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MFU Fanfic: Third (continued)
This is a continuation of an Easter Egg entitled Third that I posted at MFU Writers Survival School early in April. For the first part of the story click here. Some readers were kind enough to express a wish for more of the story, so here it is.
Rating: PG-13
Disclaimer: I don't own MUNCLE and no money is being made.
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utopiantrunks has devoted a lot of patience to getting me as far as this with this story.
Excerpt:
Napoleon was smiling sweetly at the receptionist while she unclipped his badge when she asked, "Did Illya give you the message from Veronica?"
The smile wavered an instant before Napoleon brought it back to the proper magnitude and asked casually, "When did you give it to him? I haven't seen him all afternoon."
"Right after lunch," Lily answered, gazing directly into Napoleon's eyes. "He was headed for that meeting you both had with Section Three." She paused and her eyes dropped to the desk calendar. "It got postponed until Monday at the last minute..."
****************
Third - Part II
Napoleon was smiling sweetly at the receptionist while she unclipped his badge when she asked, "Did Illya give you the message from Veronica?"
The smile wavered an instant before Napoleon brought it back to the proper magnitude and asked casually, "When did you give it to him? I haven't seen him all afternoon."
"Right after lunch," Lily answered, gazing directly into Napoleon's eyes. "He was headed for that meeting you both had with Section Three." She paused and her eyes dropped to the desk calendar. "It got postponed until Monday at the last minute..."
"You don't happen to know what the message was?" Napoleon ventured, his smile on the playful side for the moment. "Or what time Illya left?"
"Of course I do, on both counts," Lily replied, sitting up straighter. "I took the telephone call and," she flipped back a page in her roster, "Illya left a half hour ago."
"Ah."
"Veronica said she was sorry she couldn't see you again this weekend, but as soon as she gets back next week, she's all yours." Napoleon's smile slipped. "Well, she's one lucky girl, but if you're lonely, Napoleon, I might be free tomorrow night."
"You are a darling, Lily," Napoleon enthused, "But I have to work this weekend and I should have called Veronica to tell her already."
"You were born under a lucky star, Napoleon," Lily smiled. "I can't say how long I can keep my offer open, but if you get your work done and want to see if your luck is holding out, give me a call."
"You are more than a darling, Lily," Napoleon affirmed, leaning over the desk to give her cheek a light kiss. "You are an angel."
Lily shook her head in amusement as the door closed after Napoleon. "No one could hold onto that man," she murmured to herself.
Napoleon drove directly to Illya's apartment building and parked across the street between the glow of two street lamps. Within minutes Illya emerged in evening dress and hailed a taxi. When it pulled away from the curb, Napoleon pulled out after it.
Fifteen minutes later, he was parked across the street from The Algonquin Hotel watching Illya disappear into the lobby. "Lily might be right about my lucky stars," Napoleon mumbled, turning off the car. "Two parking spots in midtown Manhattan within a quarter hour." He sighed and settled in to wait. Twenty minutes later a Lincoln drew up in front of the hotel without discharging any passengers. Napoleon watched the doorman lean in the passenger side window and then head into the lobby. A minute later he returned and spoke to the driver who pulled the car forward half a car length allowing a taxi to pull up in front of the hotel. Napoleon kept his eyes on the glass doors and they finally disgorged Illya...and two female companions, a blonde and a redhead, with upswept hair, in black gowns of a distinctly Parisian cut and very sparse jewellery which nevertheless managed to twinkle at him between the passing cars. "Wow," Napoleon exclaimed for the second time that day.
He noted that Illya held the gloved hand of his blonde companion as she slid into the backseat and turned to the redhead. The Lincoln obscured part of his view, but something transpired so that Illya got in next. The driver had come around to the sidewalk and helped the second lady in and closed the door. "I'm not sure if I'm more jealous of them or him," Napoleon grumbled, as he put his car in gear and took up his sedate pursuit once more.
At the fourth stop light, Napoleon murmured, "The wife! The blonde one is the conductor's wife." He reached for the open magazine on the seat and flipped a couple pages. The light turned green and he switched his attention to the street. After five consecutive green lights, he was stopped again two cars behind the Lincoln. He turned on the inside light and looked at the photo near the end of the article. "Dyachenko's librettist and wife, Daria," he read aloud, then switched off the light. "Children of emigrees Illya met in Paris?" he pondered, "Friends from earlier in his life who have defected or people he knew from his professional life in the Soviet Union?" The light turned and he made it across the intersection before coming to a stop again. "The other one is familiar, too, but not from this article," he mused out loud. The traffic lurched forward and kept going. There wasn't another halt until they both arrived at Carnegie Hall. The Lincoln double parked for a moment and Illya's first companion emerged as Napoleon glided past as slowly as he could without causing someone to honk at him. In his rear view mirror he caught a glimpse of a familiar blond head above the roof of the Lincoln before he turned the corner in search of one of the nearby parking garages.
***********
Napoleon returned to the concert hall entrance as rapidly as he could, but all the doors were closed except one and an usher was checking each person's ticket as they passed through it. Napoleon took a step in that direction, stopped and shook his head. Even his considerable charm was not going to work in this situation. Napoleon turned to the curb and slipped into a cab which had just discharged two bejewelled ladies and an elderly gentleman. He gave his address and headed home. The traffic was with him and he tipped the cabbie for that. The man had almost smiled in return. Eschewing the elevator, Napoleon took his stairs two at a time and was dialling his friend at NYPD who owed him a couple favours almost before his door had slammed shut.
"Napoleon, I hadn't taken you for a classical music fan," Patrick chuckled. "It's a little late though. You'll miss the first half."
"I hadn't even heard of this man before today," Napoleon protested, the sincerity of that statement clearly audible.
Patrick paused. "So there's really a possible threat to this guy?"
"It's only a tip and I'm not so sure it's a reliable one, but, you know, Soviet and all that..."
"Mmm. I think he‘s a French citizen now."
Napoleon took note. "Could be some crackpot objecting on political grounds or someone jealous of his success, or maybe nothing at all," Napoleon continued, "But I didn't feel comfortable dismissing it out of hand."
"No, no, I take your point. Look, I've got a few guys there anyway because half of political New York decided to attend. The governor's not there, but just about everyone else is, including the Mayor and the Lieutenant Governor. If you want to keep an eye out as well, Napoleon, whatever your reasons, it's okay by me. I'll call over and they'll expect you. All our guys are plainclothes, you know, tuxedos. Listen though, I'm still considering this one favour returned," Patrick finished.
"Understood," Napoleon replied. "And Patrick, I appreciate it."
"No problem. You'd do the same for me, Napoleon."
**************
Twenty minutes later, Napoleon was back on the pavement outside his apartment searching for a taxi. "The traffic gods are still on my side," Napoleon thought as one pulled up a minute or two later.
Back at Carnegie Hall he went around to the stage entrance and was met by one of Patrick's senior officers, Danny Murphy. "The first half is almost over," he warned Napoleon. "Try to get to the top before they come out for the intermission. Tommy's up there, too. He knows you're coming."
Napoleon smiled his thanks and headed towards the 105 steps to the uppermost balcony. He started to hear applause on the first landing, even through the doors. People had begun to trickle out when he reached the highest balcony doors. He slipped in and edged down the steps at the far end to the front of the balcony and raised his opera glasses. Almost the first people he saw as he scanned the tiers of boxes across the auditorium were Illya and his two companions. They do make a striking little group, Napoleon thought grimly as he observed Daria whisper something in Illya's ear which brought out his conspiratorial smile. The redhead whispered something on the other side. Or is she lightly kissing his ear? Napoleon wondered.
"Oh, my God," Napoleon mumbled. Illya had lifted the redhead's hand, undone the glove button at the inside of her wrist and raised the exposed skin to his lips, all the while looking over her hand at her. "No!" Napoleon whispered incredulously. Daria was kissing Illya's ear while he was kissing the redhead's wrist. Illya lowered the redhead's wrist onto his lap and turned to Daria and said something, lowering his eyelids as he did so. Napoleon couldn't lip read it, but thought it was Russian. Using his other hand, Illya raised Daria's hand and did the same thing. "Is he still holding the redhead's hand?" Napoleon asked himself. His opera glasses were among UNCLE's finest and the high resolution combined with the lights which were now up in the hall allowed him to see how the games they were playing were flushing the delicate complexions of all three. Mine's probably rather rosy right now, too, Napoleon thought and shifted his stance slightly to relieve his discomfort.
"I've never seen Illya flirt like this," Napoleon muttered. Women enough mooning over him and even throwing themselves at him, but most of the time he turns away as though he can't be bothered. I've assumed he doesn't know how to play these games, haven't I? The redhead had turned further in her seat towards Illya and was trailing one black gloved finger down his cheek to bring his attention back to her. Illya leaned back in his chair laughing and said something that made them both laugh, too. They know one another well. Biblically even. Napoleon frowned. And they look eager to get reacquainted. Napoleon's eyes widened. "Not both at once!" he muttered. Daria leaned across Illya to whisper something to the redhead. Napoleon couldn't be sure from his angle but he suspected from the way she smiled and moved her head that Illya had decided to return the favour and kiss her ear since it was right in front of him.
The house lights flickered and the people who had left their seats were returning. Napoleon moved back towards the wall, stooping to pick up a programme from the floor, grateful that the music would begin soon. That doesn't mean they'll stop their games. He almost cursed aloud in Russian having learned so many colourful phrases from Illya, but controlled himself since in New York there was bound to be someone within earshot who understood the language.
The members of the orchestra were filing back onto the stage. Napoleon focussed on them for a while to distract his mind from the tableau vivant across the auditorium. He didn't find the musicians a very visually diverting group, being comprised mostly of men past their first, and second, youth. The harpist emerged, a woman of matronly proportions and finally, two young women with violins, one blonde, the other brunette. Napoleon tried to interest himself in them as they took their seats and adjusted their instruments, but his mind would not engage. Sighing, he lifted the opera glasses again and saw the friendly trio leaning forwards, their heads almost touching as they turned towards the stage. Applause began and they joined in, smiles wreathing their faces and small groups of words causing their lips to open and close in eminently kissable configurations. The way they were sitting convinced Napoleon that their thighs were probably touching and he didn't want to think where hands might go when they were no longer occupied with clapping.
Resignedly, Napoleon turned towards the stage in time to see the conductor cross to the podium. The volume of the applause increased until Kyrill raised his baton. The first sweet notes of a lone flute floated up from the stage. Napoleon glanced down at the programme and confirmed that it was Prelude L'Apres-midi d'un Faune. He'd had a pleasingly amorous evening after taking a young lady to that ballet a couple years previously. He smiled fondly in remembrance, then checked the subjects across the auditorium through the opera glasses. "Shouldn't have done that," Napoleon murmured to himself after seeing Illya smooth a strand of hair behind the redhead's ear. He returned to his contemplation of Kyrill, whose face only came partially into view when he turned towards his right. Napoleon observed the other musicians instead; noting how they took in the score on the stands in front of them, but always had the conductor in their range of vision. Being the centre of that much concentration day after day must be very gratifying. Must help sustain quite an ego, too.
The dreamy nature of the piece lent itself to reflection and kept Napoleon away from his opera glasses until the applause broke his reverie. Then he looked over once more and watched them clap and exchange smiling remarks. Napoleon sighed as Daria paused in her clapping to brush her fingers through Illya's fringe. This isn't getting any better. Isn't she the conductor's wife? And the conductor is writing love songs for Illya. Hmm. There is a lot I don't know about Illya's past. I wonder how many other old flames he has? He looked down at the stage as the conductor bowed again, then motioned for the orchestra to stand. I hope there aren't too many more like these. Napoleon perused his programme to see what had been played during the first half of the concert.
A concert grand piano had been rolled into place to the left of the podium and a tall man with abundant brown hair bowed and then seated himself at it. Napoleon peered at him, then used his glasses to take a closer look. His eyebrows went up and he checked the programme again. Van Cliburn. He'd missed that detail in his quick scan of the article and Slate hadn't mentioned it. Kyrill raised his baton and silence reigned until a ripple of notes from a clarinet introduced the next piece. Napoleon smiled to himself. He'd always liked Rhapsody in Blue. He felt an impulse to share his pleasure at hearing it performed live with Illya next time they spoke and then thought that it might be best if he didn’t divulge that he’d attended this concert. He sighed again and took a chance on checking on Illya. His head was swaying slightly with the music, his eyes were closed and an appreciative smile played on his lips. I want to be seated with you, Illya. Perhaps I can get to like your old friends...I wonder if they would like me?
The rousing finale of Rhapsody in Blue was followed by equally rousing applause. Must do a performer good to hear that, Napoleon thought as he tucked his programme under his arm and added his enthusiasm to the swell of sound around him. Bows and waves followed, the orchestra stood, the conductor and pianist exited and returned, sending kisses to the balconies and bowing hand in hand. The pianist was only a little taller than Kyrill. Another tall one. They left the stage together, then returned once more. The audience would not stop. They had gotten to their feet and continued with even more verve. They want an encore. Let's see if they succeed.
Kyrill returned alone. He made a gesture to the orchestra and scores were shuffled on music stands. The piano was rolled to the edge of the stage and the orchestra's chairs were rearranged. The audience clapped its approval of these preparations. Napoleon overheard a woman standing nearby say, "Oh, Harry. Maybe he'll play it." Kyrill raised his baton and the audience sat down.
The hush was so complete, Napoleon wondered whether people were holding their breath. Like the previous two pieces, it opened with a sole woodwind, a bassoon this time, crying into the silence. Napoleon felt an ache in his chest as though the wish he had just expressed to himself about sitting with Illya tonight had been magnified a hundredfold, and suppressing the urge to call out to him was almost physically painful. The violins entered and the wailing bassoon subsided. Napoleon leaned up against the wall, his eyes stinging and his heart pounding.
There were deeper strings now, some brass, the timpani underpinning the sound like a heartbeat, then several woodwinds entered together playing a melody against the background of the other instruments. Napoleon closed his eyes and saw Illya coming into Mr Waverly's office for a briefing, opening the door to their office, getting into the car in the morning, blowing open the door of a THRUSH cell to rescue him, leaping over a wall into an open truck with him. Illya in motion, arriving, changing everything around him. Perhaps the music was changing, Napoleon wasn't sure what he could actually hear and what was part of the memories cascading through his mind. Illya raising his eyebrows at him, tilting his head, whispering a direction, explaining a situation, laughing with him, shouting a warning, snorting in derision, wincing in pain, gasping in pleasure. Illya's touch, a strong arm at his back, under his elbow, careful fingers cleaning his wounds, a firm hand patting his shoulder, shoving him out of the way of danger, grabbing his hair, his whole body clasped against him. Illya.
There was a lull in the music. Napoleon opened his eyes. One bassoon filled the void with soft notes unlike the keening which had begun the piece, a gentle trill like fingers trailing down a cheek, across a bared chest. The volume rose gradually, becoming bolder, a request, a plea; then diminishing, a prayer. The only sound now was a faint rhythm from the timpani. He took a deep breath and brought the opera glasses up to his eyes. Illya was leaning with his elbows on the edge of the balcony, his hands one below the other, the fingers loose almost as though he held a clarinet or an oboe, his eyes closed. Illya plays the oboe, doesn't he? Napoleon stood up straighter. The oboe part which was never played, never permitted to be played. There were papers under Illya's elbows, a booklet of some sort. A note sounded, but not from the stage. Napoleon fought an urge to close his eyes. Illya's brow was furrowed, his lips compressed. Napoleon had seen that expression many times. Illya was concentrating. The note held. Napoleon still couldn't judge its point of origin. He lowered the glasses. Glancing about him he saw many people turning their heads from side to side, seeking the source of the sound.
Napoleon looked down to the stage. The conductor's left hand was stretched out towards the timpanist and his baton was pointing over his left shoulder. Napoleon followed its trajectory and raised both his eyebrows. He looked back at Kyrill. The baton was arcing slowly clockwise and the sound appeared to be following. Napoleon felt fairly sure it was an oboe. How long could an oboist sustain a note?
He peered at Illya through the glasses. His head had turned slightly left, although his expression remained the same, then his fingers moved and the note changed. Napoleon drew in a breath. The sound was closer to the stage now. He continued to watch Illya and saw his fingers move again just as the solo note dipped. Napoleon shifted his glasses. Daria was staring at the stage; the redhead's eyes were closed and her arm seemed to be on Illya's back. Keeping the glasses to his eyes, Napoleon swung around to the stage and found the woodwind section. The two oboists were sitting with their instruments across their laps. Their eyes were on the conductor. Next to them was an empty chair with a music stand in front of it, an open score upon it. Napoleon lowered the glasses.
Kyrill's baton was in front of him pointing towards the oboe section. His left hand summoned the strings, softly. The sound of the single oboe continued. The notes were shorter now, repeating a motif which Napoleon realised he had heard earlier in the piece, played by other instruments. Then Kyrill altered the direction of his baton and a bassoon began to play. Its notes staccato while the oboe held its sound, then the two instruments switched. Napoleon sagged against the wall. Other woodwinds joined, but the intertwining melodies remained distinct. The strings were playing more loudly, and there were flashes of brass, but the interlocking melodies predominated. Napoleon recalled Illya being pulled by the model into her cabin on the train. He saw Marion Raven arched protectively in front of Illya and Illya chuckling. He saw Illya and Mr Waverly's niece walking away from his car into the rainy night together. Oh, Illya.
The conductor leaned slightly forward, one hand extended to the left, palm downwards as the strings sustained their high faint notes. His other hand stretched forward towards the woodwinds, palm upwards, fingers curled in a beckoning gesture towards the empty seat from whence issued a long, low note like a sigh. His left index finger jabbed in the direction of the harpist and then descended sharply. The harpist plucked three high notes, then held her hands to either side of her instrument. The string players lifted their bows an inch above their strings. The conductor drew his right hand lower and closer to his chest. The long, low note descended further, growing fainter. Kyrill made a grabbing motion with his right hand and all sound stopped. He remained leaning forward over the podium. His eyes shut and he brought his closed right hand to his lips as his left hand swung very slowly to his side. The string players lowered their bows and the harpist's hands settled onto her lap.
There was no movement in the hall. The usual rustling of garments and programmes, coughs and murmured commentary were held in abeyance as though they had not yet received their cue. Napoleon's glance strayed from the back of the conductor to the faces of the other musicians whose gazes remained fixed on Kyrill. He watched Kyrill straighten, and with a toss of the head to remove his long hair from his face, pivot towards the audience. Kyrill tilted his head slightly upwards, turned to his right and swept his gaze around the hall. For the briefest instant he appeared to be looking directly at Napoleon and then his head had reached the point in the arc where Illya sat with his beautiful companions and a smile touched Kyrill's lips. His regard returned to centre and he bowed deeply. One pair of hands were brought together before any others and broke the enchantment. The applause rose like a flock of startled birds and the people rose to their feet with it. There were shouts of Bravo and Bravi and the folks who usually feel compelled to run to their cars while others applaud, forbore, or perhaps their compulsion was overridden for once. Kyrill bowed again and the clapping increased in fervour. He turned to his orchestra and gestured for them all to stand. The audience put more effort into conveying their feelings and the members of the orchestra smiled back at them, shyly at first, and then with more confidence as they focussed on the joyous expressions of those in the nearest rows.
Napoleon put his opera glasses up to his eyes and sought out Illya. He was sitting very straight; his head listing further back than the line of his shoulders. His eyes were still closed. Both women were smiling softly at Kyrill. Napoleon caught them exchange a glance with one another and then turn to look at the man between them. Napoleon noticed that they were both pressed up against Illya's sides almost as if they were supporting him. The redhead turned further and kissed his temple. There was a slight movement and Napoleon realised that her arm was extended behind Illya and her right hand was resting on his right shoulder, the black of her glove nearly invisible against his evening jacket. They appeared to be the only people other than himself who were not applauding. The blonde reached out with one hand for the open booklet resting in front of Illya. Napoleon supposed that her other hand was around Illya's waist. As she flipped the cover closed, Napoleon saw that it was a musical score. He lowered the glasses, but continued staring at the trio across from him.
"Harry, that was the best anniversary present ever." Napoleon glanced at the speaker.
"I didn't know they'd play that piece tonight, Angela," Harry replied.
"No, of course, you couldn't have, but you took a chance. You took a chance and won," Angela countered. "Just like I did," she said and kissed him. Right there, standing at their seats. Not a peck, Napoleon observed. A real kiss, a long one. Harry's bald pate turned scarlet, but he looked pleased, nevertheless, when Angela finally let go.
Napoleon checked back across the hall and noted that the trio were still in place. He walked down to the front of the balcony as people started to head for the exits in a leisurely manner. Many people remained standing in place, however, and as he surveyed all of the hall he could see from his vantage, Napoleon noticed that many were embracing. He heard laughter and some people appeared to be wiping their eyes. He looked more carefully at those heading up the aisles and noticed how many had linked arms or flung arms around the backs of their companions. I would have done that if Illya and I had come here together. Napoleon sat down in a vacant seat, leaned his elbow on the balcony and rested his head against his hand.
Finally, the trio prepared to leave. The women got up first and bent towards Illya as though to encourage him. Napoleon's back stiffened and he took up the glasses. Illya seemed dazed. Napoleon hadn't seen Illya eat or drink since he'd arrived, but drugs occurred to him. The redhead leaned over Illya, held his head against her breast for a moment and then took his hand, kissed the palm and placed it on her cheek. This seemed to revive Illya. He looked up at his solicitous companion and smiled, wearily. Napoleon relaxed a bit. I've seen that weary look, too, but after a couple days without sleep. Napoleon headed for the doors and down the stairs as fast as the throng of slowly moving concertgoers would allow.
At the stage entrance, he asked Danny, "Did the conductor leave yet?"
"No. His wife and a pretty friend and your partner left a minute ago, but there's a reception here that the conductor will be attending. You guys get quite the undercover assignments, don't you? Your partner looked well looked after."
"Of course, we have to make it appear convincing," Napoleon smiled. "Where's this reception then?"
Danny waved his arm towards a tall, dark-haired man. "Here's Tommy. He and Sean are covering the reception; he'll take you along with 'im. Have fun."
As he and Tommy navigated their way to the reception rooms, Napoleon asked, "How’d you like the concert?"
Tommy ran a hand over his face and turned to Napoleon. "The music was fine, though I prefer opera." His shoulders sagged. "During that last piece, I kept thinking of Maureen. We thought we'd get married when I returned from Korea." He gazed off to the right and his voice sounded as though he were speaking to himself. "Three weeks after I got back she was dead - pneumonia, twenty years old. Us guys, going off to war, we were expecting we might not come back, but you don't expect a girl to die."
Napoleon laid his hand on the other man's back. "I'm sorry."
Tommy shook his head slowly. "Ten years now. I don't think about it very often any more. It's odd...tonight...it was like she was here with me...and then I was at that damned hospital again...her fingers were so cold the last time she held my hand." He shook his head once more. "Really odd." He pushed open a door. "Here we are." Tommy turned to Napoleon, his face reddening, "Thanks, you know..."
Napoleon patted his back once, "Yes, I do." Tommy headed towards the right side of the reception area and Napoleon decided he would make his preliminary observations from amidst the throng by the bar. Seems I'm not the only unsettled one tonight.
**************
The reception room was suitable for about two hundred people, Napoleon estimated. Guests were still coming in from the double doors off the main stairway, on the opposite wall from the service entrance that he and Tommy had used. Napoleon accepted a gin and tonic from the barman, took a few steps back towards the side of the bar and watched the group around the conductor. Dyachenko’s height made him easy to spot in a crowd and Napoleon admitted that his body language, as he made introductions and had people introduced to him, was commanding. Accustomed to having people follow his lead, Napoleon thought. And he likes to touch. Napoleon couldn’t see the handshakes, but the motion of Kyrill’s upper arms indicated that they were often two-handed. Napoleon noted how often Dyachenko’s hand was laid on a shoulder or an upper arm, and yet it seemed different from the tactics of a politician. In exactly what way he wasn’t yet sure. Napoleon finished his drink, left the glass on the edge of the bar and made his way over to the group around Dyachenko.
He waited patiently as the people closer to the conductor spoke with him. Many had heard him perform in Europe and their remarks were delivered in a tone very similar to Mark’s, but what several of them said to the conductor was different. Impressions similar to what Tommy had described as they walked over to the reception together were shared with the conductor. Many leaned in closer than was typical in a formal setting, closer than necessary to hear through the background babble in the large room. He’s listening to them, Napoleon realised. That’s what’s different. If only for a moment, he’s hearing them and they seem to know it.
A short man directly in front of Napoleon started speaking to Dyachenko; someone behind Napoleon jostled him and apologised. Napoleon caught himself from pushing the man before him, only brushing against him slightly. The music started. Napoleon glanced towards the corners of the room to see where the speakers were. He had been surprised that there wasn’t any background music playing for the reception before. Must have had a fault with the sound system, he thought. He noticed Dyachenko close his eyes for a moment as he shook the shorter man’s hand and held it. Napoleon tensed and leaned forward. An assault was not out of the question, it’s why his excuse to Patrick had been so plausible. Dyachenko opened his eyes, a small smile on his face. Napoleon drew back. Dyachenko turned to a tall, pale man just behind him whom he called Antonin and spoke softly to him in rapid Russian. Antonin nodded, extended his arm towards the shorter man and led him away from the group. Napoleon was fairly sure Antonin was the first violinist. He turned from observing the interaction to meet Dyachenko’s regard. His eyes were a deep blue, their colour accentuated by the darkness of the thick lashes and brows around and above them. Mesmerising was the word Mark had used. Napoleon felt it was apt. He offered his hand and Dyachenko took it. Napoleon didn’t recall exactly what form of greeting he used, but Illya’s voice telling him that Dychenko had written Third for him echoed in his memory as he grasped the conductor’s hand.
“We were students at university then,” Kyrill said quietly, looking with empathy directly into Napoleon‘s eyes.
Napoleon schooled his expression, but couldn’t control the rise in temperature the words caused. “You go that far back then?” he found himself saying calmly, casually. All those years of training have their uses, Napoleon thought and then he heard a police siren, not loud, but distinct. We wouldn’t be able to hear one inside the hall. Was that coming through the speakers? The music had stopped. Kyrill’s eyes flicked to the left and Napoleon turned his head slightly to follow. The sound of the police siren grew louder. The slight, nearly bald man Napoleon saw in the corner of the room was conducting his surveillance a bit too obviously and, unfortunately for him, he wasn’t standing near either of the exits. Napoleon glanced to the right over Dyachenko’s shoulder and found Tommy looking back. Napoleon moved his head and his eyes towards the small man. Tommy dipped his head very slightly and moved in that direction. Dyachenko released Napoleon’s hand. Napoleon looked back at him and said, “It’s been a pleasure meeting you,” then sliced through the crowd, reaching Tommy as his hand closed tightly around the smaller man‘s arm.
“Please come with us, sir,” Tommy said politely, but his fingers gripped the other man’s arm more firmly. The man grew pale as he nodded and went with them quietly towards the staff exit.
*****************
“Seems your tip was a good one,” Patrick said at the station later, “although we didn’t find any weapons on him.” Napoleon glanced up from putting his communicator back in his pocket. “We searched in some unusual places, in addition to the usual ones,” Patrick responded. “Playing with you guys for this long, we’ve picked up on a few of your tricks.”
“Glad to be of service,” Napoleon replied smoothly, smiling at the man relaxing behind his desk. Patrick oversaw one of the busiest police districts in the world without getting ruffled. He could have been an enforcement agent, Napoleon thought. Well, he is. He could have been an UNCLE enforcement agent, Napoleon amended. “So what are you holding him on?” Napoleon asked.
“When we ran his photo and prints, turned out he’s wanted in quite a few other countries for a fairly wide range of offences, but the fellows at the Soviet consulate get priority,” Patrick answered.
“Diplomatic immunity?” Napoleon asked.
“Despite the very polite words used, it wasn’t the impression I got,” Patrick said. He looked over Napoleon’s shoulder as the door opened. “Ah, Tommy, is that the file?”
“Yes, sir,” Tommy replied and smiled at Napoleon. “That was a bit of luck that I happened to be checking on your location just when you wanted to get my attention.”
“Oh, Napoleon’s luck is legendary,” Patrick replied, taking the file from Tommy, leafing through it and setting it on the desk in front of Napoleon. “Have a look.”
Napoleon was still looking up at Tommy. “Good instincts,” he said to him and then looked over at Patrick. “It’s what all your men have,” he said.
“Don’t try to smooth talk me, Napoleon,” Patrick chuckled. “I’m still counting it as a favour returned.” He walked to the door with Tommy, “Go on home; your shift’s well over and your wife will be worrying about you.” Tommy exchanged a glance with Napoleon.
Napoleon scanned the entries in the file. Korsakov had studied at the University of Georgia, but not graduated. Soviet Navy, communications; civil service. “Yeah,” Napoleon snorted. He looked over at Patrick when he sat back down. “I’m surprised you got some of this.”
Patrick smiled. “You’re not my only source, Napoleon.”
“No, no, I suppose not,” Napoleon acknowledged, pushing the file back towards Patrick and rising. “I guess I’ll call it a night, then.” He reached across the desk for Patrick’s hand.
Patrick stood as he took it. “You know, I almost thought you just wanted to listen to the music.”
“But not quite?”
“No, not quite.” Patrick’s phone rang. “Excuse me, Napoleon.”
“’’Til next time, Patrick,” Napoleon said, turning towards the door.
“”Til then, take care of yourself, Napoleon,” Patrick replied and picked up his phone.
*****************
Napoleon lay on his bed tracking the shadows cast by the traffic light that was swaying in the wind. It was going to rain soon; he could smell it in the cool air coming through the couple inches of open window. Maybe a thunder and lightening storm, there was electricity in the air. Or maybe the electricity was just in him; something flickering along his nerves, something he couldn’t pin down. He got up and stepped into the bow of the bedroom windows, scanning the horizon over the top of the trees in the park. There was a flash far in the distance. He nodded to himself. That must be it, storms always made him restless. He allowed himself to check the bow windows of the next building, Illya’s windows. They were still dark. I’ve been waiting to see his lights being turned on, haven’t I? Napoleon looked at his open drapes accusingly, glanced down at his watch and sighed. 3:21 am. Illya wasn’t coming back tonight. It wasn’t just the stubbornly dark windows. He could feel it.
Napoleon undid his belt and took off the tie which was still loose around his neck and lay back down on the bed in the rest of his clothes. He watched the faintly red, green and yellow shadows appear on his ceiling as the wind whirled along the street, bouncing the traffic lights about wildly.
***************
Part III may be found here.
Rating: PG-13
Disclaimer: I don't own MUNCLE and no money is being made.
utopiantrunks has devoted a lot of patience to getting me as far as this with this story.Excerpt:
Napoleon was smiling sweetly at the receptionist while she unclipped his badge when she asked, "Did Illya give you the message from Veronica?"
The smile wavered an instant before Napoleon brought it back to the proper magnitude and asked casually, "When did you give it to him? I haven't seen him all afternoon."
"Right after lunch," Lily answered, gazing directly into Napoleon's eyes. "He was headed for that meeting you both had with Section Three." She paused and her eyes dropped to the desk calendar. "It got postponed until Monday at the last minute..."
****************
Napoleon was smiling sweetly at the receptionist while she unclipped his badge when she asked, "Did Illya give you the message from Veronica?"
The smile wavered an instant before Napoleon brought it back to the proper magnitude and asked casually, "When did you give it to him? I haven't seen him all afternoon."
"Right after lunch," Lily answered, gazing directly into Napoleon's eyes. "He was headed for that meeting you both had with Section Three." She paused and her eyes dropped to the desk calendar. "It got postponed until Monday at the last minute..."
"You don't happen to know what the message was?" Napoleon ventured, his smile on the playful side for the moment. "Or what time Illya left?"
"Of course I do, on both counts," Lily replied, sitting up straighter. "I took the telephone call and," she flipped back a page in her roster, "Illya left a half hour ago."
"Ah."
"Veronica said she was sorry she couldn't see you again this weekend, but as soon as she gets back next week, she's all yours." Napoleon's smile slipped. "Well, she's one lucky girl, but if you're lonely, Napoleon, I might be free tomorrow night."
"You are a darling, Lily," Napoleon enthused, "But I have to work this weekend and I should have called Veronica to tell her already."
"You were born under a lucky star, Napoleon," Lily smiled. "I can't say how long I can keep my offer open, but if you get your work done and want to see if your luck is holding out, give me a call."
"You are more than a darling, Lily," Napoleon affirmed, leaning over the desk to give her cheek a light kiss. "You are an angel."
Lily shook her head in amusement as the door closed after Napoleon. "No one could hold onto that man," she murmured to herself.
Napoleon drove directly to Illya's apartment building and parked across the street between the glow of two street lamps. Within minutes Illya emerged in evening dress and hailed a taxi. When it pulled away from the curb, Napoleon pulled out after it.
Fifteen minutes later, he was parked across the street from The Algonquin Hotel watching Illya disappear into the lobby. "Lily might be right about my lucky stars," Napoleon mumbled, turning off the car. "Two parking spots in midtown Manhattan within a quarter hour." He sighed and settled in to wait. Twenty minutes later a Lincoln drew up in front of the hotel without discharging any passengers. Napoleon watched the doorman lean in the passenger side window and then head into the lobby. A minute later he returned and spoke to the driver who pulled the car forward half a car length allowing a taxi to pull up in front of the hotel. Napoleon kept his eyes on the glass doors and they finally disgorged Illya...and two female companions, a blonde and a redhead, with upswept hair, in black gowns of a distinctly Parisian cut and very sparse jewellery which nevertheless managed to twinkle at him between the passing cars. "Wow," Napoleon exclaimed for the second time that day.
He noted that Illya held the gloved hand of his blonde companion as she slid into the backseat and turned to the redhead. The Lincoln obscured part of his view, but something transpired so that Illya got in next. The driver had come around to the sidewalk and helped the second lady in and closed the door. "I'm not sure if I'm more jealous of them or him," Napoleon grumbled, as he put his car in gear and took up his sedate pursuit once more.
At the fourth stop light, Napoleon murmured, "The wife! The blonde one is the conductor's wife." He reached for the open magazine on the seat and flipped a couple pages. The light turned green and he switched his attention to the street. After five consecutive green lights, he was stopped again two cars behind the Lincoln. He turned on the inside light and looked at the photo near the end of the article. "Dyachenko's librettist and wife, Daria," he read aloud, then switched off the light. "Children of emigrees Illya met in Paris?" he pondered, "Friends from earlier in his life who have defected or people he knew from his professional life in the Soviet Union?" The light turned and he made it across the intersection before coming to a stop again. "The other one is familiar, too, but not from this article," he mused out loud. The traffic lurched forward and kept going. There wasn't another halt until they both arrived at Carnegie Hall. The Lincoln double parked for a moment and Illya's first companion emerged as Napoleon glided past as slowly as he could without causing someone to honk at him. In his rear view mirror he caught a glimpse of a familiar blond head above the roof of the Lincoln before he turned the corner in search of one of the nearby parking garages.
***********
Napoleon returned to the concert hall entrance as rapidly as he could, but all the doors were closed except one and an usher was checking each person's ticket as they passed through it. Napoleon took a step in that direction, stopped and shook his head. Even his considerable charm was not going to work in this situation. Napoleon turned to the curb and slipped into a cab which had just discharged two bejewelled ladies and an elderly gentleman. He gave his address and headed home. The traffic was with him and he tipped the cabbie for that. The man had almost smiled in return. Eschewing the elevator, Napoleon took his stairs two at a time and was dialling his friend at NYPD who owed him a couple favours almost before his door had slammed shut.
"Napoleon, I hadn't taken you for a classical music fan," Patrick chuckled. "It's a little late though. You'll miss the first half."
"I hadn't even heard of this man before today," Napoleon protested, the sincerity of that statement clearly audible.
Patrick paused. "So there's really a possible threat to this guy?"
"It's only a tip and I'm not so sure it's a reliable one, but, you know, Soviet and all that..."
"Mmm. I think he‘s a French citizen now."
Napoleon took note. "Could be some crackpot objecting on political grounds or someone jealous of his success, or maybe nothing at all," Napoleon continued, "But I didn't feel comfortable dismissing it out of hand."
"No, no, I take your point. Look, I've got a few guys there anyway because half of political New York decided to attend. The governor's not there, but just about everyone else is, including the Mayor and the Lieutenant Governor. If you want to keep an eye out as well, Napoleon, whatever your reasons, it's okay by me. I'll call over and they'll expect you. All our guys are plainclothes, you know, tuxedos. Listen though, I'm still considering this one favour returned," Patrick finished.
"Understood," Napoleon replied. "And Patrick, I appreciate it."
"No problem. You'd do the same for me, Napoleon."
**************
Twenty minutes later, Napoleon was back on the pavement outside his apartment searching for a taxi. "The traffic gods are still on my side," Napoleon thought as one pulled up a minute or two later.
Back at Carnegie Hall he went around to the stage entrance and was met by one of Patrick's senior officers, Danny Murphy. "The first half is almost over," he warned Napoleon. "Try to get to the top before they come out for the intermission. Tommy's up there, too. He knows you're coming."
Napoleon smiled his thanks and headed towards the 105 steps to the uppermost balcony. He started to hear applause on the first landing, even through the doors. People had begun to trickle out when he reached the highest balcony doors. He slipped in and edged down the steps at the far end to the front of the balcony and raised his opera glasses. Almost the first people he saw as he scanned the tiers of boxes across the auditorium were Illya and his two companions. They do make a striking little group, Napoleon thought grimly as he observed Daria whisper something in Illya's ear which brought out his conspiratorial smile. The redhead whispered something on the other side. Or is she lightly kissing his ear? Napoleon wondered.
"Oh, my God," Napoleon mumbled. Illya had lifted the redhead's hand, undone the glove button at the inside of her wrist and raised the exposed skin to his lips, all the while looking over her hand at her. "No!" Napoleon whispered incredulously. Daria was kissing Illya's ear while he was kissing the redhead's wrist. Illya lowered the redhead's wrist onto his lap and turned to Daria and said something, lowering his eyelids as he did so. Napoleon couldn't lip read it, but thought it was Russian. Using his other hand, Illya raised Daria's hand and did the same thing. "Is he still holding the redhead's hand?" Napoleon asked himself. His opera glasses were among UNCLE's finest and the high resolution combined with the lights which were now up in the hall allowed him to see how the games they were playing were flushing the delicate complexions of all three. Mine's probably rather rosy right now, too, Napoleon thought and shifted his stance slightly to relieve his discomfort.
"I've never seen Illya flirt like this," Napoleon muttered. Women enough mooning over him and even throwing themselves at him, but most of the time he turns away as though he can't be bothered. I've assumed he doesn't know how to play these games, haven't I? The redhead had turned further in her seat towards Illya and was trailing one black gloved finger down his cheek to bring his attention back to her. Illya leaned back in his chair laughing and said something that made them both laugh, too. They know one another well. Biblically even. Napoleon frowned. And they look eager to get reacquainted. Napoleon's eyes widened. "Not both at once!" he muttered. Daria leaned across Illya to whisper something to the redhead. Napoleon couldn't be sure from his angle but he suspected from the way she smiled and moved her head that Illya had decided to return the favour and kiss her ear since it was right in front of him.
The house lights flickered and the people who had left their seats were returning. Napoleon moved back towards the wall, stooping to pick up a programme from the floor, grateful that the music would begin soon. That doesn't mean they'll stop their games. He almost cursed aloud in Russian having learned so many colourful phrases from Illya, but controlled himself since in New York there was bound to be someone within earshot who understood the language.
The members of the orchestra were filing back onto the stage. Napoleon focussed on them for a while to distract his mind from the tableau vivant across the auditorium. He didn't find the musicians a very visually diverting group, being comprised mostly of men past their first, and second, youth. The harpist emerged, a woman of matronly proportions and finally, two young women with violins, one blonde, the other brunette. Napoleon tried to interest himself in them as they took their seats and adjusted their instruments, but his mind would not engage. Sighing, he lifted the opera glasses again and saw the friendly trio leaning forwards, their heads almost touching as they turned towards the stage. Applause began and they joined in, smiles wreathing their faces and small groups of words causing their lips to open and close in eminently kissable configurations. The way they were sitting convinced Napoleon that their thighs were probably touching and he didn't want to think where hands might go when they were no longer occupied with clapping.
Resignedly, Napoleon turned towards the stage in time to see the conductor cross to the podium. The volume of the applause increased until Kyrill raised his baton. The first sweet notes of a lone flute floated up from the stage. Napoleon glanced down at the programme and confirmed that it was Prelude L'Apres-midi d'un Faune. He'd had a pleasingly amorous evening after taking a young lady to that ballet a couple years previously. He smiled fondly in remembrance, then checked the subjects across the auditorium through the opera glasses. "Shouldn't have done that," Napoleon murmured to himself after seeing Illya smooth a strand of hair behind the redhead's ear. He returned to his contemplation of Kyrill, whose face only came partially into view when he turned towards his right. Napoleon observed the other musicians instead; noting how they took in the score on the stands in front of them, but always had the conductor in their range of vision. Being the centre of that much concentration day after day must be very gratifying. Must help sustain quite an ego, too.
The dreamy nature of the piece lent itself to reflection and kept Napoleon away from his opera glasses until the applause broke his reverie. Then he looked over once more and watched them clap and exchange smiling remarks. Napoleon sighed as Daria paused in her clapping to brush her fingers through Illya's fringe. This isn't getting any better. Isn't she the conductor's wife? And the conductor is writing love songs for Illya. Hmm. There is a lot I don't know about Illya's past. I wonder how many other old flames he has? He looked down at the stage as the conductor bowed again, then motioned for the orchestra to stand. I hope there aren't too many more like these. Napoleon perused his programme to see what had been played during the first half of the concert.
A concert grand piano had been rolled into place to the left of the podium and a tall man with abundant brown hair bowed and then seated himself at it. Napoleon peered at him, then used his glasses to take a closer look. His eyebrows went up and he checked the programme again. Van Cliburn. He'd missed that detail in his quick scan of the article and Slate hadn't mentioned it. Kyrill raised his baton and silence reigned until a ripple of notes from a clarinet introduced the next piece. Napoleon smiled to himself. He'd always liked Rhapsody in Blue. He felt an impulse to share his pleasure at hearing it performed live with Illya next time they spoke and then thought that it might be best if he didn’t divulge that he’d attended this concert. He sighed again and took a chance on checking on Illya. His head was swaying slightly with the music, his eyes were closed and an appreciative smile played on his lips. I want to be seated with you, Illya. Perhaps I can get to like your old friends...I wonder if they would like me?
The rousing finale of Rhapsody in Blue was followed by equally rousing applause. Must do a performer good to hear that, Napoleon thought as he tucked his programme under his arm and added his enthusiasm to the swell of sound around him. Bows and waves followed, the orchestra stood, the conductor and pianist exited and returned, sending kisses to the balconies and bowing hand in hand. The pianist was only a little taller than Kyrill. Another tall one. They left the stage together, then returned once more. The audience would not stop. They had gotten to their feet and continued with even more verve. They want an encore. Let's see if they succeed.
Kyrill returned alone. He made a gesture to the orchestra and scores were shuffled on music stands. The piano was rolled to the edge of the stage and the orchestra's chairs were rearranged. The audience clapped its approval of these preparations. Napoleon overheard a woman standing nearby say, "Oh, Harry. Maybe he'll play it." Kyrill raised his baton and the audience sat down.
The hush was so complete, Napoleon wondered whether people were holding their breath. Like the previous two pieces, it opened with a sole woodwind, a bassoon this time, crying into the silence. Napoleon felt an ache in his chest as though the wish he had just expressed to himself about sitting with Illya tonight had been magnified a hundredfold, and suppressing the urge to call out to him was almost physically painful. The violins entered and the wailing bassoon subsided. Napoleon leaned up against the wall, his eyes stinging and his heart pounding.
There were deeper strings now, some brass, the timpani underpinning the sound like a heartbeat, then several woodwinds entered together playing a melody against the background of the other instruments. Napoleon closed his eyes and saw Illya coming into Mr Waverly's office for a briefing, opening the door to their office, getting into the car in the morning, blowing open the door of a THRUSH cell to rescue him, leaping over a wall into an open truck with him. Illya in motion, arriving, changing everything around him. Perhaps the music was changing, Napoleon wasn't sure what he could actually hear and what was part of the memories cascading through his mind. Illya raising his eyebrows at him, tilting his head, whispering a direction, explaining a situation, laughing with him, shouting a warning, snorting in derision, wincing in pain, gasping in pleasure. Illya's touch, a strong arm at his back, under his elbow, careful fingers cleaning his wounds, a firm hand patting his shoulder, shoving him out of the way of danger, grabbing his hair, his whole body clasped against him. Illya.
There was a lull in the music. Napoleon opened his eyes. One bassoon filled the void with soft notes unlike the keening which had begun the piece, a gentle trill like fingers trailing down a cheek, across a bared chest. The volume rose gradually, becoming bolder, a request, a plea; then diminishing, a prayer. The only sound now was a faint rhythm from the timpani. He took a deep breath and brought the opera glasses up to his eyes. Illya was leaning with his elbows on the edge of the balcony, his hands one below the other, the fingers loose almost as though he held a clarinet or an oboe, his eyes closed. Illya plays the oboe, doesn't he? Napoleon stood up straighter. The oboe part which was never played, never permitted to be played. There were papers under Illya's elbows, a booklet of some sort. A note sounded, but not from the stage. Napoleon fought an urge to close his eyes. Illya's brow was furrowed, his lips compressed. Napoleon had seen that expression many times. Illya was concentrating. The note held. Napoleon still couldn't judge its point of origin. He lowered the glasses. Glancing about him he saw many people turning their heads from side to side, seeking the source of the sound.
Napoleon looked down to the stage. The conductor's left hand was stretched out towards the timpanist and his baton was pointing over his left shoulder. Napoleon followed its trajectory and raised both his eyebrows. He looked back at Kyrill. The baton was arcing slowly clockwise and the sound appeared to be following. Napoleon felt fairly sure it was an oboe. How long could an oboist sustain a note?
He peered at Illya through the glasses. His head had turned slightly left, although his expression remained the same, then his fingers moved and the note changed. Napoleon drew in a breath. The sound was closer to the stage now. He continued to watch Illya and saw his fingers move again just as the solo note dipped. Napoleon shifted his glasses. Daria was staring at the stage; the redhead's eyes were closed and her arm seemed to be on Illya's back. Keeping the glasses to his eyes, Napoleon swung around to the stage and found the woodwind section. The two oboists were sitting with their instruments across their laps. Their eyes were on the conductor. Next to them was an empty chair with a music stand in front of it, an open score upon it. Napoleon lowered the glasses.
Kyrill's baton was in front of him pointing towards the oboe section. His left hand summoned the strings, softly. The sound of the single oboe continued. The notes were shorter now, repeating a motif which Napoleon realised he had heard earlier in the piece, played by other instruments. Then Kyrill altered the direction of his baton and a bassoon began to play. Its notes staccato while the oboe held its sound, then the two instruments switched. Napoleon sagged against the wall. Other woodwinds joined, but the intertwining melodies remained distinct. The strings were playing more loudly, and there were flashes of brass, but the interlocking melodies predominated. Napoleon recalled Illya being pulled by the model into her cabin on the train. He saw Marion Raven arched protectively in front of Illya and Illya chuckling. He saw Illya and Mr Waverly's niece walking away from his car into the rainy night together. Oh, Illya.
The conductor leaned slightly forward, one hand extended to the left, palm downwards as the strings sustained their high faint notes. His other hand stretched forward towards the woodwinds, palm upwards, fingers curled in a beckoning gesture towards the empty seat from whence issued a long, low note like a sigh. His left index finger jabbed in the direction of the harpist and then descended sharply. The harpist plucked three high notes, then held her hands to either side of her instrument. The string players lifted their bows an inch above their strings. The conductor drew his right hand lower and closer to his chest. The long, low note descended further, growing fainter. Kyrill made a grabbing motion with his right hand and all sound stopped. He remained leaning forward over the podium. His eyes shut and he brought his closed right hand to his lips as his left hand swung very slowly to his side. The string players lowered their bows and the harpist's hands settled onto her lap.
There was no movement in the hall. The usual rustling of garments and programmes, coughs and murmured commentary were held in abeyance as though they had not yet received their cue. Napoleon's glance strayed from the back of the conductor to the faces of the other musicians whose gazes remained fixed on Kyrill. He watched Kyrill straighten, and with a toss of the head to remove his long hair from his face, pivot towards the audience. Kyrill tilted his head slightly upwards, turned to his right and swept his gaze around the hall. For the briefest instant he appeared to be looking directly at Napoleon and then his head had reached the point in the arc where Illya sat with his beautiful companions and a smile touched Kyrill's lips. His regard returned to centre and he bowed deeply. One pair of hands were brought together before any others and broke the enchantment. The applause rose like a flock of startled birds and the people rose to their feet with it. There were shouts of Bravo and Bravi and the folks who usually feel compelled to run to their cars while others applaud, forbore, or perhaps their compulsion was overridden for once. Kyrill bowed again and the clapping increased in fervour. He turned to his orchestra and gestured for them all to stand. The audience put more effort into conveying their feelings and the members of the orchestra smiled back at them, shyly at first, and then with more confidence as they focussed on the joyous expressions of those in the nearest rows.
Napoleon put his opera glasses up to his eyes and sought out Illya. He was sitting very straight; his head listing further back than the line of his shoulders. His eyes were still closed. Both women were smiling softly at Kyrill. Napoleon caught them exchange a glance with one another and then turn to look at the man between them. Napoleon noticed that they were both pressed up against Illya's sides almost as if they were supporting him. The redhead turned further and kissed his temple. There was a slight movement and Napoleon realised that her arm was extended behind Illya and her right hand was resting on his right shoulder, the black of her glove nearly invisible against his evening jacket. They appeared to be the only people other than himself who were not applauding. The blonde reached out with one hand for the open booklet resting in front of Illya. Napoleon supposed that her other hand was around Illya's waist. As she flipped the cover closed, Napoleon saw that it was a musical score. He lowered the glasses, but continued staring at the trio across from him.
"Harry, that was the best anniversary present ever." Napoleon glanced at the speaker.
"I didn't know they'd play that piece tonight, Angela," Harry replied.
"No, of course, you couldn't have, but you took a chance. You took a chance and won," Angela countered. "Just like I did," she said and kissed him. Right there, standing at their seats. Not a peck, Napoleon observed. A real kiss, a long one. Harry's bald pate turned scarlet, but he looked pleased, nevertheless, when Angela finally let go.
Napoleon checked back across the hall and noted that the trio were still in place. He walked down to the front of the balcony as people started to head for the exits in a leisurely manner. Many people remained standing in place, however, and as he surveyed all of the hall he could see from his vantage, Napoleon noticed that many were embracing. He heard laughter and some people appeared to be wiping their eyes. He looked more carefully at those heading up the aisles and noticed how many had linked arms or flung arms around the backs of their companions. I would have done that if Illya and I had come here together. Napoleon sat down in a vacant seat, leaned his elbow on the balcony and rested his head against his hand.
Finally, the trio prepared to leave. The women got up first and bent towards Illya as though to encourage him. Napoleon's back stiffened and he took up the glasses. Illya seemed dazed. Napoleon hadn't seen Illya eat or drink since he'd arrived, but drugs occurred to him. The redhead leaned over Illya, held his head against her breast for a moment and then took his hand, kissed the palm and placed it on her cheek. This seemed to revive Illya. He looked up at his solicitous companion and smiled, wearily. Napoleon relaxed a bit. I've seen that weary look, too, but after a couple days without sleep. Napoleon headed for the doors and down the stairs as fast as the throng of slowly moving concertgoers would allow.
At the stage entrance, he asked Danny, "Did the conductor leave yet?"
"No. His wife and a pretty friend and your partner left a minute ago, but there's a reception here that the conductor will be attending. You guys get quite the undercover assignments, don't you? Your partner looked well looked after."
"Of course, we have to make it appear convincing," Napoleon smiled. "Where's this reception then?"
Danny waved his arm towards a tall, dark-haired man. "Here's Tommy. He and Sean are covering the reception; he'll take you along with 'im. Have fun."
As he and Tommy navigated their way to the reception rooms, Napoleon asked, "How’d you like the concert?"
Tommy ran a hand over his face and turned to Napoleon. "The music was fine, though I prefer opera." His shoulders sagged. "During that last piece, I kept thinking of Maureen. We thought we'd get married when I returned from Korea." He gazed off to the right and his voice sounded as though he were speaking to himself. "Three weeks after I got back she was dead - pneumonia, twenty years old. Us guys, going off to war, we were expecting we might not come back, but you don't expect a girl to die."
Napoleon laid his hand on the other man's back. "I'm sorry."
Tommy shook his head slowly. "Ten years now. I don't think about it very often any more. It's odd...tonight...it was like she was here with me...and then I was at that damned hospital again...her fingers were so cold the last time she held my hand." He shook his head once more. "Really odd." He pushed open a door. "Here we are." Tommy turned to Napoleon, his face reddening, "Thanks, you know..."
Napoleon patted his back once, "Yes, I do." Tommy headed towards the right side of the reception area and Napoleon decided he would make his preliminary observations from amidst the throng by the bar. Seems I'm not the only unsettled one tonight.
**************
The reception room was suitable for about two hundred people, Napoleon estimated. Guests were still coming in from the double doors off the main stairway, on the opposite wall from the service entrance that he and Tommy had used. Napoleon accepted a gin and tonic from the barman, took a few steps back towards the side of the bar and watched the group around the conductor. Dyachenko’s height made him easy to spot in a crowd and Napoleon admitted that his body language, as he made introductions and had people introduced to him, was commanding. Accustomed to having people follow his lead, Napoleon thought. And he likes to touch. Napoleon couldn’t see the handshakes, but the motion of Kyrill’s upper arms indicated that they were often two-handed. Napoleon noted how often Dyachenko’s hand was laid on a shoulder or an upper arm, and yet it seemed different from the tactics of a politician. In exactly what way he wasn’t yet sure. Napoleon finished his drink, left the glass on the edge of the bar and made his way over to the group around Dyachenko.
He waited patiently as the people closer to the conductor spoke with him. Many had heard him perform in Europe and their remarks were delivered in a tone very similar to Mark’s, but what several of them said to the conductor was different. Impressions similar to what Tommy had described as they walked over to the reception together were shared with the conductor. Many leaned in closer than was typical in a formal setting, closer than necessary to hear through the background babble in the large room. He’s listening to them, Napoleon realised. That’s what’s different. If only for a moment, he’s hearing them and they seem to know it.
A short man directly in front of Napoleon started speaking to Dyachenko; someone behind Napoleon jostled him and apologised. Napoleon caught himself from pushing the man before him, only brushing against him slightly. The music started. Napoleon glanced towards the corners of the room to see where the speakers were. He had been surprised that there wasn’t any background music playing for the reception before. Must have had a fault with the sound system, he thought. He noticed Dyachenko close his eyes for a moment as he shook the shorter man’s hand and held it. Napoleon tensed and leaned forward. An assault was not out of the question, it’s why his excuse to Patrick had been so plausible. Dyachenko opened his eyes, a small smile on his face. Napoleon drew back. Dyachenko turned to a tall, pale man just behind him whom he called Antonin and spoke softly to him in rapid Russian. Antonin nodded, extended his arm towards the shorter man and led him away from the group. Napoleon was fairly sure Antonin was the first violinist. He turned from observing the interaction to meet Dyachenko’s regard. His eyes were a deep blue, their colour accentuated by the darkness of the thick lashes and brows around and above them. Mesmerising was the word Mark had used. Napoleon felt it was apt. He offered his hand and Dyachenko took it. Napoleon didn’t recall exactly what form of greeting he used, but Illya’s voice telling him that Dychenko had written Third for him echoed in his memory as he grasped the conductor’s hand.
“We were students at university then,” Kyrill said quietly, looking with empathy directly into Napoleon‘s eyes.
Napoleon schooled his expression, but couldn’t control the rise in temperature the words caused. “You go that far back then?” he found himself saying calmly, casually. All those years of training have their uses, Napoleon thought and then he heard a police siren, not loud, but distinct. We wouldn’t be able to hear one inside the hall. Was that coming through the speakers? The music had stopped. Kyrill’s eyes flicked to the left and Napoleon turned his head slightly to follow. The sound of the police siren grew louder. The slight, nearly bald man Napoleon saw in the corner of the room was conducting his surveillance a bit too obviously and, unfortunately for him, he wasn’t standing near either of the exits. Napoleon glanced to the right over Dyachenko’s shoulder and found Tommy looking back. Napoleon moved his head and his eyes towards the small man. Tommy dipped his head very slightly and moved in that direction. Dyachenko released Napoleon’s hand. Napoleon looked back at him and said, “It’s been a pleasure meeting you,” then sliced through the crowd, reaching Tommy as his hand closed tightly around the smaller man‘s arm.
“Please come with us, sir,” Tommy said politely, but his fingers gripped the other man’s arm more firmly. The man grew pale as he nodded and went with them quietly towards the staff exit.
*****************
“Seems your tip was a good one,” Patrick said at the station later, “although we didn’t find any weapons on him.” Napoleon glanced up from putting his communicator back in his pocket. “We searched in some unusual places, in addition to the usual ones,” Patrick responded. “Playing with you guys for this long, we’ve picked up on a few of your tricks.”
“Glad to be of service,” Napoleon replied smoothly, smiling at the man relaxing behind his desk. Patrick oversaw one of the busiest police districts in the world without getting ruffled. He could have been an enforcement agent, Napoleon thought. Well, he is. He could have been an UNCLE enforcement agent, Napoleon amended. “So what are you holding him on?” Napoleon asked.
“When we ran his photo and prints, turned out he’s wanted in quite a few other countries for a fairly wide range of offences, but the fellows at the Soviet consulate get priority,” Patrick answered.
“Diplomatic immunity?” Napoleon asked.
“Despite the very polite words used, it wasn’t the impression I got,” Patrick said. He looked over Napoleon’s shoulder as the door opened. “Ah, Tommy, is that the file?”
“Yes, sir,” Tommy replied and smiled at Napoleon. “That was a bit of luck that I happened to be checking on your location just when you wanted to get my attention.”
“Oh, Napoleon’s luck is legendary,” Patrick replied, taking the file from Tommy, leafing through it and setting it on the desk in front of Napoleon. “Have a look.”
Napoleon was still looking up at Tommy. “Good instincts,” he said to him and then looked over at Patrick. “It’s what all your men have,” he said.
“Don’t try to smooth talk me, Napoleon,” Patrick chuckled. “I’m still counting it as a favour returned.” He walked to the door with Tommy, “Go on home; your shift’s well over and your wife will be worrying about you.” Tommy exchanged a glance with Napoleon.
Napoleon scanned the entries in the file. Korsakov had studied at the University of Georgia, but not graduated. Soviet Navy, communications; civil service. “Yeah,” Napoleon snorted. He looked over at Patrick when he sat back down. “I’m surprised you got some of this.”
Patrick smiled. “You’re not my only source, Napoleon.”
“No, no, I suppose not,” Napoleon acknowledged, pushing the file back towards Patrick and rising. “I guess I’ll call it a night, then.” He reached across the desk for Patrick’s hand.
Patrick stood as he took it. “You know, I almost thought you just wanted to listen to the music.”
“But not quite?”
“No, not quite.” Patrick’s phone rang. “Excuse me, Napoleon.”
“’’Til next time, Patrick,” Napoleon said, turning towards the door.
“”Til then, take care of yourself, Napoleon,” Patrick replied and picked up his phone.
*****************
Napoleon lay on his bed tracking the shadows cast by the traffic light that was swaying in the wind. It was going to rain soon; he could smell it in the cool air coming through the couple inches of open window. Maybe a thunder and lightening storm, there was electricity in the air. Or maybe the electricity was just in him; something flickering along his nerves, something he couldn’t pin down. He got up and stepped into the bow of the bedroom windows, scanning the horizon over the top of the trees in the park. There was a flash far in the distance. He nodded to himself. That must be it, storms always made him restless. He allowed himself to check the bow windows of the next building, Illya’s windows. They were still dark. I’ve been waiting to see his lights being turned on, haven’t I? Napoleon looked at his open drapes accusingly, glanced down at his watch and sighed. 3:21 am. Illya wasn’t coming back tonight. It wasn’t just the stubbornly dark windows. He could feel it.
Napoleon undid his belt and took off the tie which was still loose around his neck and lay back down on the bed in the rest of his clothes. He watched the faintly red, green and yellow shadows appear on his ceiling as the wind whirled along the street, bouncing the traffic lights about wildly.
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Part III may be found here.