Chapter Twenty-Two : Wild World

Rated: PG

The concourse is filled with tiny shops. Most of then are tourist frivolities - quite useless - but one by its sign claims to be a bookstore. Rather small. No matter. Even a good magazine stand might help. I turn to Napoleon. "You buy the tickets. I need to do some research."

I was right. A good magazine stand is closer to what this is. Most of the shelves hold pulp romances in a range of languages. That, and dubious English pot-boilers. No matter. In the history section I find several works of interest.

Picking up what I need, I pay the clerk and catch up with Napoleon at the ticket desk. "London?" I ask, glancing down at the tickets in his hand.

"Next flight out," he answers, "and we both had friends there."

True. Although time is more the question. Old Survival School lesson. The quicker we move, the better our chances. As it is, we  make this flight with only a few more seconds to spare then our last. No problem. This plane is far less crowded, and with a few words to the stewardess Napoleon secures our preferred seats.

We are in the air before he takes notice of my purchases. "What did you get? Roman murder mysteries?"

I hold up a paperback titled - Sword and Fire - My Life in the KGB in Peace and War.  It was a shock to see such a thing, but I am desperate for answers. Not yet  desperate enough to want the truth on every airport counter - but just now even pravda will help.

Napoleon grins and snatches the book from my hand.

"What are you...?" I start.

"What I always do with histories." He grins and rifles the pages. "Checking the back to see if anyone I know is in there. Kassourny. Kochova, ah. Kuryakin. Page 327."

"It cannot be...."

"Dr. Illya Kuryakin joined me in October at the base in....."

"What?" My voice rises despite myself. "That is classified." I reach for the volume but he moves it out of range.

"Not any more." He reads quickly down the page. "I didn't know you were with the atomic program."

I crane over his shoulder to see a picture of a very young blond in a lab coat standing before a chalk board, surrounded by several older men in uniform. It takes  a moment for me to recognize myself. Was I ever that young? I do not remember being so, although I remember the room and the occasion.

When I sit back, Napoleon continues. "Makes sense. Your degree in physics and all that." I hold out my hand, and he wisely surrenders the book. "So that's where you got your bomb-building skills?"

I *look* at him. "Explosives are explosives - and I am *still* not talking about it."

"No need." He gives my an intolerably smug smile. " But now I know why Research  was so hostile when Waverly tagged you."

Annoying man. He never could tolerate mystery. In our profession that can be a blessing - and a curse. Just now, I would tend towards curse.

"Here - read your own book!" I hand him one of my other purchases. Ghost War - Special Forces in Korea. Hopefully that will bring some discretion.

"Hey!" He takes the book and again flips to the back. "Colonel Morgan is in here. I wonder if he mentions me. We were together at Hyesan."

"Please." Taking my own book, I turn carefully to the introduction. "Spare me the sordid details of your military adventures."

I have a bit of peace while he scans through this volume ,sporadically reciting a name or location that brings back some memory. Ocassionally he checks over my shoulder for anything I may have found interesting. For the most part I ignore him. I am too busy calculating the damage in my own volume. No time for a through review. I  am reduced to Napoleon's technique of scanning the back for clues. Fortunately, I find none of the *truly* sensitive names I know. Small blessing, but just now I will take what mercies there are.

*********

When the stewardess arrives with the drink cart we tuck away our respective books. Not that they were not on public display, but still...we can finish them later.

"Anything for you?" She smiles at Napoleon.

"Yes, Vodka," I answer. It is still early, but I have earned it.

"Scotch." Napoleon looks up. "Double." He hands her a bill in exchange for the little bottles, then waves off the change. So. Despite his bonhomie Napoleon is not enjoying his little cruise down memory lane. Not that one could tell from his expression - but one never can. Not even from his eyes. Annoying in a lover, but  an asset for a spy. He takes a long drink before asking. " Any other little revelations in your bag?"

I give him his choice. The Time/Life Review of the Twentieth Century, or The New York Times European Edition. Lighter, but enough for now. Napoleon, being Napoleon, chooses the pictures.

I am in the middle of an interesting article on EU produce standards when Napoleon sits up, shocked. "Illya. They outlawed flirting!"

"What?" I look over at him. "I do not believe that is possible."

"Here." He folds open the pages and hands it to me. "Look!"

I skim the page. Napoleon is right. There is a long article about someone named Clarence Thomas, who apparently ended up in court for offering some woman a soda.

Napasha drops back into his seat. "I could be in a lot of trouble!"

I flip through the pages. This story is part of a whole section titled 'Sexual Politics'. No wonder Napoleon read this part first. I am about to hand it back when another page catches my eye. Something about San Francisco and Pride? I scan down. No. Even in the moral decay of America, that could never be possible. But...? "Perhaps you can flirt with me?"

"I wish."

"Do you?" I hand him the article. "If we are ever assigned to California, perhaps it is you who will be in the trouble."

"Who ever said I minded trouble?" is his automatic response. Then he reads the page. And re-reads it. Carefully.  "Do you think?"

"In New York?" My tone is answer enough. "Do not be ridiculous." Although in the Village...I put the question from my mind. Some things are too dangerous even to dream about. Certainly not safe to discuss where there are ears. "I am going to sleep. Wake me when we are about to land."

*****************

"We're landing." Those are the first words I hear. Napoleon has let me sleep, and I feel much better for the rest. Hungry, perhaps, but better. We say nothing more as we go through the landing ritual.

Heathrow is more crowded then I remember, but the layout is the same. We find a quiet bar and reconnoiter. A trouser clad waitress brings our drinks and leaves us alone.

"Should we try for New York?"I ask.

Napoleon considers as he sips his Scotch."It seems the only option left."

"They will likely know we are coming."

"Yes." He looks down at his drink.

"Perhaps we should just call April and let her know?"

"Do you still have the number she gave you?" Napoleon asks.

"Naturally." I *never* lose information.

"No." He finishes his drink and puts a bill under the glass. "I am beginning to trust, but still - let's try and surprise them."

***********

I wait in the lobby and watch. Napoleon checks the overhead monitor then targets a ticket desk. One marked Executive Service Only. A pretty red-head is alone behind the counter. "Hello beautiful." Even from here I can feel the charm. His charisma is at top voltage. "What is your next best flight to New York?"

She does not even resist before she crumbles. "On the Concorde? I think that's full, but.. perhaps ..."

An even flashier brunette cuts in. "No. It's not. We just took three cancellations." She throws her shoulders back and hits Napoleon with  a blinding smile. " Lucky for you."

"My lucky day."

The brunette has managed to elbow the redhead aside. "My manager was pashed, because  it was a VIP cancellation."

"How sad.... for him." His voice is a caress.

"I don't mind." By her tone, she was delighted. "He was an old guy. Kelly Robinson? Do you remember him?"

Napoleon recognizes the name, and his smile gets wider. "Tennis player?"

"Used to be. Now he owns some pudding company. Always on TV. But rich?" She makes a gesture of exaggerated hautur. "You better believe it. Still travels to all the games  with his old coach. Big fuss when they flew in last week. Mr. Willis wanted photogs on the way out. But instead they are going over to Berlin. Bad for old Willis. Good for you."

The red-head cuts back in. "Lucy, isn't there a standby list?"

That earns her a look of sisterly contempt. "And he... is standing by."

Napoleon gives the two women another look that has them both blushing.  Soon they are working together to issue the desired tickets. With a final kiss of hands, he is back from his mission.

"Overnight flight."

"I thought you said they had outlawed flirting."

"So I'm a criminal." He waves the ticket envelope. " At least I'm a successful criminal." Which is, in the end, what matters.

He hands me my ticket. I check the departure time and check the airport clock. "Four hours." I reset my watch. "Nearly dinner time. Shall we try for the city?"

"Let's check if there's a decent restaurant nearby."

"I did not pack a suit." In fact, I may now not even own one. Not a fashion item I would truly miss, but few decent places will seat  a man without a tie.

Napoleon pauses. "That shouldn't matter so much at an airport." He turns and heads back to the ticket counter. "Lucy, darling?" He asks the brunette. "Is there a really first rate restaurant in this place? Somewhere I could take someone... important?"

"Why, yes." Her chest gets impossibly bigger. I am amazed her lungs can hold that much pressure. "The Aerosquadron. Or the Stratotower if you really want a splurge."

"Thanks." He gives her a little salute. "We'll have to check it out when I come back.

When he gets back to me he is humming. "Ready for dinner, Illya?"

I give him the *look*. "Now I know why I work in law enforcement."

**********

Napoleon being Napoleon, he inevitably picks the more elaborate choice.  The Stratotower is just that - a tower rising well above the main buildings, with a magnificent view of the runways below. I can remember times I would have been grateful for such a view for other reasons then esthetics. Now they let people up here to drink? Oh brave new world.

The tuxedoed maitre-de sniffs a bit, but does not comment on my attire. Merely waves over a black-gowned woman who shows us to an excellent window table. One with a perfect view of all three runways.

The interior is the traditional splendor of red carpet and white linen. I know Napasha expects a protest, but... my heart is not in it. Not today.

A young man brings us the menus, and tuxedoed woman carries over a wine list. Napoleon hands it back and orders something complicated and French. From the lady's impressed look, it was either an excellent choice or an expensive one. Knowing my partner, more likely both.

I look over the menu. Some new things. Some familiar. Rather a lot of pasta for anyplace that isn't Italian. Although from the dishes, it's somewhat a question just what nationality the chef is striving for.

Napoleon grins at me, anticipating a comment.

"Expensive." It would not do to disappoint him. And I often suspect that half his pleasure in extravagance comes from my complaints.

"Who cares." The young woman has arrived with the wine, and they go through the ritual of cork-sniffing before he lets her pour. " We have more then enough to reach New York."

There is that. I check the other diners. Amazing. At least half them men here are garbed as casually as I am - or more so.

Napasha catches my distraction. "What are you watching?"

"The clothes."

Napoleon follows my glance to one especially outrageous table, where a muscular black man has replaced the traditional neckwear with an endless succession of gold chains. He is surrounded by a flock of young women, and deep in debate with a spectacularly handsome blonde man wearing a well tailored suit. A third man, brunette and intense, ignores them in favor of shredding bread rolls, while the oldest puffs his cigar and views the whole contremps with amused disdain. Whatever the argument, I know who will settle it.

"I told you I would have to burn this tie."

"Burn all of mine too." I offer. "From the looks of things, I will never have to wear a tie again."

"Well, that's something." He raises his wine glass. "To Thursday."

"Thursday." I answer with mine.

Yes, that really is a song title. Merrilee Rush and the Turnabouts. Lousy song - but great title.

Chapter Twenty-Three : Observation from Flight 285

Rated: PG

I read over the description card in the chair pocket. This is amazing. A supersonic aircraft for passenger service. The last time I flew this fast, I wore a helmet. Also a uniform.

Napoleon is asleep in the inside chair. I have the watch. Not that there seems much to be cautious about. The service has been excellent, but at this time of night even the numerous flight attendants have settled in to a sort of watchful waiting.

Not that they were not attentive earlier. Astoundingly attentive for the French.

Our late night meal was almost as elaborate as the previous restaurant, and Napoleon once again had the chance to amuse himself with  a show of labels and corks. Not that he passed up the chance to grumble a bit, but to my taste this bottle was equally as good as the last.

The food was hot, the flat wear heavy, the china light. I can not understand what the passenger in front of us was complaining about. So the plane is a bit narrow? The seats are wide enough.

The stewardess had again wanted the third seat, but this time Napoleon insisted we required it 'For the package'.  Not that there is anything in that package.  It is merely a box he  purchased and had wrapped in brown paper at a stand, then decorated with various stamps and seals.  No matter. Between his serious look and my bureaucratic ID, they were convinced of its irreplaceable fragility. Thus, we and our empty seat were left in peace. That is the only virtue to a capitalist culture. If you pay enough, people will let you get away with nonsense.

After dinner the attendants brought by hot towels. Very nice. Also headphones. There are several good channels of jazz, as well as classical music. Very relaxing. Also more drinks. No charge, but Napoleon insisted on tipping the girl. Apparently against policy. So? She smiled and stammered, but I recall she did not refuse. And afterwards, the service was even better.

By the time the lights dimmed and they came by with pillows and blankets, most of the plane was ready to sleep.

I told Napoleon I would take first watch. He told me to wake him at midpoint.  I will, but not just yet. Not now, in this fragile moment of peace.

Tomorrow we reach New York. What else, I do not know. Perhaps U.N.C.L.E., perhaps...? I do not even know what to dread. Change? My world  has changed before, and I have dealt with it. Loss? I can accept that and go on. I have before. I always have before. But now? I look down at my sleeping partner, then away.

I should prepare. Do something useful. But what? I have checked and rechecked our fellow passengers. After our last encounter, even paranoia is not caution enough. But? From every indication they are an unthreatening bunch. One man seated up front sent up a few flares as he came on. A middle-aged British gentleman in a bowler, whose cane rang a bit too metallic on the entrance way. He has the bland face and unexplained edge that might mark a professional. But the woman with him? Physically good enough, perhaps, but a twenty-something flash willing to wear her lethality as a fashion statement along with her black leather suit. I flatter myself that our foes would hire better.

I have finished my book, and Napoleon's, and every tolerable magazine in the airplane selection. I now know more then I would ever wish to about the follies of this world, an less then I ever imagined about myself. Now I have only to watch. To watch the plane, the crew, and Napoleon.

He lies there. The unasked center of my world. Trusting me. Left to myself, I would let him sleep. Tomorrow will be ...difficult. But I dare not. Napoleon values my care, but he requires my obedience.

Chapter Twenty-Four : The First Hello. The Last Goodbye

Rated: PG

Dedicated to 8R - maker of very fine steel. Illya would have appreciated your art.

Tribute : To Anne Higgins. Yep, these are *those* pictures. Only surviving copies. LOL

"We're landing."

Napoleon wakes me when we start our decent. Enough time to wash up, but not to brood. He knows me too well.

At my insistence he goes first. In the time I take to locate my kit he is back, having somehow managed to shave, brush, and magically restore his suit to the same sharp crispness it had when we boarded for Warsaw. From appearances one would be more inclined to believe he had spent a quiet night in his own apartment, rather then  nearly twenty-four hours in the air. But then -I mentally concede - that is the Solo style.

I shave quickly in the cramped airplane bathroom. Not the best location, but I have been in the air long enough to begin showing shadow - blond as I am - and I have always had a personal quirk about meeting 'interesting' situations well pulled together. Not that I am the slave to the mirror that Napasha can be at times, but life in America has taught me the virtues of a professional appearance. After that, a quick splash of water and and a few runs of the comb make me as neat as possible under the circumstances. For one I am grateful for my current unnaturally  short hair. At least it's care takes little time. And I do not wish to leave my partner alone over-long.

By the time I return he has brought down our cases and stashed them below the window seat. Wise. We may wish to move quickly.

"Welcome to New York Kennedy Airport, local time 10:15 a.m.," the Captain begins.

I listen to his announcements with half an ear. We have no connections to worry about. Still, it may be best to mix with those who do. We wait until the crowd has started , then mingle in. There is a well dressed man in front of us, and we shape our body language to look like we are with him. That is, until he is swept into the embrace of another man waiting at the exit.

Napoleon looks at me, one eyebrow raised.

"Perhaps that is his brother?" I say.

"The man's black."

I shrug. "Stepbrother."

*****

I wait by the exit watching while Napoleon rents another convertible. Green this time. They must be out of red ones. He keeps the keys and tosses me the maps. Naturally.

A smiling young man brings it right up to the sidewalk stand. As he drops our luggage into the trunk I ask Napoleon . "Do you want to drive over to Vermont first?"

"Why?"

I am shocked at the question. "To see your family?"

Napoleon just flips the keys. "If I walk through that dressing room in Del Floria's, and Waverly is sitting in his office, I'll see them at Thanksgiving."

"And if he's not?" I ask.

"Then I won't."

I control my face, but something must show because he stops. "I'm serious, Illya. If this April woman is April Dancer, then she *will* sanction."

"Even you?"

"Especially me." He unlocks the door and motions me to get in. " I would never have tolerated an agent that would not."

*****

Napoleon roars into traffic with his usual flare, heading into the city. I wait until we reach a familiar off ramp, then say, "Turn left here."

Napoleon does so, then looks over. "Where are we going?"

"Shopping," I answer.

"Here I though I was the materialist in this partnership."

"That would depend upon the material."

I give him a few more directions until we pull up in front of a small storefront. This is on what is euphemistically called a 'business' district, by which is implied the same 'lack' of business that provides us with a parking space directly by the door. Twenty minutes left on the meter, which should be enough. I add some change anyway, using the action to cover a careful scan of the neighborhood. Other then the expected pedestrians and bums, the area is quiet. I check out the flyer-covered frontage of 'Omar's Cutlery and Camp Supplies'.  A bit shabbier then I remember, and the place was never a center of culture. I am glad it is still in business.

I head for the door, and after a second Napoleon follows.

Opening the door, I step carefully over the sleeping dog and skirt around a box of cheap hatchets left almost blocking the aisle. The store is dark and shabby and wonderful. Not because of the displays, which are mostly flashy letter openers and fake Swiss Army knives. No, because of what is beneath that display.

Omar is still behind the counter. Thirty years older, perhaps, but still unmistakably Omar. It takes him a moment to place me, but then, "Illya Nickovetch?"

"Glad to see you're still in business."

He looks me over warily. "Likewise, I guess."

"What have you got for me?" When he hesitates, I add "In a knife."

"Knife, eh?" He chews his cigarette a bit, then turns for a box under the back counter. "Hooked up with a new guy. Does good work."

Interesting. Cable Damascus. Flashy pattern, perfect balance. I give it a flip at the target set in the far wall. Steady flight. "Wrist sheath?" I ask as I walk over to retrieve it.

He shrugs. "I can find one."

"This man - does he do boots?"

Omar doesn't bother talking. Just slaps another box on the counter, and goes back to searching through his leather supplies. I check out half a dozen. They are all good. No, excellent. I settle on a nice pair with leaf blades and flat bone handles. Decent flyers. Very nice to grip.

When I put them by the cash register, Omar produces the boot clips unasked. Then the wrist sheath. Very good leather. Thumb safety. Wide straps. I adjust the straps while he is ringing them up. The total is... high... but I do not comment. Good equipment is a necessity.

Napoleon waits until we are back at the car to tease. "Just the thing for the well dressed man about town?"

I smile. "I never leave home without it."

******

Signs pass as we head back towards our accustomed turf. At the most familiar I ask, "Shall we try your apartment? Or mine?"

"Not yet," Napoleon answers. "If it's there, it's dangerous."

"If not?"

"Then it's even more dangerous to be looking."

*********

He cuts across streets a few times. Swerves around a truck. Nearly clips a tourist bus. The usual evasion tactics. Not that we are being followed. It is simply the done thing. But in the end, we arrive where we must.

Napoleon slows the car as we pass the well known address. "This is it." He gestures at the familiar sign. "Del Floria's."

"The shop is still there." I nod, rechecking my tools. Nothing left but to try it out.

***************

Napoleon wishes to go first, but I insist. He is the senior agent, so by definition the better.  According to the book he should cover me. Therefore I enter first, and he strolls in behind me. Convincing enough if one does not know what to look for... although I can not imagine how here that could be the case.

Del Floria's is Del Floria's. A few racks have been moved, but the basic layout is unchanged.

Napoleon stops by a rack of shirts near the dressing room as I go through. Yes, the door is there. I stick my head out the door. "Excuse me? Could you bring me that shirt?"

He grabs the first one to hand and slips in behind me.

"Here." I pull out my knife and use it to flip the door latch.

He locks the dressing room door behind us then follows me through.

The reception desk is there. Unchanged, but...empty. Also dusty. And dark. Only one light in the long ceiling fixtures appears to be working. I slide over to take the point while Napoleon searches the desk. If our badges exist, they will be there. He tries both drawers, then stands up, shaking his head.

I am about to suggest that we risk entry anyway when the side door opens and a young black man in a black suit and dark glasses steps out. He is holding two plastic triangles. Number 11 and number 2. "Were you looking for these?" he asks.

An older man in the same outfit follows behind him. "Mr. Solo. Mr. Kuryakin. We were told you might show up here." I am raising my knife when he signals, and another pair appear behind him. One man, one woman. Both also in black. Under the circumstances, I decide to put it away.

Napoleon looks over at the crew calmly. "You  are?"

"Jones, Chief Control Officer."  The older man holds his hand out for the two triangles - and receives them.

"Your badges, gentlemen. I believe we have the numbers right?" He hands us each one badge - accurately. " I'm afraid this site is used primarily for storage. But you are quite welcome to look around. Escorted, of course."

Napoleon nods at that. "Of course"

"And what will we see?" I ask.

"Whatever you want, I'd imagine."

Well, that is no answer. Still,  to look is more informative then not to look.

I check with Napoleon. He signals yes. We take our badges and, followed by the two silent agents, head off down the hall.

The rooms are still there. Napoleon's office, Mr. Waverly's office, mine. They are there, but they are changed. New old paint. New old furniture. And boxes. Everywhere boxes. And dust. I know that can be manufactured, but... this dust feels real. "May I see my lab?" I ask.

The woman shrugs. Well, at least that is not a refusal. I glance at Napoleon. He nods. Together we make out way past medical to my laboratory.

That, too, is there. Like everywhere else it is dusty and cluttered, but there. Unless? I  head for the workbench and pull out the bottom drawer. Long ago, when I first came to U.N.C.L.E., I had altered that drawer. Is it? Yes. As I reach down and sideways I can feel the release clasp of my hide-a-way. Not that I ever needed it. U.N.C.L.E.  New York was as honest as Waverly had claimed it to be. After the first month, I was even a bit embarrassed at what I had done. I had never stored anything there but a few pictures captured from T.H.R.U.S.H. Now, as I reach in, I can feel the edge of brittle paper. I ease them out.

Yes. I glance down at the clouded membrane. The color has faded, but the scene is still recognizable. I quickly slide the photographs into my pocket. The two guards must observe my actions, but they chose to  ignore them. That done, I turn again to Napoleon and signal, 'What do we do now?'

Before he can answer the senior agent walks in. "Finished, gentlemen?" he asks. From the tone, I doubt it is a question.

"If we are?" Napoleon's voice is dead level, revealing nothing.

"I'd ask you to accompany us."

"If we decline?"

"You are free to go." Mr. Jones gives us a very unconvincing smile. "And you'll never see any of us again."

Napoleon looks at me.

I look at Napoleon.

After a second he signals 'Go along.'

******

Our next stop is vehicle storage. That is as dusty as everywhere else, but far less cluttered. Only two black cars occupy the concrete floor.

The young black agent holds the door as we get in. I try to believe that it is a courtesy. Of course it is. But once we are seated, the doors lock on their own. Then the windows turn opaque. The driver turns to us as the interior partition rises. "Sorry, gentlemen. Security requirements."

Obviously. The only question is whose.

*********

A short ride. Either with good streets or good shocks. Whichever, I can not feel the road or follow the turns. Our destination is another garage. Just as grey, but this time with far less dust. There are several more cars as well. All large. All black.

Our babysitter again goes through the charade of holding the door. Does he think we were planning to camp in the car? Whatever. We have no choice now but to go along.

At Napoleon gesture we follow the young man past the vehicles to a bank of elevators. The driver follows.  He presses his palm to a plaque set in the wall. The door opens and we get in. Only two men now. They are armed, but still. If pushed, we could take them. But why? And where would we run? For now, we must cooperate.

The door opens on a plain looking office hall.

The woman called April Dancer is standing there. "Illya." She beams. "Napoleon, dear." She waves us forward. "I've been waiting."

END CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

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