distorted by the curve of the tumbler’s side.
“Just the salmon,” Illya said, slipping his foot onto Anton’s lap. Anton pulled his gaze away from Illya‘s hip, put the hors d’oeuvre back on its plate, plucked off the salmon and rolled it around the capers before moving closer to Illya and holding out the morsel. This time Illya leaned forward to bite into it.
****************
As the stack of reports on Napoleon’s desk the morning after the reception at the consulate attested, UNCLE New York had continued to be busy in his absence. Busy and mostly successful, he had learned as he rapidly read through the whole lot while waiting for Illya to join him in their office as he usually did before their meetings with Mr Waverly. Napoleon realised that he must never have been in the office alone so long before a morning meeting when Illya was in town. Napoleon signed all the reports, except Fiorello’s which needed a little more detail, and plumped the pile on Lisa’s desk when he arrived in front of it at ten to nine because he couldn’t sit in the office alone anymore. Fiorello’s report had been dropped in the interoffice mail with a note and Illya’s was with him.
Napoleon had glanced at the clock behind Lisa’s desk for about the tenth time when he heard Illya’s footsteps behind him. Two minutes to nine. You don’t usually cut it that fine unless you’re setting explosive charges.
Napoleon handed Illya his report, warm and slightly bent from having been under his arm while he waited. “No changes,” he said. Illya nodded and accepted the file as the door opened and Lisa told them to go in.
Illya listened to Napoleon’s report on his mission in the Philippines. He had already read the other reports that had been left in their office. Oddly, Mr Waverly had not appointed anyone else to be acting CEA despite the length of their absence and had overseen the missions himself. Napoleon was attentive as Illya answered several questions Mr Waverly posed about his latest report. Mr Waverly informed them both that a further arrest had been made that morning facilitated by information from the eavesdropping devices Illya had planted in London. Mr Waverly consulted some notes in front of him. “A Mr, ah, Smith,” he read.
Illya smiled slightly and nodded. “They’ll probably cease using the house now.”
“London will continue monitoring for a few weeks just in case. THRUSH has been careless before,” Mr Waverly remarked.
“We can hope,” Illya murmured.
Napoleon was glad he had read Illya’s report first, been aware of the nature of the ploy and how positive the outcome had been, or even his aplomb might have failed when Mr Waverly’s next statement was to announce that he intended to offer Agincourt the opportunity to attend Survival School.
“Any comments, gentlemen?”
Napoleon glanced at Illya who was looking at Mr Waverly. “At his age, I doubt he’ll be able to complete the course,” Illya answered.
Napoleon would have liked to have scoffed at the idea of Agincourt lasting a week, but from what he knew of the man’s stamina, he wasn’t so sure. Illya knows that better than I do, Napoleon thought and frowned. Is he trying to protect him?
“He’s only slightly older than you two,” Mr Waverly observed.
“True, but we’ve been in the field ever since we left Survival School. For a civilian, I’d be surprised if it were possible,” Illya continued.
“Mr Agincourt has surprised us a couple times already and Mr Hawthorne and I think he may surprise us again,” Mr Waverly stated, reaching for his pipe. “It would annoy Mr Cutter no end, if he does.”
Despite his concerns, Napoleon couldn’t help chuckling at the image. Even Illya smiled.
“Mr Solo, if you would be so good as to ask Mr Agincourt to join Mr Kuryakin and me. I believe he is waiting outside,” Mr Waverly added.
Napoleon stood, covering his affront at being excluded from the meeting. “Yes, sir,” he said and turned to the door. By the time the door opened, the idea of Agincourt sequestered on Cutter’s island for nearly a year had put a smile back on Napoleon’s face and as he extended his hand to Agincourt in front of Lisa’s desk, it was still playing about the corners of his mouth.
“I hear you’re hoping to join the side of the angels,” Napoleon said as Anton’s hand closed around his. He noticed Agincourt’s eyes dart past his shoulder into Mr Waverly’s office before the door closed and his gaze returned to Napoleon’s.
“I’m hoping to join his side,” Agincourt answered and they both knew Napoleon understood whose side that was.
Despite the fact that the last time he had seen Agincourt, Napoleon had been apprehending him and what he had seen before that he didn‘t want to think about, Napoleon found himself saying, “Cutter will try to kill you first.” Their hands parted. “He tries to kill all of us.”
Napoleon saw the flicker of appreciation for the inclusive phrasing. He almost shook his head at himself. How can I hate you for loving Illya? Napoleon thought.
Napoleon stepped aside and motioned towards the door. “Good luck,“ he said as Lisa pressed the button to open it and Anton disappeared inside. Napoleon turned to Mr Waverly’s secretary, his best smile on his face and Lisa asked about Napoleon’s dinner plans.
“If you aren’t still jet-lagged?” she added playfully.
Napoleon leaned over the desk and whispered close enough to Lisa’s ear that her hair stirred. “We could find out together.” She raised one finely-plucked eyebrow. “I’ll pick you up at eight,” Napoleon said, straightening up.
Lisa nodded and smiled.
Napoleon walked away humming softly. Illya will be busy until Anton leaves for Survival School, Napoleon thought. And the last place Napoleon wanted to be was home alone thinking about survival.
*********************
He was tired and his body ached. Even so, the desire was pulling him from sleep, rising almost impossibly in him again. He pressed back against Anton whose arm tightened across his chest, the hand stroking lightly before it stilled, accompanied by a sleepy murmur near his ear and then low, steady breathing. In a few hours, he would see Anton onto a jet headed for Miami and a rendezvous with an UNCLE plane which would take him and several other recruits arriving from various points in North America to the island where Cutter did his best to fail those who wouldn’t survive in the field. Sending Anton there exhausted won’t give him the best beginning, but how likely is he to survive, ten years older than most of the other recruits as he is? Illya thought. Faintly, he could hear music from the living room. The Tempest. Anton had left the record changer disengaged again.
Illya stretched and managed to roll onto his back. Anton lifted his head.
“You can’t sleep?” he asked groggily, moving his leg across Illya’s thigh. “Oh,” he said.
Illya reached up in the dark and found Anton’s head. He ran his fingers into the tangled waves of hair and pulled Anton towards him.
Anton’s head was pillowed on Illya’s thigh, his hand grasping Illya‘s hip, loose-fingered now. Illya’s breathing was slowing. Illya’s hand slipped from Anton’s hair to his shoulder.
“Do you think I’m going to fail?” Anton asked. Illya didn’t answer. His breathing was quiet. Anton sighed.
“Cutter will try his best to make you,” Illya replied.
“I thought you’d fallen back to sleep,” Anton remarked, letting his thumb trace a brief arc across Illya’s pelvis.
“Almost,” Illya answered.
“Will he know all about me?” Anton probed.
“He won’t have your complete file. Access to some of it is restricted to Section One.”
“You don’t have full access?” Anton pursued, surprised.
A faint huff preceded Illya’s answer. “I know more than I would otherwise because I was involved in the mission, but even I don’t have full access, so if the answer is in there, I won’t know unless Hawthorne chooses to tell me.”
“Know what?” Anton asked.
“If we finally found out who the person is that I remind you of,” Illya answered.
“What?” Anton asked, pulling himself up beside Illya.
“I suggested that it would be useful to know who the person was and Hawthorne agreed, but we couldn’t find anything.” Illya paused. “He was impressed by how well you had hidden that and your personal life, generally” Illya explained.
“What made you think you remind me of anyone?” Anton persisted, settling on his side next to Illya, one leg hooked across Illya’s knee.
“Your reaction to me. There has to be a history behind it,” Illya replied.
Anton moved his hand up Illya’s body to his face and leaned over him. “You sound so sure.”
“I am sure,” Illya answered.
Anton leaned closer to Illya’s face. “You’re wrong,” he said and kissed Illya on the mouth. Illya’s lips remained closed. Anton drew back. “You don’t believe me.”
“You’re entitled to secrets,” Illya replied.
“Says the spy!” Anton retorted, rolling onto his back.
“It’s all right. You don’t need to tell me. You must have a good reason for hiding it so well,” Illya said and turned onto his side to face Anton. “If it’s a painful memory, I’m sorry.”
Anton sighed. “When I was selecting the diamond for you, I realised that your eyes were the same colour as my grandmother’s…my father‘s mother. She lived with us when I was growing up and I was her darling boy. She died when I was fifteen, a couple years after my father did. Possibly that lent you an air of familiarity, made me inclined to believe you. But I don’t think that’s the sort of connection you were seeking, is it?”
“No,” Illya said. “I meant what I said. I understand protecting a loved one...or oneself.”
“You were imagining a young sweetheart lost in the aftermath of the war, an estranged wife somewhere with my child, an unrequited infatuation…something along those lines,” Anton pursued.
“Those lines or others…something…” Illya paused.
“Something passionate, intense,” Anton said, shifting to his side again. “Something to explain…” he kissed Illya until he opened his mouth and there was a stirring against Anton’s stomach. Anton lifted his head, “…this.” His hand smoothed up Illya’s cheek and brushed the hair back from his forehead. He pressed a kiss to the damp skin there and murmured, “Something other than you.”
Illya was nearly asleep, draped half over Anton. Anton’s arm lay across Illya’s back, rising and falling with his steady respiration. Illya opened one eye enough to see the illuminated hands of the alarm clock. There were still a couple hours more before its clamour would shatter any peace sleep might bring. Anton fingertips were moving back and forth along Illya's side in time to the music.
In the living room the phonograph needle hit the centre of the record, rose and returned to the beginning.
**********************
Napoleon and Illya dropped their bags just inside the apartment door. “Did you do something to aggravate him?” Napoleon asked.
“Who?” Illya mumbled, weaving towards the couch and collapsing onto it.
“Mr Waverly,” Napoleon answered, detouring to the kitchen and banging a few cupboard doors. “He seems to be trying to kill us.” Napoleon stepped over their cases and deposited two glasses, a scotch and a vodka bottle on the coffee table. He glanced behind him. “Move your legs,” he said. Illya lifted them; Napoleon sat and Illya dropped them across his lap.
“Did you?” Illya asked, holding out his hand towards the vodka bottle. Napoleon reached for a glass. “Just the bottle,” Illya said.
Napoleon handed over the bottle, poured himself a couple fingers of scotch and leaned back on the couch. “Not that I can think of,” he answered, taking a long swallow. “He hasn’t even complained about my expense account lately…Not that we’ve been in New York long enough for anyone to say much of anything to us except where we’re headed next.”
“I don’t think we’ve had two consecutive days off in the last six months,” Illya said. Napoleon glanced over at him. “When we weren’t in Medical,” Illya amended. “They don’t count as days off.”
Napoleon harrumphed. “I’m not sure Mr Waverly sees it that way,” he replied and put his feet up on the coffee table. “Except for that odd courier job you did alone, at least we’ve been on all these missions together…”
Illya took a swig from the vodka bottle, slid it down between his side and the back of the couch and closed his eyes. “I’m hungry, but I’m too tired to move,” he said after a moment.
Napoleon finished his scotch, rested the empty glass on the arm of the couch and slouched further down into the cushions. “Considering what we do,” he replied, “someone really ought to feed us.”
“Hmm,” Illya agreed. He pulled a throw pillow out from under his shoulder, wiggled down so his head was off the couch arm, and turned his face into the cushion. Napoleon smiled sleepily as Illya’s hand curled protectively around the vodka bottle. His eyes were closing when Illya stretched out one foot and knocked the scotch glass off the arm of the couch.
“You’re lucky that was empty,” Napoleon murmured.
“Should have held on tighter,” Illya mumbled.
“It didn’t break,” Napoleon observed.
“Too many papers on the floor,” Illya said, adjusting his legs again and almost kicking Napoleon in the groin in the process.
“Are you quite settled?” Napoleon asked, grabbing one menacing foot.
“Hmm,” Illya answered. “They’re some take-out menus down there. We can look later,” he added and said no more.
Napoleon shifted partway onto his hip. His hand slid from Illya’s foot to behind his knee, then sleep overtook him, too.
A door slammed in the hallway. Napoleon’s hand was on his gun before he was awake. There was a loud giggle, the clatter of keys dropping, another giggle and a man’s low laugh. “It’s Andreas,” Illya said from his corner of the couch.
“You can recognise his laugh?” Napoleon asked.
“I hear it often enough and other sounds as well.” Illya lifted his head. Napoleon raised both eyebrows. “His bedroom is next to my bathroom,” Illya explained. “I think he’s trying to challenge your title as New York HQ’s most successful lover.”
Napoleon looked over the top of the couch at the apartment door and narrowed his eyes. “Why haven‘t you mentioned this?”
“Don’t worry. If your position were threatened, I’d have warned you. He has a long way to go,” Illya smiled, sitting up and taking a drink from the vodka bottle which had remained upright throughout their nap. “In fact, if your lead were in any danger, I would offer to help you attract a few…” Illya stood up and stretched, vodka bottle still in hand. “As your partner and friend.”
Napoleon stared at Illya. “I don’t need any help, thank you,” he replied.
Illya stretched again and began unbuttoning his shirt one-handed. Something about the movements of his fingers held Napoleon’s attention as the cloth parted. “I’m going to shower. See if you can find the take-out menus,” Illya said as he headed towards the bathroom with the vodka bottle.
“What do you fancy?” Napoleon called after him as he peered over the arm of the couch at the stack of papers and books on the floor. He reached down to retrieve the fallen glass which lay unbroken on its side on the top.
“Surprise me,” Illya called back before the bathroom door shut.
*************
“For you, Napoleon. No one else, you understand?“
“I do, Mama. I can’t tell you how much I appreciate this, but it couldn’t be anyone else.“ He could hear the smile in Mama Leoni’s voice as she told one of the waiters to find her grandson. “Giorgio can bring it over. Mind you, warm it the way he tells you. You don’t serve my veal parmigiana cold, capisci?”
“I’ll do exactly what Giorgio says to do,” Napoleon vowed.
In the background, someone called Mama’s name. “Momento,” she called back.
“Is she beautiful, Napoleon? For this, she had better be beautiful…and good,” Mama added.
“Very beautiful, Mama, and no one’s better,” Napoleon answered.
“Buona. And my best wine?”
“The very best,” Napoleon clarified.
Mama chuckled. “Only for you, Napoleon. Remember.”
“I will and thank you.”
Mama was laughing when she hung up.
Napoleon set the telephone back in its cradle and grinned. He’d only managed to have three meals at Mama Leoni’s in the past six months, but she still agreed to the favour immediately. Napoleon looked down at the open book in his lap and his smile faded.
Amidst the stack of old newspapers and scientific journals in various languages next to Illya‘s couch, Napoleon had found, in addition to the take-out menus, several unusual books and a half-opened package from Blackwell‘s. The illustrated edition of the score and libretto of Iolanthe had been the first to give him pause, even before he had focussed on the Russian title. The proof copy of a book on quarks based on a paper delivered at a conference held at Imperial College six months previously brought a scowl to his face. When he had opened the small leather-bound volume now in his lap to the page marked by a slip of Blackwell’s stationery and read that it came with the compliments of Anton Agincourt, Napoleon had picked up the telephone. His written Russian wasn’t proficient, but he was able to read Pushkin’s name and to translate the title of the poem, "Я Вас Любил" - "I Loved You".
Napoleon heard the bathroom door open. “I left you some hot water. And there‘s a robe on the back of the door,” Illya called as he crossed the hallway to his bedroom.
Napoleon reconstructed the stack of books and papers, menus and all and hastened down the corridor. He stopped outside Illya’s door. It was ajar. “I’ve ordered the food. It should be here in twenty minutes or so, traffic permitting,” Napoleon explained. From where he stood, he could see the mirror over Illya’s dresser. It showed the bottom half of the bed and the half-open closet door. Illya emerged from behind the closet door and pushed it closed with his foot.
“I’ll listen for the buzzer,” Illya said.
“OK,” Napoleon responded, not moving away. Illya pulled the towel from around his waist and used it to dry his back. I’ve seen Illya naked many times, Napoleon reminded himself as he watched Illya lift a foot to the bed and dry the inside of his thigh. It’s different now though. Illya lowered the foot and raised the other. Napoleon tilted his head to improve the angle. Been different. Illya turned, rubbing his hair and draped the towel over the closet doorknob. It slipped to the floor. Illya bent down to retrieve it. Napoleon stared an instant longer, then retreated to the bathroom.
Illya interrupted the squawk of the buzzer within seconds. “Yes,” he said into the intercom.
“Delivery.”
“I’ll be right down. How much do I owe you?” Illya asked, reaching for his overcoat from the coat rack by the door.
“Nothing. Mr Solo took care of it, but I have directions from my grandmother for him.”
“Giorgio?” Illya asked.
“Oh, hello, Mr Kuryakin. How are you?” Giorgio answered.
“Just fine now, Giorgio. Come up,” Illya said and pressed the buzzer. “Mind the door locks behind you.”
Illya listened to the door slam and then to the rattle as Giorgio tested the latch. The door was deceptively rickety-looking, but the precaution encouraged visitors to look behind them and double check. Illya hung his coat back up, explored a few pockets and found a couple dollar bills. The soft knock came a moment later. Illya checked the peep hole and found Giorgio standing far enough away that Illya could get a good view of him. Smiling, Illya opened the door.
“You ran up the stairs,” he chided.
Giorgio handed over the two large bags and then the brown paper-wrapped bottle from under his arm. “Gra’mama said to get it here as fast as possible, so…”
“Running,” Illya answered, setting the bags on the carpet and handing Giorgio his tip. “I hope no traffic laws were broken in the process,” Illya added.
Giorgio grinned. “Only a few, small ones,” he replied, holding his thumb and index finger a short distance apart. He unbuttoned a pocket on his jacket and took out a folded paper. “I’m supposed to watch you read this.” Illya unfolded the paper. “Well, actually I was supposed to watch Mr Solo read this.”
“I’ll be his second,” Illya said, pulling his glasses from the breast pocket of his bath robe to read the note. “I will follow them to the letter.” He vowed when he finished. “How’s your dissertation progressing?”
“My defence is before Thanksgiving,” Giorgio answered.
“Well done. And then?”
“I’ve been offered an assistant teaching position next semester to replace someone going on sabbatical,” Giorgio said, blushing.
“Congratulations,” Illya answered.
Giorgio looked meaningfully towards the bags at Illya’s feet. “Right,” Illya said. “I’ll attend to these now.”
“Good night,” Giorgio said, stepping back.
“Mind the front door,” Illya said.
“I will,” Giorgio replied, already at the top of the stairs.
Illya shut the apartment door, waited by the intercom for the slam and rattle of the front door, then stepped to the window and watched Giorgio manoeuvre his motorbike into the traffic before returning his attention to the aromatic bags from Mama Leoni’s Restaurant. The one that didn’t do take-out and certainly didn‘t deliver. Illya smiled.
*****************
The hot water faded to tepid fairly quickly, so Napoleon’s shower was quicker than Illya’s, but he decided to borrow Illya’s razor and shave before dinner. Once his face was satisfactorily smooth, Napoleon reached for the toothbrush with the splayed bristles occupying the metal cup next to the faucets. He hoped that this wasn’t one that Illya kept to clean his gun, noticed the open vodka bottle on the toilet tank and splashed some over the brush before adding toothpaste. As he brushed, Napoleon noticed the robe behind the bathroom door. It was neither the dingy terrycloth one that usually occupied the hook nor the red flannel one that Illya had received as a Secret Santa gift the previous year and used when the other needed laundering. Napoleon rinsed his mouth, dried his face and went to inspect the shiny, maroon garment festooning the door. He checked the label and found only the name of a tailor on Jermyn Street in London. Napoleon sighed as he slipped into the garment. More booty from the assignment with Agincourt. Napoleon paused. But if this is here, Illya must be wearing the old one or the flannel one. The thought cheered Napoleon; he tied the sash, admired himself for a moment in the mirror, grabbed the vodka and opened the door. There was a pair of slippers directly in his path. The quilted uppers matched the robe. His smile broadened. Illya must be wearing the pair from that hotel in Bogata. Napoleon inhaled the fragrance of Mama Leoni’s veal parmigiana wafting down the hallway and headed confidently towards it.
The little dinette table which acted as a makeshift desk most of the time had been cleared of typewriter, papers and old post and set with the Melmac plates with which UNCLE furnished their agents’ kitchens along with multi-coloured plastic glasses. Many had wondered at the choice and the consensus was that they would survive if an agent’s flat were ransacked. Napoleon had bought Illya some wine and high ball glasses because he couldn’t bear drinking alcohol out of plastic and two of the wine glasses shone next to the olive green plates with stylised sunflowers splashed across them.
Illya emerged from the kitchen with the open wine bottle in hand. “That looks well on you,” he said, looking Napoleon over. “And it fits fine. I knew there must be some of those clothes that would suit you,” Illya finished. He set the wine on the table and checked his watch. “If you handle the salad and the antipasta, I’ll get the veal, it should be ready in another sixty seconds,” he said. “Giorgio made me read his grandmother’s directions,” Illya explained when Napoleon‘s brow furrowed.
Napoleon nodded. “I’ll get the salad,” he said and stepped closer to the table. He watched Illya return to the kitchen. Illya’s dressing gown was dark blue silk. The loosely-knotted belt left a deep vee of chest exposed and Illya had rolled back the sleeves. He had on matching pyjama bottoms and slippers. So he has more than one set. Most people have several sets of night clothes, Napoleon reasoned. He tried very hard to concentrate on dressing and tossing the salad and not on picturing Anton removing the blue silk night clothes or the maroon ones or any other colour ones there might be.
Illya set the tray of veal and a spatula down on one of the plates, went back into the kitchen, returning with a bowl of pasta and sauce and a tea towel to set the tray on before it melted the Melmac. “I’ll just get the garlic bread and we’ll be ready to eat,” Illya said, disappearing again.
Napoleon wandered over to the phonograph with a mind to putting on some jazz for Illya. The record on the turntable was Iolanthe. Napoleon let out a long breath and found the album sleeve. The cover eluded him until he spotted the boxed set of operas in Russian. Napoleon searched the shelf below the phonograph and found the Gershwin album he’d given Illya the previous Christmas and put on Rhapsody in Blue. It seemed the right colour.
“I don’t think I can move,” Illya said when the record ended. Napoleon had flipped it over and they had listened to An American in Paris.
“I think I’m still ambulatory,” Napoleon said, setting down his brandy and heaving himself off the couch. “What would you like to hear next?”
“Flip it back over. I’d like to hear Rhapsody in Blue again,” Illya said. “Or,” he continued, setting down his drink and leaning forward on the couch, “Hand me the case next to the phonograph.”
Napoleon looked to the side of the phonograph, spotted the scuffed oboe case tucked between the phonograph cabinet and the bookcase and handed it Illya.
“Not sure I have the breath for this right now, but who knows when we’ll have a chance next,” Illya said, loosening the belt of his robe. He placed the case across his knees and began fitting the pieces of his oboe together. Napoleon sat down in the arm chair across from the couch and watched.
Illya tried a few notes, made a couple adjustments, glanced at Napoleon and closed his eyes. The opening notes of Rhapsody in Blue issued from the oboe. The sound differed, of course, from a clarinet, but the seductive trill was the same and it made Napoleon close his eyes for a moment. He was smiling when he reopened them. Illya’s eyes were still closed. Unabashedly, Napoleon studied the minute shift in the muscles around Illya’s eyes and brows and lips, the dance of his fingers over the silver keys and wished for something to be different.
One of their communicators sounded. Illya stopped playing and opened his eyes. They both looked for the source of the sound. Napoleon strode to the door, found Illya’s communicator in his overcoat pocket and tossed it onto the couch. Illya balanced his oboe across his knees and opened the device. “Kuryakin, here,” he said.
Napoleon could hear Mr Waverly’s voice as he moved back across the room. “I understand that you and Mr Solo arrived safely this evening.”
Illya glanced at Napoleon. “Yes, sir,” Illya answered.
“Good. Mr Cutter has sent an SOS,” Mr Waverly continued. Illya sat up straighter. “Seems the explosives expert he had scheduled to teach the advanced class has met with an accident and he needs a replacement for two weeks starting Monday. I volunteered you.”
“Thank you, sir,” Illya answered. Napoleon looked down at the floor. A scrap of butcher paper stuck out from under the couch.
“The plane leaves shortly before noon tomorrow. I'd like to see you before you go to the airport,” Mr Waverly said. “There's something I want you to bring to the island,” he concluded.
“Yes, sir,” Illya finished. He switched off the device and let his head fall back against the couch. “He is trying to kill us.”
“At least you,” Napoleon said.
“Don’t be so sure he isn’t sending you somewhere tomorrow, too,” Illya cautioned, closing his eyes. "A day of rest is clearly too much to expect."
Napoleon patted both of Illya’s shoulders. “At least we got to eat a good meal,” he consoled.
Without opening his eyes, Illya smiled. “It was a very good meal, Napoleon.” Napoleon started to massage Illya’s shoulders. “How did you get Mama Leoni to agree to it?”
“Oh, if I told you that, then I’d have to kill you,” Napoleon answered, finding a knot near Illya’s right shoulder and digging his thumb into it.
“Well, if you see Mama Leoni before I’m back, congratulate her. Giorgio’s defending his dissertation next month and has a temporary job lined up for next semester covering someone’s sabbatical,” Illya said.
“If they’re smart, they’ll keep him,” Napoleon said.
“Absolutely,” Illya agreed. “How many young classicists can there be?”
“Not too many, I would think,” Napoleon said, feeling the knot finally give way. He gave Illya’s shoulder a pat. “Don’t bother with anything. I’ll clean up. As far as I know, I’ve actually got Sunday off. And I know how much you’re looking forward to working with Cutter again.” Illya groaned. Napoleon walked around the couch and offered Illya a hand up. “Just brush your teeth and go to bed.” Illya waved at his suitcase which was still near the door. “I’ll put it in your room,” Napoleon said.
“I need my toothbrush,” Illya said.
“Use the old one in the bathroom,” Napoleon replied.
“No, I use that one for…” Napoleon held up his hands and shook his head. Illya looked at his face. “You didn’t.”
“I did.”
“Oh, Napoleon,” Illya sighed.
“I poured vodka on it first,” Napoleon offered.
Illya tilted his head and raised his eyebrows. “Well, that’s something,” he said and opened his mouth to say more.
“Don’t tell me,” Napoleon said. “It’s better if I don’t know.”
“Yes,” Illya agreed. “It probably is.”
Napoleon bent over Illya’s suitcase, opened it and extracted his toiletry case. “Here,” he said, getting up and handing it to Illya. “Brush, sleep. I’ll take care of everything else.” He waved his hand towards the corridor. “I’ll put the leftovers in the fridge for your breakfast.”
Illya nodded and smiled sleepily. “Thank you, Napoleon.”
“Better you than me with Cutter,” Napoleon said, starting to gather the dishes from the table. Illya sighed and ambled off to the bathroom.
In fifteen minutes everything was clean and orderly. Napoleon changed into clothes from his suitcase and put the robe and slippers back in the bathroom. Illya had left his bedroom door partly open. Napoleon stuck his head around it. Illya was sleeping on his back, the reflected light from the mirror casting a dim shadow of his profile against the bedroom wall. Napoleon closed the door quietly. He took a last look around the living room and kitchen; the half-opened package tempted him, but he resisted. Napoleon shut off the lights, reset the alarms and let himself out.
****************
A yellow leaf skittered over the windowsill and across the floor. Napoleon drifted past it and into the next room, sipping his coffee and listening. Every window he passed stood open.
The front door rattled, slammed. Illya shouted, “Taxi.” Napoleon moved to the side of the bay window. A cab swerved to the kerb. Illya came into view at the bottom of the brownstone steps, his overcoat open to the breeze, battered suitcase in hand.
It will be warm on the island, Napoleon thought as Illya opened the cab door, swung his suitcase onto the seat and followed it inside. Did you pack the silk robe? Napoleon’s fingers slid around the side of his coffee cup; he felt the knotted muscles beneath the blue silk. He watched until the taxi turned the corner.
The curtains billowed as Napoleon turned away from the window. He raised the coffee cup to his lips and grimaced. He’d used the last of the sugar a month ago. There was nothing fresh left in the apartment except the air.
The perplexing sensation wasn’t new anymore. For weeks after the affair in London, it had plagued him. Never completely dying away, it would flare up to burn a delirious detail into his mind, the smell of damp wool, the feel of silk. But the frantic pace of the past six months had helped Napoleon push it aside, helped him forget the look in Agincourt‘s eyes. “I never thought you’d last this long,” Napoleon murmured into the coffee cup.
Napoleon walked back to his bedroom and set the cup on his nightstand. By the time I shower, dress and drive to HQ, Illya should be on his way to the airport, Napoleon calculated. He dropped his pyjamas on the bed. A visit to Personnel, followed by a chat with the charming ladies in Research, he decided, heading for the bathroom. I’ll need to call to check whether Mr Waverly’s gone home first.
He recalled Illya’s voice, somehow mingling compassion and cynicism saying, “Ah, love, love, the danger it leads men into”.
**********************
The door to Personnel hissed open on an empty office. Napoleon stepped inside and stood undecided for a moment. He cleared his throat.
Naomi peered out from around the open door to the file room. “Napoleon,” she said, surprised. “How can I help?”
“There’s a file I need to read through before a meeting tomorrow,” he explained, walking across the office, smiling and looking directly into Naomi’s eyes. “You’ve done something different with your hair, haven’t you?” he asked.
Naomi’s hand touched the side of her glossy, black hair. “Just a trim,” she said, a small smile growing.
“It’s very becoming,” Napoleon replied, tracing a line in the air just below Naomi‘s jaw. “It frames your face.”
Her eyes opened wide behind her glasses. “Thank you,” she said, looking down at the files in her hand. “Which one did you want?”
Napoleon paused an instant as though recalling. “Agincourt,” he said. “Anton Agincourt, new recruit,” he added.
Naomi shook her head. Her hair swung forward to her chin and back again. Napoleon thought it moved rather prettily. “Don’t you need to look? Or do you have them all memorised?” he asked playfully.
The colour had risen in her cheeks. “Normally, I‘d have to check, but Mr Waverly asked for that file this morning,” she answered. “And it hasn’t come back yet.” Naomi stepped back into the file room, rested the stack of folders on the nearest cabinet and opened the top one. “See, here,” she said, tapping a neatly trimmed, unvarnished fingernail on the log. “Just before nine. Mr Waverly came down to get it.”
Napoleon looked over Naomi’s shoulder and saw Mr Waverly’s distinctive initials. “He mentioned he had an early meeting,” Naomi added, turning to Napoleon. He studied her expression, the smile had disappeared. “I could leave a note for Lisa that you need it,” Naomi offered. “She’ll see it first thing in the morning.” Her desire not to disappoint him was charming.
“No, that’s all right. I’m meeting with Mr Waverly at nine tomorrow. I can get it then,” Napoleon assured her and glanced at the clock next to the door. “I appreciate your help.”
“Is there anything else you need?” Naomi asked. Napoleon shook his head. Naomi nodded, gathered up the folders and started to turn away.
“You wouldn’t be free for dinner, by any chance?” he asked.
Naomi stopped in mid-turn and looked back over her shoulder. “But it’s Sunday,” she began, the small smile returning.
“You must have tomorrow off, if you’re working today,” Napoleon reasoned.
“I do, but you don’t and you’ve just gotten back. You must be tired,” she protested.
“Oh, Section Two agents don’t need sleep like mortal men,” Napoleon replied. “I could pick you up early, if you prefer,” he added. “Say six-thirty? Would that give you time to get ready?” he asked.
Naomi nodded again. “I live just a couple blocks away.”
“The UNCLE building on East 49th?” Napoleon asked. Naomi nodded once more. “Which apartment?”
“Number five,” Naomi replied.
“I’ll be there at half past six, then,” Napoleon concluded and smiled again before he turned away. I would have asked her out at some point anyway, Napoleon told himself as he walked back to the door and on into the corridor. He didn’t stop at Research. Agincourt’s past didn’t seem to be the issue anymore.
************
Cutter leaned back in his chair with his coffee. “The mid-year qualifications for marksmanship conclude this evening, gentlemen,” he said, “If you would like to join me.” He checked his watch. “They start in half an hour. And they’re all gunning for Mr Kuryakin’s record,” he added, eying Illya.
Illya stirred his tea and set the spoon quietly aside.
“But they’re only half-way through their training,” Dr Mittal remarked. “That’s rather ambitious of them.”
Cutter chuckled. “Well, I’ve only had half a year to bring them to a realistic assessment of their talents. In another few months there should be only one or two who still have such ideas in their heads.”
“Will either of those students be in my class?” Dr Mittal enquired.
“Both of them. And in your class, too, Mr Kuryakin,” Cutter added.
“Top agents in the making, then,” Mr Mittal smiled. “I haven’t had a chance to review my class list yet.”
“Well, one of them will be at the top of it and one at the bottom,” Cutter continued. “Agincourt and Yokoyama.”
Illya’s lips lifted slightly around the rim of the tea cup from which he was sipping.
“I had been thinking to retire early, Mr Cutter, but perhaps this will be a good introduction to my class,” Dr Mittal concluded.
“And will you join us?” Cutter asked, turning to Illya.
“I think Dr Mittal’s point is a good one,” Illya replied, placing his serviette on the table.
Cutter stood, consulting his watch once more. “We have time to stroll then,” he said.
As they walked through the grounds, Illya noted the changes since he had last set foot on the island. Mostly it was the same place that had witnessed a major change in his life. Cutter followed his gaze. “We’ve made some improvements, technological mostly.”
“I look forward to seeing them,” Illya replied. He had noticed Cutter observing him at dinner and wondered how much of Agincourt’s file had been shared with the head of the Survival School. If the copy tabs he’d seen when he reviewed Anton’s file in Mr Waverly’s office were an accurate indication, not very much at all.
“I’ve assigned each of you an aide-de-camp, so to speak. I‘ll introduce them after the qualifications.” Cutter waved his arm at a low, wooden building much like all the others they had passed. “You’ll be impressed, I think, at the upgrades in the laboratories.” Cutter gestured again as their destination came into view. “Your aides can give you a comprehensive tour of the facilities tomorrow.”
************
There was gallery seating at the back of the indoor firing range. Illya remembered glancing up to where Cutter sat at the end of his final round. He hadn’t checked the huge clock high on the side wall. The expression on Cutter’s face had told him all he needed to know.
Now he found himself looking down, leaning forward ever so slightly. As was Cutter, an open notebook on his lap. In reverse order to their standings, the cadets approached the mark. Those waiting shot uneasy glances towards the gallery as Cutter ruffled through his notebook to find the right page for his notes. Illya wondered if he did it loudly to unnerve them.
The results were tallied mechanically and the marksmanship instructor would critique every recruit’s technique. Cutter observed the trainees before and after they performed, recording his impressions with cryptic scribbles which, as far as Illya knew, no one had yet decoded. Vijay was studying the marks. He winked at Illya when he caught him watching.
Cutter moved his notebook from his knee to the gallery railing. There were only a few cadets remaining to be tested. Anton was among them, leaner and browner than when he’d left New York. The other cadets seemed boyish next to him. One by one they took their turns. The second was clearly disappointed with his performance. Cutter’s pencil flew across the page. Anton was last. Best. Illya leaned further forward.
“Worried?” Cutter murmured.
Illya let himself smile a little. Cutter would think he understood why.
*****
The report of Anton’s last shot was still ringing when the first of his classmates stepped forward to thump him on the back. No one needed to see the official figures to know that he had maintained his standing as top marksman in the class. Illya smiled.
Cutter glanced at Illya. “You were always sure of yourself,” he said. Agincourt’s score would be far short of the record. Voices rose from the floor, boisterous with relief. Cutter tilted his head at Dr Mittal. Vijay rose and headed for the stairs. As they followed, Cutter gestured towards the group around Agincourt. “That one‘s surprised me,” Cutter added as they descended. The timekeeper met them at the bottom of the stairs with a clipboard. Cutter took it, scanned the results and nodded.
The cadets gave way as they advanced to the front of the hall. “Well, gentlemen -” There was the tiniest pause. “ - and ladies.” The voices had died away after his first word. Cutter let his eyes travel over all the recruits. “You have a lot of work to do in the next few months if you hope to graduate.”
Someone further back in the crowd asked, “Didn’t he beat the record?” Cutter cocked his head, clearly running through the names in the class for the one that matched the voice.
“Far from it,” Cutter stated.
A discontented buzz followed his statement. Slowly, Cutter swept his eyes over the group again. Without anyone seeming to move their lips, a voice grumbled. “It’s an old record. Bet that guy can’t do it now.”
Cutter smiled, pulled his gun from its holster and extended it, butt foremost towards Illya. Illya raised an eyebrow, wondered whether this had been arranged and reached under his jacket. The students drew back when he turned towards them, Special in hand. Three steps brought him to the mark. Quiet returned to the hall. The sound of the targets springing back up could be heard.
Eight shots rang out and the targets were down again. The timekeeper shouted out the time as Illya slipped his gun back into its holster. The students’ eyes left the flattened target area and followed Illya as he walked back towards Cutter.
“You’ve shaved a little off your record, Mr Kuryakin,” Cutter said when Illya rejoined him. Illya inclined his head slightly in acknowledgement; there was no hint of a smile on his lips .
“This,” Cutter intoned, and as he waved one hand in a broad arc towards the back of the room, “is training.” He extended his arm other towards the target area. “That is experience. Bear it in mind.”
******
The mood had softened over the fine food and wine laid out in the mess. As in an UNCLE agent’s life, students were exposed to sudden shifts in setting which required them to learn and practice a variety of skills. The simulations would become more elaborate closer to the end of the training year, after the focus on physical endurance and academic attainment had thinned out the number of new recruits.
There, Mr Cutter had formally introduced Doctors Mittal and Kuryakin to the trainees and to the members of staff who had joined the reception. Cutter had urged everyone to enjoy this hour of gaiety before the rigours of the next two weeks began. For the majority, the revision and exam weeks commenced the following day. For the students selected for the advanced courses, exams had been taken in between the physical tests which had ended with the marksmanship event that evening. Survival School was aptly named.
Having been directed to make themselves known to their instructors, students had approached in ones and twos as Vijay picked lightly at the buffet and Illya made another meal of it. Anton came with Cutter and a young woman Illya hadn’t seen clearly at the firing range.
“Reikko,” Illya said and gave her a shallow bow when the trio reached the table.
Reikko bowed lower than Illya and said, “Kuryakin-san.”
“I didn’t see you at the firing range. So you followed up on that idea,” Illya said.
Cutter looked from one to the other. “You know Yokoyama?” he asked.
“Last time we met she knocked me unconscious with her fan,” Illya said, smiling. Over Cutter’s shoulder, he could see Anton raising his eyebrows. “She thought I was a THRUSH agent,” Illya explained. “Do you have it with you?”
Reikko let the fan slide down from her sleeve. Cutter reached out for it and she handed it to him.
“Tap the edge against your knuckles, sir,” Illya suggested. “Lightly.”
Cutter ignored the last part of the directions and flinched. “Interesting,” he said, returning the fan to Reikko. “Very interesting. Perhaps the assignments should have been reversed, but Miss Yokoyama is Mr Mittal’s aide and Mr Agincourt -” Cutter stepped aside and indicated Anton, “- is yours, Mr Kuryakin.”
Illya looked from Cutter to Anton and extended his hand. Cutter was good at dissembling, but his tone indicated that he knew very little of Anton’s association with UNCLE prior to his joining Survival School. Illya wasn’t sure whether that would prove to be an advantage or a liability.
****************
Waving good-night to colleagues and classmates, Illya and Vijay, Reikko and Anton left the mess hall, still discussing what needed to be done to prepare for the next day‘s classes. Beyond the semi-circle of yellow light spilling from the open doorway, they turned away from the student barracks and staff quarters towards the offices and classrooms. Reikko and Anton took the lead along the narrow paths, their duffle bags casting hulking shadows when they passed through the blue lamplight by the steps of each building. As the lights grew farther and farther apart, the sound of the ocean grew stronger, the fronds of the palm trees rustled more loudly overhead. The breeze lifted their hair as they stepped onto the beach. The old diving instruction building was dark. Reikko trained the beam of her torch on the front of the white, clapboard structure as Anton mounted the steps, keys jangling.
“Where’s the scuba instructor living now?” Illya asked.
Reikko gestured to her left. “By the jetty. The new diving centre extends out over the water. ”
“That’s even more isolated than here,” Vijay remarked.
“Mr Stormorken says he can’t sleep if he can’t hear the sea,” Reikko replied.
“Would it be safe in a storm?” Vijay asked.
“I believe it’s seaworthy. We can go see it tomorrow,” Reikko suggested.
Illya looked out over the water towards the red specks that marked the buoys above the security perimeter. “We could do a class on underwater demolition there,” he said. “Put theory into context.”
Anton had switched on the inside lights and come back down the stairs sans duffle bag.
Reikko switched off her torch. “Underwater demolition,” she repeated to Anton.
“Tomorrow?” he asked, turning to Illya.
“No, theory tomorrow, assessments,” Illya replied. “Later in the week. Tuesday I think we’ll have class in the mess hall. See how much we can blow up with what’s in the kitchen.”
The other three exchanged glances. “I didn’t get to see this side of you when we cracked that code together in Bombay,” Vijay said. He rested a hand on Illya’s shoulder as they headed inside. “You know, we could do a joint class, maybe next week, on disabling bombs protected by security codes. It would give the students a lot of motivation to work quickly, don’t you think?”
Reikko looked at Anton, but he was sorting through the bundle of keys in his hand. She stopped behind him in the narrow corridor just inside the front door and turned back to Vijay. “You were both based in Bombay?” she asked.
“Only me. Illya got off a flight refuelling in Bombay. He had liberated an encoded book from a THRUSH agent he and Napoleon had trailed from Beirut. Napoleon kept on going to Singapore. The code needed to be broken before the plane landed there and the THRUSH agent could report the book’s loss.”
Anton had found the right key and opened the door of a small bedroom furnished with a desk, a chair, a small bookcase, a bunk with drawers underneath and a chest at the foot of the bed. He tugged at Reikko’s duffel bag; she slipped it off her shoulder and let him take it from her. He set it down inside the door and with almost no jingling started easing the key to the room off the large ring in his hand. Illya watched him from the corner of his eye, saw him leaning forward to listen.
“And did you?” Reikko asked.
Illya looked from Reikko back to Vijay, wondering if he were flirting or just enjoying the freedom to speak of their work to colleagues. Admittedly, the recruits weren’t UNCLE agents yet, but Reikko and Anton stood good chances of becoming ones.
Vijay smiled broadly and nodded, “I believe we set a record doing it, too.”
Reikko looked at Illya. He inclined his head and raised his eyebrows to corroborate the tale. “It’s gracious of Dr Mittal to say ‘we’,“ Illya said. He had considered it a compliment that Vijay had asked for his help with the decoding. “It was because he was in Bombay that I got off the plane with the codebook.”
Ideas had ricocheted between them in those frantic, caffeine-fuelled hours in Vijay’s office. In the end it was a hybrid concept that had been the key. They were able to relay the necessary information to Napoleon before he cleared immigration in Singapore. Illya had put down his communicator, pushed several tea glasses aside and dropped his head onto his folded arms. Vijay had reached across the table to brush the sweat-damp hair off Illya’s forehead and joked that between the two of them they had the longest hair in UNCLE. Illya had turned his head without lifting it off his arms and smiled. Napoleon was always teasing him about his hair.
“And as you know, there are days when we fail,” Illya said.
“But you succeed more often than you fail,” Reikko retorted as Anton pressed her room key into her hand.
“Well, we’re still here,” Illya conceded, moving along the hallway.
Reikko stepped into her quarters, leaving the door open. Several steps further on, Anton unlocked his room and went in. Illya turned to his door as Vijay moved past to reach the narrow corridor at the back of the building which led to his room. He paused at the corner.
“Oh,” Reikko was heard to say, the pitch of her voice higher than usual. “Excuse me.”
“I’m so sorry. I didn’t realise,” Anton replied.
Illya peered into Anton’s room and saw him backing out of the room’s other doorway and adjusting his trousers. Anton saw Illya. “Shared bathroom,” he explained.
Vijay walked back and looked in. “With urinals?” he asked. Anton nodded. “Since they remodelled this recently, one would have thought the possibility that the personnel using the guest quarters might not all be male would have occurred to someone.”
Reikko came out of her room. “I was surprised,” she offered in apology. “It doesn’t matter. There wouldn’t be such distinctions in the field.“
“Depends on the type of mission,” Illya observed. “But here there are women’s barracks.” He paused for an instant. “My quarters have a bathroom. Anton can share it. I’m sure he won’t mind crossing the hall.” Illya looked up at Anton.
“No, of course not,” Anton replied and nodded at Reikko, affirming it.
“All settled then,” Illya concluded. “I’ll leave my door unlocked.”
“Thank you,” Reikko said.
“I’m still surprised no one realised,” Vijay groused, turning back down the corridor. “Good-night then,” he said to Reikko, then nodded to Anton and Illya in turn.
**********
Anton was barely moving. Each tiny shift increased the pressure. Illya squeezed his eyes more tightly shut and breathed though his mouth with as little sound as he could manage. Anything above a murmur would be heard through the plaster board partitions. The muscles of Anton’s arm flexed under Illya’s neck, against his chest. Pinpricks of light played on the back of Illya‘s eyelids. A small sound escaped him. He pressed his lips together. Anton’s lips grazed the side of Illya’s neck, hovered near his jaw, murmuring. Which language? It was hard to convert the sounds to meaning. So many possibilities. Anton’s other arm pulled Illya’s hips closer. Illya’s back began to arch. Forward and back Anton’s thumb glided, lightly, hardly touching. The breath against Illya’s ear formed warm words. The language was French, Illya realised. He wanted to block his ears. Simple words. In every language.
Waves. Even through the closed windows, Illya could hear them. He took a deep breath, stretched his legs and rolled onto his back. A hand grasped his hip and pulled him away from the edge of the bed. Along the beach, the waves beat steadily. Illya’s breathing slowed. As he fell back to sleep, he smiled.
*************
Baroque Pearls - Part II may be found here.
Baroque Pearls has remained partially-written for nearly ten months and participating in
picowrimo, thanks to elmey's recommendation, has finally gotten me to take it up again. I am very grateful to the moderators and all the other participants of picowrimo for their encouragement and suggestions and to
utopiantrunks for listening to my rewrites and patiently explaining the use of italics. All the shortcomings are mine.Title: Baroque Pearls (Part I)
Author: saki101
Fandom: Man from UNCLE
Genre: Slash
Rating: R-ish
Word Count: 10K
Disclaimer: MFU is not mine and no money is being made.
Note: This section is a further development of the story and doesn't stand alone.
Excerpt: Napoleon and Illya dropped their bags just inside the apartment door. “Did you do something to aggravate him?” Napoleon asked.
“Who?” Illya mumbled, weaving towards the couch and collapsing onto it.
“Mr Waverly,” Napoleon answered, detouring to the kitchen and banging a few cupboard doors. “He seems to be trying to kill us.”
“Anything to report?” Illya enquired of the young Section Two agent seated in the small lobby not far from the elevators with a clear view of the door to Agincourt’s hotel suite.
“Very little, sir,” the agent replied, standing. “Shortly after you left this afternoon, Mr Agincourt said he would like to go down to the ground floor to make a few purchases. I accompanied him and approximately an hour and a half later he returned to his room and has remained there since,” the young man answered quietly.
“You made notes of everything?” Illya checked. The agent nodded. “Coordinate it with the telephone log and I’ll review your report tomorrow,” Illya said. “Good night, Mr Rafferty,” he added.
The young man tried not to look too pleased at being released before midnight. “Yes, sir,” he replied and gathered his newspaper and notebook quickly. “Good night, sir.” He moved with alacrity towards the elevators. Illya waited until one had swallowed Rafferty before using his key to open the hotel room door.
***************
A quiet passage in the music was playing as Illya turned the key in the lock. Anton was sitting on the couch, looking over the top of an issue of The Economist when Illya slipped through the door. He closed it quickly behind him and paused to scan the room. Anton set the magazine aside and lifted a bottle of vodka that should not have been in the U. S. from a bucket of ice on the coffee table. Illya nodded and closed his eyes as the first movement of the sonata came to an end. Appassionata. He eased off his shoes and pushed them aside with one foot before re-opening his eyes. Anton was holding up a half-full glass. The peaceful second movement began while Illya headed across the room. He glanced at the phonograph; the record changer was pulled back.
Illya reached over the coffee table to take the glass. “You were sure I would return tonight?” he asked, cataloguing the deep bowl of caviar, the platter of smoked salmon sprinkled with capers, the pyramid of fruit, the assorted cheeses and the plate of toast and crackers.
Anton took a small cracker, spooned caviar onto it and held it up. “Are you sure I couldn’t eat all this myself?” he retorted. Illya regarded Anton for a moment, then bent forward and nipped the cracker from between his fingers. Illya heard the intake of breath and smiled as he straightened up to walk around the table. He took a drink from his glass and set it down, removed his jacket and turned to drape it over a nearby easy chair. He didn't unbuckle the black leather holster which puckered the cloth of his dress shirt, dividing it into distinct regions. Illya turned to face Anton. He was holding up another cracker. Illya pulled on one end of his tie, undid his collar button and sat down on the edge of the couch. Anton brought the cracker closer and Illya opened his mouth.
“Excellent caviar,” Illya said after he swallowed. He reached for his drink.
Anton’s hand hovered over the plate of salmon. Illya shook his head minutely and swung his legs up onto the white cushions, tucking one foot behind Anton‘s back and leaning the other foot against Anton‘s thigh. Anton pulled the coffee table closer to the couch and loaded another cracker with caviar. When Illya simply opened his mouth again, Anton took a deep breath.
Crinkles appeared at the corners of Illya’s eyes as he chewed, reclining against the overstuffed leather of the couch arm, his left arm stretched along the back of the sofa, exposing the gun nestled in its holster at his side. Illya extended his other arm to rest his glass on the table. The motion showed his shirt front to good effect, cinched under the arms by the holster and tapering into the narrow circumference of his cummerbund. Illya observed Anton’s eyes surveying the snowy expanse, then focussing on the row of studs, following their stars down to the black satin confining his waist.
Anton shook his head as though to clear it and offered the salmon again. This time when Illya parted his lips, Anton leaned closer to keep a cupped hand under the toast as he brought it to Illya’s mouth. Drawing back his lips slightly, Illya bit off half of the salmon with a faint click of his teeth. A caper rolled into Anton’s hand. Anton sat back, popped the pickled berry and the rest of the salmon and toast into his mouth and lifted another triangle. Illya sipped more vodka. Excellent vodka. Anton waited, the appetiser poised mid-air while Illya lowered his drink to the couch cushion, holding it lightly next to his hip. Illya watched Anton's eyes follow his hand. He glanced down. The creases of the white couch leather were magnified by the liquid at the bottom of the glass, the satin stripe of the tuxedo trousers distorted by the curve of the tumbler’s side.
“Just the salmon,” Illya said, slipping his foot onto Anton’s lap. Anton pulled his gaze away from Illya‘s hip, put the hors d’oeuvre back on its plate, plucked off the salmon and rolled it around the capers before moving closer to Illya and holding out the morsel. This time Illya leaned forward to bite into it.
****************
As the stack of reports on Napoleon’s desk the morning after the reception at the consulate attested, UNCLE New York had continued to be busy in his absence. Busy and mostly successful, he had learned as he rapidly read through the whole lot while waiting for Illya to join him in their office as he usually did before their meetings with Mr Waverly. Napoleon realised that he must never have been in the office alone so long before a morning meeting when Illya was in town. Napoleon signed all the reports, except Fiorello’s which needed a little more detail, and plumped the pile on Lisa’s desk when he arrived in front of it at ten to nine because he couldn’t sit in the office alone anymore. Fiorello’s report had been dropped in the interoffice mail with a note and Illya’s was with him.
Napoleon had glanced at the clock behind Lisa’s desk for about the tenth time when he heard Illya’s footsteps behind him. Two minutes to nine. You don’t usually cut it that fine unless you’re setting explosive charges.
Napoleon handed Illya his report, warm and slightly bent from having been under his arm while he waited. “No changes,” he said. Illya nodded and accepted the file as the door opened and Lisa told them to go in.
Illya listened to Napoleon’s report on his mission in the Philippines. He had already read the other reports that had been left in their office. Oddly, Mr Waverly had not appointed anyone else to be acting CEA despite the length of their absence and had overseen the missions himself. Napoleon was attentive as Illya answered several questions Mr Waverly posed about his latest report. Mr Waverly informed them both that a further arrest had been made that morning facilitated by information from the eavesdropping devices Illya had planted in London. Mr Waverly consulted some notes in front of him. “A Mr, ah, Smith,” he read.
Illya smiled slightly and nodded. “They’ll probably cease using the house now.”
“London will continue monitoring for a few weeks just in case. THRUSH has been careless before,” Mr Waverly remarked.
“We can hope,” Illya murmured.
Napoleon was glad he had read Illya’s report first, been aware of the nature of the ploy and how positive the outcome had been, or even his aplomb might have failed when Mr Waverly’s next statement was to announce that he intended to offer Agincourt the opportunity to attend Survival School.
“Any comments, gentlemen?”
Napoleon glanced at Illya who was looking at Mr Waverly. “At his age, I doubt he’ll be able to complete the course,” Illya answered.
Napoleon would have liked to have scoffed at the idea of Agincourt lasting a week, but from what he knew of the man’s stamina, he wasn’t so sure. Illya knows that better than I do, Napoleon thought and frowned. Is he trying to protect him?
“He’s only slightly older than you two,” Mr Waverly observed.
“True, but we’ve been in the field ever since we left Survival School. For a civilian, I’d be surprised if it were possible,” Illya continued.
“Mr Agincourt has surprised us a couple times already and Mr Hawthorne and I think he may surprise us again,” Mr Waverly stated, reaching for his pipe. “It would annoy Mr Cutter no end, if he does.”
Despite his concerns, Napoleon couldn’t help chuckling at the image. Even Illya smiled.
“Mr Solo, if you would be so good as to ask Mr Agincourt to join Mr Kuryakin and me. I believe he is waiting outside,” Mr Waverly added.
Napoleon stood, covering his affront at being excluded from the meeting. “Yes, sir,” he said and turned to the door. By the time the door opened, the idea of Agincourt sequestered on Cutter’s island for nearly a year had put a smile back on Napoleon’s face and as he extended his hand to Agincourt in front of Lisa’s desk, it was still playing about the corners of his mouth.
“I hear you’re hoping to join the side of the angels,” Napoleon said as Anton’s hand closed around his. He noticed Agincourt’s eyes dart past his shoulder into Mr Waverly’s office before the door closed and his gaze returned to Napoleon’s.
“I’m hoping to join his side,” Agincourt answered and they both knew Napoleon understood whose side that was.
Despite the fact that the last time he had seen Agincourt, Napoleon had been apprehending him and what he had seen before that he didn‘t want to think about, Napoleon found himself saying, “Cutter will try to kill you first.” Their hands parted. “He tries to kill all of us.”
Napoleon saw the flicker of appreciation for the inclusive phrasing. He almost shook his head at himself. How can I hate you for loving Illya? Napoleon thought.
Napoleon stepped aside and motioned towards the door. “Good luck,“ he said as Lisa pressed the button to open it and Anton disappeared inside. Napoleon turned to Mr Waverly’s secretary, his best smile on his face and Lisa asked about Napoleon’s dinner plans.
“If you aren’t still jet-lagged?” she added playfully.
Napoleon leaned over the desk and whispered close enough to Lisa’s ear that her hair stirred. “We could find out together.” She raised one finely-plucked eyebrow. “I’ll pick you up at eight,” Napoleon said, straightening up.
Lisa nodded and smiled.
Napoleon walked away humming softly. Illya will be busy until Anton leaves for Survival School, Napoleon thought. And the last place Napoleon wanted to be was home alone thinking about survival.
*********************
He was tired and his body ached. Even so, the desire was pulling him from sleep, rising almost impossibly in him again. He pressed back against Anton whose arm tightened across his chest, the hand stroking lightly before it stilled, accompanied by a sleepy murmur near his ear and then low, steady breathing. In a few hours, he would see Anton onto a jet headed for Miami and a rendezvous with an UNCLE plane which would take him and several other recruits arriving from various points in North America to the island where Cutter did his best to fail those who wouldn’t survive in the field. Sending Anton there exhausted won’t give him the best beginning, but how likely is he to survive, ten years older than most of the other recruits as he is? Illya thought. Faintly, he could hear music from the living room. The Tempest. Anton had left the record changer disengaged again.
Illya stretched and managed to roll onto his back. Anton lifted his head.
“You can’t sleep?” he asked groggily, moving his leg across Illya’s thigh. “Oh,” he said.
Illya reached up in the dark and found Anton’s head. He ran his fingers into the tangled waves of hair and pulled Anton towards him.
Anton’s head was pillowed on Illya’s thigh, his hand grasping Illya‘s hip, loose-fingered now. Illya’s breathing was slowing. Illya’s hand slipped from Anton’s hair to his shoulder.
“Do you think I’m going to fail?” Anton asked. Illya didn’t answer. His breathing was quiet. Anton sighed.
“Cutter will try his best to make you,” Illya replied.
“I thought you’d fallen back to sleep,” Anton remarked, letting his thumb trace a brief arc across Illya’s pelvis.
“Almost,” Illya answered.
“Will he know all about me?” Anton probed.
“He won’t have your complete file. Access to some of it is restricted to Section One.”
“You don’t have full access?” Anton pursued, surprised.
A faint huff preceded Illya’s answer. “I know more than I would otherwise because I was involved in the mission, but even I don’t have full access, so if the answer is in there, I won’t know unless Hawthorne chooses to tell me.”
“Know what?” Anton asked.
“If we finally found out who the person is that I remind you of,” Illya answered.
“What?” Anton asked, pulling himself up beside Illya.
“I suggested that it would be useful to know who the person was and Hawthorne agreed, but we couldn’t find anything.” Illya paused. “He was impressed by how well you had hidden that and your personal life, generally” Illya explained.
“What made you think you remind me of anyone?” Anton persisted, settling on his side next to Illya, one leg hooked across Illya’s knee.
“Your reaction to me. There has to be a history behind it,” Illya replied.
Anton moved his hand up Illya’s body to his face and leaned over him. “You sound so sure.”
“I am sure,” Illya answered.
Anton leaned closer to Illya’s face. “You’re wrong,” he said and kissed Illya on the mouth. Illya’s lips remained closed. Anton drew back. “You don’t believe me.”
“You’re entitled to secrets,” Illya replied.
“Says the spy!” Anton retorted, rolling onto his back.
“It’s all right. You don’t need to tell me. You must have a good reason for hiding it so well,” Illya said and turned onto his side to face Anton. “If it’s a painful memory, I’m sorry.”
Anton sighed. “When I was selecting the diamond for you, I realised that your eyes were the same colour as my grandmother’s…my father‘s mother. She lived with us when I was growing up and I was her darling boy. She died when I was fifteen, a couple years after my father did. Possibly that lent you an air of familiarity, made me inclined to believe you. But I don’t think that’s the sort of connection you were seeking, is it?”
“No,” Illya said. “I meant what I said. I understand protecting a loved one...or oneself.”
“You were imagining a young sweetheart lost in the aftermath of the war, an estranged wife somewhere with my child, an unrequited infatuation…something along those lines,” Anton pursued.
“Those lines or others…something…” Illya paused.
“Something passionate, intense,” Anton said, shifting to his side again. “Something to explain…” he kissed Illya until he opened his mouth and there was a stirring against Anton’s stomach. Anton lifted his head, “…this.” His hand smoothed up Illya’s cheek and brushed the hair back from his forehead. He pressed a kiss to the damp skin there and murmured, “Something other than you.”
Illya was nearly asleep, draped half over Anton. Anton’s arm lay across Illya’s back, rising and falling with his steady respiration. Illya opened one eye enough to see the illuminated hands of the alarm clock. There were still a couple hours more before its clamour would shatter any peace sleep might bring. Anton fingertips were moving back and forth along Illya's side in time to the music.
In the living room the phonograph needle hit the centre of the record, rose and returned to the beginning.
**********************
Napoleon and Illya dropped their bags just inside the apartment door. “Did you do something to aggravate him?” Napoleon asked.
“Who?” Illya mumbled, weaving towards the couch and collapsing onto it.
“Mr Waverly,” Napoleon answered, detouring to the kitchen and banging a few cupboard doors. “He seems to be trying to kill us.” Napoleon stepped over their cases and deposited two glasses, a scotch and a vodka bottle on the coffee table. He glanced behind him. “Move your legs,” he said. Illya lifted them; Napoleon sat and Illya dropped them across his lap.
“Did you?” Illya asked, holding out his hand towards the vodka bottle. Napoleon reached for a glass. “Just the bottle,” Illya said.
Napoleon handed over the bottle, poured himself a couple fingers of scotch and leaned back on the couch. “Not that I can think of,” he answered, taking a long swallow. “He hasn’t even complained about my expense account lately…Not that we’ve been in New York long enough for anyone to say much of anything to us except where we’re headed next.”
“I don’t think we’ve had two consecutive days off in the last six months,” Illya said. Napoleon glanced over at him. “When we weren’t in Medical,” Illya amended. “They don’t count as days off.”
Napoleon harrumphed. “I’m not sure Mr Waverly sees it that way,” he replied and put his feet up on the coffee table. “Except for that odd courier job you did alone, at least we’ve been on all these missions together…”
Illya took a swig from the vodka bottle, slid it down between his side and the back of the couch and closed his eyes. “I’m hungry, but I’m too tired to move,” he said after a moment.
Napoleon finished his scotch, rested the empty glass on the arm of the couch and slouched further down into the cushions. “Considering what we do,” he replied, “someone really ought to feed us.”
“Hmm,” Illya agreed. He pulled a throw pillow out from under his shoulder, wiggled down so his head was off the couch arm, and turned his face into the cushion. Napoleon smiled sleepily as Illya’s hand curled protectively around the vodka bottle. His eyes were closing when Illya stretched out one foot and knocked the scotch glass off the arm of the couch.
“You’re lucky that was empty,” Napoleon murmured.
“Should have held on tighter,” Illya mumbled.
“It didn’t break,” Napoleon observed.
“Too many papers on the floor,” Illya said, adjusting his legs again and almost kicking Napoleon in the groin in the process.
“Are you quite settled?” Napoleon asked, grabbing one menacing foot.
“Hmm,” Illya answered. “They’re some take-out menus down there. We can look later,” he added and said no more.
Napoleon shifted partway onto his hip. His hand slid from Illya’s foot to behind his knee, then sleep overtook him, too.
A door slammed in the hallway. Napoleon’s hand was on his gun before he was awake. There was a loud giggle, the clatter of keys dropping, another giggle and a man’s low laugh. “It’s Andreas,” Illya said from his corner of the couch.
“You can recognise his laugh?” Napoleon asked.
“I hear it often enough and other sounds as well.” Illya lifted his head. Napoleon raised both eyebrows. “His bedroom is next to my bathroom,” Illya explained. “I think he’s trying to challenge your title as New York HQ’s most successful lover.”
Napoleon looked over the top of the couch at the apartment door and narrowed his eyes. “Why haven‘t you mentioned this?”
“Don’t worry. If your position were threatened, I’d have warned you. He has a long way to go,” Illya smiled, sitting up and taking a drink from the vodka bottle which had remained upright throughout their nap. “In fact, if your lead were in any danger, I would offer to help you attract a few…” Illya stood up and stretched, vodka bottle still in hand. “As your partner and friend.”
Napoleon stared at Illya. “I don’t need any help, thank you,” he replied.
Illya stretched again and began unbuttoning his shirt one-handed. Something about the movements of his fingers held Napoleon’s attention as the cloth parted. “I’m going to shower. See if you can find the take-out menus,” Illya said as he headed towards the bathroom with the vodka bottle.
“What do you fancy?” Napoleon called after him as he peered over the arm of the couch at the stack of papers and books on the floor. He reached down to retrieve the fallen glass which lay unbroken on its side on the top.
“Surprise me,” Illya called back before the bathroom door shut.
*************
“For you, Napoleon. No one else, you understand?“
“I do, Mama. I can’t tell you how much I appreciate this, but it couldn’t be anyone else.“ He could hear the smile in Mama Leoni’s voice as she told one of the waiters to find her grandson. “Giorgio can bring it over. Mind you, warm it the way he tells you. You don’t serve my veal parmigiana cold, capisci?”
“I’ll do exactly what Giorgio says to do,” Napoleon vowed.
In the background, someone called Mama’s name. “Momento,” she called back.
“Is she beautiful, Napoleon? For this, she had better be beautiful…and good,” Mama added.
“Very beautiful, Mama, and no one’s better,” Napoleon answered.
“Buona. And my best wine?”
“The very best,” Napoleon clarified.
Mama chuckled. “Only for you, Napoleon. Remember.”
“I will and thank you.”
Mama was laughing when she hung up.
Napoleon set the telephone back in its cradle and grinned. He’d only managed to have three meals at Mama Leoni’s in the past six months, but she still agreed to the favour immediately. Napoleon looked down at the open book in his lap and his smile faded.
Amidst the stack of old newspapers and scientific journals in various languages next to Illya‘s couch, Napoleon had found, in addition to the take-out menus, several unusual books and a half-opened package from Blackwell‘s. The illustrated edition of the score and libretto of Iolanthe had been the first to give him pause, even before he had focussed on the Russian title. The proof copy of a book on quarks based on a paper delivered at a conference held at Imperial College six months previously brought a scowl to his face. When he had opened the small leather-bound volume now in his lap to the page marked by a slip of Blackwell’s stationery and read that it came with the compliments of Anton Agincourt, Napoleon had picked up the telephone. His written Russian wasn’t proficient, but he was able to read Pushkin’s name and to translate the title of the poem, "Я Вас Любил" - "I Loved You".
Napoleon heard the bathroom door open. “I left you some hot water. And there‘s a robe on the back of the door,” Illya called as he crossed the hallway to his bedroom.
Napoleon reconstructed the stack of books and papers, menus and all and hastened down the corridor. He stopped outside Illya’s door. It was ajar. “I’ve ordered the food. It should be here in twenty minutes or so, traffic permitting,” Napoleon explained. From where he stood, he could see the mirror over Illya’s dresser. It showed the bottom half of the bed and the half-open closet door. Illya emerged from behind the closet door and pushed it closed with his foot.
“I’ll listen for the buzzer,” Illya said.
“OK,” Napoleon responded, not moving away. Illya pulled the towel from around his waist and used it to dry his back. I’ve seen Illya naked many times, Napoleon reminded himself as he watched Illya lift a foot to the bed and dry the inside of his thigh. It’s different now though. Illya lowered the foot and raised the other. Napoleon tilted his head to improve the angle. Been different. Illya turned, rubbing his hair and draped the towel over the closet doorknob. It slipped to the floor. Illya bent down to retrieve it. Napoleon stared an instant longer, then retreated to the bathroom.
Illya interrupted the squawk of the buzzer within seconds. “Yes,” he said into the intercom.
“Delivery.”
“I’ll be right down. How much do I owe you?” Illya asked, reaching for his overcoat from the coat rack by the door.
“Nothing. Mr Solo took care of it, but I have directions from my grandmother for him.”
“Giorgio?” Illya asked.
“Oh, hello, Mr Kuryakin. How are you?” Giorgio answered.
“Just fine now, Giorgio. Come up,” Illya said and pressed the buzzer. “Mind the door locks behind you.”
Illya listened to the door slam and then to the rattle as Giorgio tested the latch. The door was deceptively rickety-looking, but the precaution encouraged visitors to look behind them and double check. Illya hung his coat back up, explored a few pockets and found a couple dollar bills. The soft knock came a moment later. Illya checked the peep hole and found Giorgio standing far enough away that Illya could get a good view of him. Smiling, Illya opened the door.
“You ran up the stairs,” he chided.
Giorgio handed over the two large bags and then the brown paper-wrapped bottle from under his arm. “Gra’mama said to get it here as fast as possible, so…”
“Running,” Illya answered, setting the bags on the carpet and handing Giorgio his tip. “I hope no traffic laws were broken in the process,” Illya added.
Giorgio grinned. “Only a few, small ones,” he replied, holding his thumb and index finger a short distance apart. He unbuttoned a pocket on his jacket and took out a folded paper. “I’m supposed to watch you read this.” Illya unfolded the paper. “Well, actually I was supposed to watch Mr Solo read this.”
“I’ll be his second,” Illya said, pulling his glasses from the breast pocket of his bath robe to read the note. “I will follow them to the letter.” He vowed when he finished. “How’s your dissertation progressing?”
“My defence is before Thanksgiving,” Giorgio answered.
“Well done. And then?”
“I’ve been offered an assistant teaching position next semester to replace someone going on sabbatical,” Giorgio said, blushing.
“Congratulations,” Illya answered.
Giorgio looked meaningfully towards the bags at Illya’s feet. “Right,” Illya said. “I’ll attend to these now.”
“Good night,” Giorgio said, stepping back.
“Mind the front door,” Illya said.
“I will,” Giorgio replied, already at the top of the stairs.
Illya shut the apartment door, waited by the intercom for the slam and rattle of the front door, then stepped to the window and watched Giorgio manoeuvre his motorbike into the traffic before returning his attention to the aromatic bags from Mama Leoni’s Restaurant. The one that didn’t do take-out and certainly didn‘t deliver. Illya smiled.
*****************
The hot water faded to tepid fairly quickly, so Napoleon’s shower was quicker than Illya’s, but he decided to borrow Illya’s razor and shave before dinner. Once his face was satisfactorily smooth, Napoleon reached for the toothbrush with the splayed bristles occupying the metal cup next to the faucets. He hoped that this wasn’t one that Illya kept to clean his gun, noticed the open vodka bottle on the toilet tank and splashed some over the brush before adding toothpaste. As he brushed, Napoleon noticed the robe behind the bathroom door. It was neither the dingy terrycloth one that usually occupied the hook nor the red flannel one that Illya had received as a Secret Santa gift the previous year and used when the other needed laundering. Napoleon rinsed his mouth, dried his face and went to inspect the shiny, maroon garment festooning the door. He checked the label and found only the name of a tailor on Jermyn Street in London. Napoleon sighed as he slipped into the garment. More booty from the assignment with Agincourt. Napoleon paused. But if this is here, Illya must be wearing the old one or the flannel one. The thought cheered Napoleon; he tied the sash, admired himself for a moment in the mirror, grabbed the vodka and opened the door. There was a pair of slippers directly in his path. The quilted uppers matched the robe. His smile broadened. Illya must be wearing the pair from that hotel in Bogata. Napoleon inhaled the fragrance of Mama Leoni’s veal parmigiana wafting down the hallway and headed confidently towards it.
The little dinette table which acted as a makeshift desk most of the time had been cleared of typewriter, papers and old post and set with the Melmac plates with which UNCLE furnished their agents’ kitchens along with multi-coloured plastic glasses. Many had wondered at the choice and the consensus was that they would survive if an agent’s flat were ransacked. Napoleon had bought Illya some wine and high ball glasses because he couldn’t bear drinking alcohol out of plastic and two of the wine glasses shone next to the olive green plates with stylised sunflowers splashed across them.
Illya emerged from the kitchen with the open wine bottle in hand. “That looks well on you,” he said, looking Napoleon over. “And it fits fine. I knew there must be some of those clothes that would suit you,” Illya finished. He set the wine on the table and checked his watch. “If you handle the salad and the antipasta, I’ll get the veal, it should be ready in another sixty seconds,” he said. “Giorgio made me read his grandmother’s directions,” Illya explained when Napoleon‘s brow furrowed.
Napoleon nodded. “I’ll get the salad,” he said and stepped closer to the table. He watched Illya return to the kitchen. Illya’s dressing gown was dark blue silk. The loosely-knotted belt left a deep vee of chest exposed and Illya had rolled back the sleeves. He had on matching pyjama bottoms and slippers. So he has more than one set. Most people have several sets of night clothes, Napoleon reasoned. He tried very hard to concentrate on dressing and tossing the salad and not on picturing Anton removing the blue silk night clothes or the maroon ones or any other colour ones there might be.
Illya set the tray of veal and a spatula down on one of the plates, went back into the kitchen, returning with a bowl of pasta and sauce and a tea towel to set the tray on before it melted the Melmac. “I’ll just get the garlic bread and we’ll be ready to eat,” Illya said, disappearing again.
Napoleon wandered over to the phonograph with a mind to putting on some jazz for Illya. The record on the turntable was Iolanthe. Napoleon let out a long breath and found the album sleeve. The cover eluded him until he spotted the boxed set of operas in Russian. Napoleon searched the shelf below the phonograph and found the Gershwin album he’d given Illya the previous Christmas and put on Rhapsody in Blue. It seemed the right colour.
“I don’t think I can move,” Illya said when the record ended. Napoleon had flipped it over and they had listened to An American in Paris.
“I think I’m still ambulatory,” Napoleon said, setting down his brandy and heaving himself off the couch. “What would you like to hear next?”
“Flip it back over. I’d like to hear Rhapsody in Blue again,” Illya said. “Or,” he continued, setting down his drink and leaning forward on the couch, “Hand me the case next to the phonograph.”
Napoleon looked to the side of the phonograph, spotted the scuffed oboe case tucked between the phonograph cabinet and the bookcase and handed it Illya.
“Not sure I have the breath for this right now, but who knows when we’ll have a chance next,” Illya said, loosening the belt of his robe. He placed the case across his knees and began fitting the pieces of his oboe together. Napoleon sat down in the arm chair across from the couch and watched.
Illya tried a few notes, made a couple adjustments, glanced at Napoleon and closed his eyes. The opening notes of Rhapsody in Blue issued from the oboe. The sound differed, of course, from a clarinet, but the seductive trill was the same and it made Napoleon close his eyes for a moment. He was smiling when he reopened them. Illya’s eyes were still closed. Unabashedly, Napoleon studied the minute shift in the muscles around Illya’s eyes and brows and lips, the dance of his fingers over the silver keys and wished for something to be different.
One of their communicators sounded. Illya stopped playing and opened his eyes. They both looked for the source of the sound. Napoleon strode to the door, found Illya’s communicator in his overcoat pocket and tossed it onto the couch. Illya balanced his oboe across his knees and opened the device. “Kuryakin, here,” he said.
Napoleon could hear Mr Waverly’s voice as he moved back across the room. “I understand that you and Mr Solo arrived safely this evening.”
Illya glanced at Napoleon. “Yes, sir,” Illya answered.
“Good. Mr Cutter has sent an SOS,” Mr Waverly continued. Illya sat up straighter. “Seems the explosives expert he had scheduled to teach the advanced class has met with an accident and he needs a replacement for two weeks starting Monday. I volunteered you.”
“Thank you, sir,” Illya answered. Napoleon looked down at the floor. A scrap of butcher paper stuck out from under the couch.
“The plane leaves shortly before noon tomorrow. I'd like to see you before you go to the airport,” Mr Waverly said. “There's something I want you to bring to the island,” he concluded.
“Yes, sir,” Illya finished. He switched off the device and let his head fall back against the couch. “He is trying to kill us.”
“At least you,” Napoleon said.
“Don’t be so sure he isn’t sending you somewhere tomorrow, too,” Illya cautioned, closing his eyes. "A day of rest is clearly too much to expect."
Napoleon patted both of Illya’s shoulders. “At least we got to eat a good meal,” he consoled.
Without opening his eyes, Illya smiled. “It was a very good meal, Napoleon.” Napoleon started to massage Illya’s shoulders. “How did you get Mama Leoni to agree to it?”
“Oh, if I told you that, then I’d have to kill you,” Napoleon answered, finding a knot near Illya’s right shoulder and digging his thumb into it.
“Well, if you see Mama Leoni before I’m back, congratulate her. Giorgio’s defending his dissertation next month and has a temporary job lined up for next semester covering someone’s sabbatical,” Illya said.
“If they’re smart, they’ll keep him,” Napoleon said.
“Absolutely,” Illya agreed. “How many young classicists can there be?”
“Not too many, I would think,” Napoleon said, feeling the knot finally give way. He gave Illya’s shoulder a pat. “Don’t bother with anything. I’ll clean up. As far as I know, I’ve actually got Sunday off. And I know how much you’re looking forward to working with Cutter again.” Illya groaned. Napoleon walked around the couch and offered Illya a hand up. “Just brush your teeth and go to bed.” Illya waved at his suitcase which was still near the door. “I’ll put it in your room,” Napoleon said.
“I need my toothbrush,” Illya said.
“Use the old one in the bathroom,” Napoleon replied.
“No, I use that one for…” Napoleon held up his hands and shook his head. Illya looked at his face. “You didn’t.”
“I did.”
“Oh, Napoleon,” Illya sighed.
“I poured vodka on it first,” Napoleon offered.
Illya tilted his head and raised his eyebrows. “Well, that’s something,” he said and opened his mouth to say more.
“Don’t tell me,” Napoleon said. “It’s better if I don’t know.”
“Yes,” Illya agreed. “It probably is.”
Napoleon bent over Illya’s suitcase, opened it and extracted his toiletry case. “Here,” he said, getting up and handing it to Illya. “Brush, sleep. I’ll take care of everything else.” He waved his hand towards the corridor. “I’ll put the leftovers in the fridge for your breakfast.”
Illya nodded and smiled sleepily. “Thank you, Napoleon.”
“Better you than me with Cutter,” Napoleon said, starting to gather the dishes from the table. Illya sighed and ambled off to the bathroom.
In fifteen minutes everything was clean and orderly. Napoleon changed into clothes from his suitcase and put the robe and slippers back in the bathroom. Illya had left his bedroom door partly open. Napoleon stuck his head around it. Illya was sleeping on his back, the reflected light from the mirror casting a dim shadow of his profile against the bedroom wall. Napoleon closed the door quietly. He took a last look around the living room and kitchen; the half-opened package tempted him, but he resisted. Napoleon shut off the lights, reset the alarms and let himself out.
****************
A yellow leaf skittered over the windowsill and across the floor. Napoleon drifted past it and into the next room, sipping his coffee and listening. Every window he passed stood open.
The front door rattled, slammed. Illya shouted, “Taxi.” Napoleon moved to the side of the bay window. A cab swerved to the kerb. Illya came into view at the bottom of the brownstone steps, his overcoat open to the breeze, battered suitcase in hand.
It will be warm on the island, Napoleon thought as Illya opened the cab door, swung his suitcase onto the seat and followed it inside. Did you pack the silk robe? Napoleon’s fingers slid around the side of his coffee cup; he felt the knotted muscles beneath the blue silk. He watched until the taxi turned the corner.
The curtains billowed as Napoleon turned away from the window. He raised the coffee cup to his lips and grimaced. He’d used the last of the sugar a month ago. There was nothing fresh left in the apartment except the air.
The perplexing sensation wasn’t new anymore. For weeks after the affair in London, it had plagued him. Never completely dying away, it would flare up to burn a delirious detail into his mind, the smell of damp wool, the feel of silk. But the frantic pace of the past six months had helped Napoleon push it aside, helped him forget the look in Agincourt‘s eyes. “I never thought you’d last this long,” Napoleon murmured into the coffee cup.
Napoleon walked back to his bedroom and set the cup on his nightstand. By the time I shower, dress and drive to HQ, Illya should be on his way to the airport, Napoleon calculated. He dropped his pyjamas on the bed. A visit to Personnel, followed by a chat with the charming ladies in Research, he decided, heading for the bathroom. I’ll need to call to check whether Mr Waverly’s gone home first.
He recalled Illya’s voice, somehow mingling compassion and cynicism saying, “Ah, love, love, the danger it leads men into”.
**********************
The door to Personnel hissed open on an empty office. Napoleon stepped inside and stood undecided for a moment. He cleared his throat.
Naomi peered out from around the open door to the file room. “Napoleon,” she said, surprised. “How can I help?”
“There’s a file I need to read through before a meeting tomorrow,” he explained, walking across the office, smiling and looking directly into Naomi’s eyes. “You’ve done something different with your hair, haven’t you?” he asked.
Naomi’s hand touched the side of her glossy, black hair. “Just a trim,” she said, a small smile growing.
“It’s very becoming,” Napoleon replied, tracing a line in the air just below Naomi‘s jaw. “It frames your face.”
Her eyes opened wide behind her glasses. “Thank you,” she said, looking down at the files in her hand. “Which one did you want?”
Napoleon paused an instant as though recalling. “Agincourt,” he said. “Anton Agincourt, new recruit,” he added.
Naomi shook her head. Her hair swung forward to her chin and back again. Napoleon thought it moved rather prettily. “Don’t you need to look? Or do you have them all memorised?” he asked playfully.
The colour had risen in her cheeks. “Normally, I‘d have to check, but Mr Waverly asked for that file this morning,” she answered. “And it hasn’t come back yet.” Naomi stepped back into the file room, rested the stack of folders on the nearest cabinet and opened the top one. “See, here,” she said, tapping a neatly trimmed, unvarnished fingernail on the log. “Just before nine. Mr Waverly came down to get it.”
Napoleon looked over Naomi’s shoulder and saw Mr Waverly’s distinctive initials. “He mentioned he had an early meeting,” Naomi added, turning to Napoleon. He studied her expression, the smile had disappeared. “I could leave a note for Lisa that you need it,” Naomi offered. “She’ll see it first thing in the morning.” Her desire not to disappoint him was charming.
“No, that’s all right. I’m meeting with Mr Waverly at nine tomorrow. I can get it then,” Napoleon assured her and glanced at the clock next to the door. “I appreciate your help.”
“Is there anything else you need?” Naomi asked. Napoleon shook his head. Naomi nodded, gathered up the folders and started to turn away.
“You wouldn’t be free for dinner, by any chance?” he asked.
Naomi stopped in mid-turn and looked back over her shoulder. “But it’s Sunday,” she began, the small smile returning.
“You must have tomorrow off, if you’re working today,” Napoleon reasoned.
“I do, but you don’t and you’ve just gotten back. You must be tired,” she protested.
“Oh, Section Two agents don’t need sleep like mortal men,” Napoleon replied. “I could pick you up early, if you prefer,” he added. “Say six-thirty? Would that give you time to get ready?” he asked.
Naomi nodded again. “I live just a couple blocks away.”
“The UNCLE building on East 49th?” Napoleon asked. Naomi nodded once more. “Which apartment?”
“Number five,” Naomi replied.
“I’ll be there at half past six, then,” Napoleon concluded and smiled again before he turned away. I would have asked her out at some point anyway, Napoleon told himself as he walked back to the door and on into the corridor. He didn’t stop at Research. Agincourt’s past didn’t seem to be the issue anymore.
************
Cutter leaned back in his chair with his coffee. “The mid-year qualifications for marksmanship conclude this evening, gentlemen,” he said, “If you would like to join me.” He checked his watch. “They start in half an hour. And they’re all gunning for Mr Kuryakin’s record,” he added, eying Illya.
Illya stirred his tea and set the spoon quietly aside.
“But they’re only half-way through their training,” Dr Mittal remarked. “That’s rather ambitious of them.”
Cutter chuckled. “Well, I’ve only had half a year to bring them to a realistic assessment of their talents. In another few months there should be only one or two who still have such ideas in their heads.”
“Will either of those students be in my class?” Dr Mittal enquired.
“Both of them. And in your class, too, Mr Kuryakin,” Cutter added.
“Top agents in the making, then,” Mr Mittal smiled. “I haven’t had a chance to review my class list yet.”
“Well, one of them will be at the top of it and one at the bottom,” Cutter continued. “Agincourt and Yokoyama.”
Illya’s lips lifted slightly around the rim of the tea cup from which he was sipping.
“I had been thinking to retire early, Mr Cutter, but perhaps this will be a good introduction to my class,” Dr Mittal concluded.
“And will you join us?” Cutter asked, turning to Illya.
“I think Dr Mittal’s point is a good one,” Illya replied, placing his serviette on the table.
Cutter stood, consulting his watch once more. “We have time to stroll then,” he said.
As they walked through the grounds, Illya noted the changes since he had last set foot on the island. Mostly it was the same place that had witnessed a major change in his life. Cutter followed his gaze. “We’ve made some improvements, technological mostly.”
“I look forward to seeing them,” Illya replied. He had noticed Cutter observing him at dinner and wondered how much of Agincourt’s file had been shared with the head of the Survival School. If the copy tabs he’d seen when he reviewed Anton’s file in Mr Waverly’s office were an accurate indication, not very much at all.
“I’ve assigned each of you an aide-de-camp, so to speak. I‘ll introduce them after the qualifications.” Cutter waved his arm at a low, wooden building much like all the others they had passed. “You’ll be impressed, I think, at the upgrades in the laboratories.” Cutter gestured again as their destination came into view. “Your aides can give you a comprehensive tour of the facilities tomorrow.”
************
There was gallery seating at the back of the indoor firing range. Illya remembered glancing up to where Cutter sat at the end of his final round. He hadn’t checked the huge clock high on the side wall. The expression on Cutter’s face had told him all he needed to know.
Now he found himself looking down, leaning forward ever so slightly. As was Cutter, an open notebook on his lap. In reverse order to their standings, the cadets approached the mark. Those waiting shot uneasy glances towards the gallery as Cutter ruffled through his notebook to find the right page for his notes. Illya wondered if he did it loudly to unnerve them.
The results were tallied mechanically and the marksmanship instructor would critique every recruit’s technique. Cutter observed the trainees before and after they performed, recording his impressions with cryptic scribbles which, as far as Illya knew, no one had yet decoded. Vijay was studying the marks. He winked at Illya when he caught him watching.
Cutter moved his notebook from his knee to the gallery railing. There were only a few cadets remaining to be tested. Anton was among them, leaner and browner than when he’d left New York. The other cadets seemed boyish next to him. One by one they took their turns. The second was clearly disappointed with his performance. Cutter’s pencil flew across the page. Anton was last. Best. Illya leaned further forward.
“Worried?” Cutter murmured.
Illya let himself smile a little. Cutter would think he understood why.
*****
The report of Anton’s last shot was still ringing when the first of his classmates stepped forward to thump him on the back. No one needed to see the official figures to know that he had maintained his standing as top marksman in the class. Illya smiled.
Cutter glanced at Illya. “You were always sure of yourself,” he said. Agincourt’s score would be far short of the record. Voices rose from the floor, boisterous with relief. Cutter tilted his head at Dr Mittal. Vijay rose and headed for the stairs. As they followed, Cutter gestured towards the group around Agincourt. “That one‘s surprised me,” Cutter added as they descended. The timekeeper met them at the bottom of the stairs with a clipboard. Cutter took it, scanned the results and nodded.
The cadets gave way as they advanced to the front of the hall. “Well, gentlemen -” There was the tiniest pause. “ - and ladies.” The voices had died away after his first word. Cutter let his eyes travel over all the recruits. “You have a lot of work to do in the next few months if you hope to graduate.”
Someone further back in the crowd asked, “Didn’t he beat the record?” Cutter cocked his head, clearly running through the names in the class for the one that matched the voice.
“Far from it,” Cutter stated.
A discontented buzz followed his statement. Slowly, Cutter swept his eyes over the group again. Without anyone seeming to move their lips, a voice grumbled. “It’s an old record. Bet that guy can’t do it now.”
Cutter smiled, pulled his gun from its holster and extended it, butt foremost towards Illya. Illya raised an eyebrow, wondered whether this had been arranged and reached under his jacket. The students drew back when he turned towards them, Special in hand. Three steps brought him to the mark. Quiet returned to the hall. The sound of the targets springing back up could be heard.
Eight shots rang out and the targets were down again. The timekeeper shouted out the time as Illya slipped his gun back into its holster. The students’ eyes left the flattened target area and followed Illya as he walked back towards Cutter.
“You’ve shaved a little off your record, Mr Kuryakin,” Cutter said when Illya rejoined him. Illya inclined his head slightly in acknowledgement; there was no hint of a smile on his lips .
“This,” Cutter intoned, and as he waved one hand in a broad arc towards the back of the room, “is training.” He extended his arm other towards the target area. “That is experience. Bear it in mind.”
******
The mood had softened over the fine food and wine laid out in the mess. As in an UNCLE agent’s life, students were exposed to sudden shifts in setting which required them to learn and practice a variety of skills. The simulations would become more elaborate closer to the end of the training year, after the focus on physical endurance and academic attainment had thinned out the number of new recruits.
There, Mr Cutter had formally introduced Doctors Mittal and Kuryakin to the trainees and to the members of staff who had joined the reception. Cutter had urged everyone to enjoy this hour of gaiety before the rigours of the next two weeks began. For the majority, the revision and exam weeks commenced the following day. For the students selected for the advanced courses, exams had been taken in between the physical tests which had ended with the marksmanship event that evening. Survival School was aptly named.
Having been directed to make themselves known to their instructors, students had approached in ones and twos as Vijay picked lightly at the buffet and Illya made another meal of it. Anton came with Cutter and a young woman Illya hadn’t seen clearly at the firing range.
“Reikko,” Illya said and gave her a shallow bow when the trio reached the table.
Reikko bowed lower than Illya and said, “Kuryakin-san.”
“I didn’t see you at the firing range. So you followed up on that idea,” Illya said.
Cutter looked from one to the other. “You know Yokoyama?” he asked.
“Last time we met she knocked me unconscious with her fan,” Illya said, smiling. Over Cutter’s shoulder, he could see Anton raising his eyebrows. “She thought I was a THRUSH agent,” Illya explained. “Do you have it with you?”
Reikko let the fan slide down from her sleeve. Cutter reached out for it and she handed it to him.
“Tap the edge against your knuckles, sir,” Illya suggested. “Lightly.”
Cutter ignored the last part of the directions and flinched. “Interesting,” he said, returning the fan to Reikko. “Very interesting. Perhaps the assignments should have been reversed, but Miss Yokoyama is Mr Mittal’s aide and Mr Agincourt -” Cutter stepped aside and indicated Anton, “- is yours, Mr Kuryakin.”
Illya looked from Cutter to Anton and extended his hand. Cutter was good at dissembling, but his tone indicated that he knew very little of Anton’s association with UNCLE prior to his joining Survival School. Illya wasn’t sure whether that would prove to be an advantage or a liability.
****************
Waving good-night to colleagues and classmates, Illya and Vijay, Reikko and Anton left the mess hall, still discussing what needed to be done to prepare for the next day‘s classes. Beyond the semi-circle of yellow light spilling from the open doorway, they turned away from the student barracks and staff quarters towards the offices and classrooms. Reikko and Anton took the lead along the narrow paths, their duffle bags casting hulking shadows when they passed through the blue lamplight by the steps of each building. As the lights grew farther and farther apart, the sound of the ocean grew stronger, the fronds of the palm trees rustled more loudly overhead. The breeze lifted their hair as they stepped onto the beach. The old diving instruction building was dark. Reikko trained the beam of her torch on the front of the white, clapboard structure as Anton mounted the steps, keys jangling.
“Where’s the scuba instructor living now?” Illya asked.
Reikko gestured to her left. “By the jetty. The new diving centre extends out over the water. ”
“That’s even more isolated than here,” Vijay remarked.
“Mr Stormorken says he can’t sleep if he can’t hear the sea,” Reikko replied.
“Would it be safe in a storm?” Vijay asked.
“I believe it’s seaworthy. We can go see it tomorrow,” Reikko suggested.
Illya looked out over the water towards the red specks that marked the buoys above the security perimeter. “We could do a class on underwater demolition there,” he said. “Put theory into context.”
Anton had switched on the inside lights and come back down the stairs sans duffle bag.
Reikko switched off her torch. “Underwater demolition,” she repeated to Anton.
“Tomorrow?” he asked, turning to Illya.
“No, theory tomorrow, assessments,” Illya replied. “Later in the week. Tuesday I think we’ll have class in the mess hall. See how much we can blow up with what’s in the kitchen.”
The other three exchanged glances. “I didn’t get to see this side of you when we cracked that code together in Bombay,” Vijay said. He rested a hand on Illya’s shoulder as they headed inside. “You know, we could do a joint class, maybe next week, on disabling bombs protected by security codes. It would give the students a lot of motivation to work quickly, don’t you think?”
Reikko looked at Anton, but he was sorting through the bundle of keys in his hand. She stopped behind him in the narrow corridor just inside the front door and turned back to Vijay. “You were both based in Bombay?” she asked.
“Only me. Illya got off a flight refuelling in Bombay. He had liberated an encoded book from a THRUSH agent he and Napoleon had trailed from Beirut. Napoleon kept on going to Singapore. The code needed to be broken before the plane landed there and the THRUSH agent could report the book’s loss.”
Anton had found the right key and opened the door of a small bedroom furnished with a desk, a chair, a small bookcase, a bunk with drawers underneath and a chest at the foot of the bed. He tugged at Reikko’s duffel bag; she slipped it off her shoulder and let him take it from her. He set it down inside the door and with almost no jingling started easing the key to the room off the large ring in his hand. Illya watched him from the corner of his eye, saw him leaning forward to listen.
“And did you?” Reikko asked.
Illya looked from Reikko back to Vijay, wondering if he were flirting or just enjoying the freedom to speak of their work to colleagues. Admittedly, the recruits weren’t UNCLE agents yet, but Reikko and Anton stood good chances of becoming ones.
Vijay smiled broadly and nodded, “I believe we set a record doing it, too.”
Reikko looked at Illya. He inclined his head and raised his eyebrows to corroborate the tale. “It’s gracious of Dr Mittal to say ‘we’,“ Illya said. He had considered it a compliment that Vijay had asked for his help with the decoding. “It was because he was in Bombay that I got off the plane with the codebook.”
Ideas had ricocheted between them in those frantic, caffeine-fuelled hours in Vijay’s office. In the end it was a hybrid concept that had been the key. They were able to relay the necessary information to Napoleon before he cleared immigration in Singapore. Illya had put down his communicator, pushed several tea glasses aside and dropped his head onto his folded arms. Vijay had reached across the table to brush the sweat-damp hair off Illya’s forehead and joked that between the two of them they had the longest hair in UNCLE. Illya had turned his head without lifting it off his arms and smiled. Napoleon was always teasing him about his hair.
“And as you know, there are days when we fail,” Illya said.
“But you succeed more often than you fail,” Reikko retorted as Anton pressed her room key into her hand.
“Well, we’re still here,” Illya conceded, moving along the hallway.
Reikko stepped into her quarters, leaving the door open. Several steps further on, Anton unlocked his room and went in. Illya turned to his door as Vijay moved past to reach the narrow corridor at the back of the building which led to his room. He paused at the corner.
“Oh,” Reikko was heard to say, the pitch of her voice higher than usual. “Excuse me.”
“I’m so sorry. I didn’t realise,” Anton replied.
Illya peered into Anton’s room and saw him backing out of the room’s other doorway and adjusting his trousers. Anton saw Illya. “Shared bathroom,” he explained.
Vijay walked back and looked in. “With urinals?” he asked. Anton nodded. “Since they remodelled this recently, one would have thought the possibility that the personnel using the guest quarters might not all be male would have occurred to someone.”
Reikko came out of her room. “I was surprised,” she offered in apology. “It doesn’t matter. There wouldn’t be such distinctions in the field.“
“Depends on the type of mission,” Illya observed. “But here there are women’s barracks.” He paused for an instant. “My quarters have a bathroom. Anton can share it. I’m sure he won’t mind crossing the hall.” Illya looked up at Anton.
“No, of course not,” Anton replied and nodded at Reikko, affirming it.
“All settled then,” Illya concluded. “I’ll leave my door unlocked.”
“Thank you,” Reikko said.
“I’m still surprised no one realised,” Vijay groused, turning back down the corridor. “Good-night then,” he said to Reikko, then nodded to Anton and Illya in turn.
**********
Anton was barely moving. Each tiny shift increased the pressure. Illya squeezed his eyes more tightly shut and breathed though his mouth with as little sound as he could manage. Anything above a murmur would be heard through the plaster board partitions. The muscles of Anton’s arm flexed under Illya’s neck, against his chest. Pinpricks of light played on the back of Illya‘s eyelids. A small sound escaped him. He pressed his lips together. Anton’s lips grazed the side of Illya’s neck, hovered near his jaw, murmuring. Which language? It was hard to convert the sounds to meaning. So many possibilities. Anton’s other arm pulled Illya’s hips closer. Illya’s back began to arch. Forward and back Anton’s thumb glided, lightly, hardly touching. The breath against Illya’s ear formed warm words. The language was French, Illya realised. He wanted to block his ears. Simple words. In every language.
Waves. Even through the closed windows, Illya could hear them. He took a deep breath, stretched his legs and rolled onto his back. A hand grasped his hip and pulled him away from the edge of the bed. Along the beach, the waves beat steadily. Illya’s breathing slowed. As he fell back to sleep, he smiled.
*************
Baroque Pearls - Part II may be found here.
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Date: 2011-10-23 08:22 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-10-23 09:50 pm (UTC)Those Eggs can be dangerous! It's the bunny connection, I guess.