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The Three Headed Eagle Affair |
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The Three Headed Eagle Affair |
WARNING: Where do
I begin? First: in my universe, Illya Nicovetch Kuryakin's name has been emended/changed/corrected/taken
in vain and he is now called Ilya Nicolaievich Kuryakin. Forgive me, but my
many Russian friends would double over whenever they encountered the canon
version of this name. Second: Be on the lookout for a Mary Sue original character.
Relax folks, she doesn't get to marry either one of our heroes. She doesn't
even get a kiss. However, she is really competent.
PAIRING: Napoleon Solo and Ilya Kuryakin (see Warnings above)
RATING: NC-17
SPOILERS: None to my knowledge, that would meant I stuck to my guns
(canons).
ARCHIVE: Not without my permission.
DISCLAIMERS & SUMMARY: See Author's Notes posted below.
Act Three - Oh, what a tangled web we weave...
UNCLE Archives staff stated almost immediately there was no way for them to
judge the authenticity of the documents contained in the portfolio: stalemate.
Baby-sitting the final stages of a critical lab experiment meant it was nearly
one in the morning before Ilya reached the apartment. He was not surprised
to see Napoleon still awake. Years in the field had made it difficult for
either man to sleep with his partner absent. In many instances, sleeping alone
could be fatal.
Too keyed-up to go to bed, Ilya poured a glass of vodka and ran himself a
bath. He was just slipping into the deliciously hot water when a breeze at
the back of his neck alerted him to the presence of his partner. Instead of
the lascivious gaze he was expecting, Napoleon looked serious, almost alarmed.
"What is it?" Ilya reached for the soap.
"According to what I found out researching those documents, you really are
a prince."
"Please, Polya. I thought you had more sense then that." Ilya did not want
to have this discussion at quarter to two in the morning. In fact, he didn't
want to have it at all.
"What do you remember of your family?" Napoleon sat on the closed lid of the
toilet.
"The usual. Mother, father, an aunt and some cousins-all of them perfectly
ordinary, not a bleeder in the bunch." Ilya said dryly.
"No. There wouldn't have been. Hemophilia was brought into the Imperial family
by Alexandra and she had no living descendants."
"So, mastermind, how can I possibly be a prince?"
"Simple. You are descended from Tsar Aleksandr, Nicholas's father, by way
of the sister." *
"Napoleon, you and those fantasists should write historical fiction. Nicholas's
sister left Russia before the Revolution and never returned."
"So you have looked into this."
"No. I was very good at history; eidetic memory, remember?"
"Well, from what I learned, history got it wrong. She didn't leave Russia
until 1921; a widow who was forced to leave behind her son in the care of
a priest. The priest took the young boy to Latvia and kept the secret of his
heritage from him until he married. I guess he figured his charge should be
aware of the potential for danger coming to his wife and children, if any."
"Latvia has a large population, Polya."
"Yes. According to the marriage papers, the son, called Nikolai Aleksandreievich,
married Elena Pavlova shortly after the start of the second world war. A lot
of documentation went astray during the Nazi occupation; but when their son
reached school age, they had to register him: Ilya Nikolaievich."
"Ridiculous." Ilya muttered as he rinsed his hair. "Napoleon, anyone could
forge the kind of documents contained in that portfolio. They prove nothing
except what I always suspected: you are another of those sentimental romantics
who can't let go of the past."
"I'm not referring to those documents, Ilya. When Uncle Alex restored the
missing pieces of your file he did not allow anyone else to see it. I asked
him why today and he finally explained his reasons. You were never told by
your parents about your paternal grandmother; probably because you were too
young. But the documents added to your file-supplied by the KGB I might add-included
the marriage and registration records and something else..." Napoleon stopped
and looked at his lover. "I think you know what I'm referring to."
"Yes." Ilya said softly and sighed. Ever since he'd learned the truth he'd
dreaded this moment. "I overheard them talking one night. My parents wanted
to find a way to smuggle me out to my grandmother in Paris: Baba Masha. I
don't know who they approached, but it killed them. Confiscating our apartment
was only a lagniappe."
"I'm sorry, Ilya." Napoleon came over and knelt beside the tub. "Your 'Baba
Masha' was actually Maria Aleksandreievna Romanov, daughter of the Dowager
Empress who exiled herself to Denmark and the assassinated Tsar Aleksandr.
Maria married a White Russian officer, Aleksandr Matiafeivich Boronovskii,
and eventually escaped to Paris, where she lived under the name Maria Borodin.
She moved to New York fifteen years ago and now goes by the name Sonya Samorova.
You play chess with her twice a month. You've known all along."
"No, only for the past three years. Since Baba told me, I've done my best
to forget it, Polya. My parents, to my knowledge, never had any intention
of capitalizing on their heritage; they only wanted me to be safe. That family...
my family is cursed. Blind complacency condemned my great uncle to death and
my cousins right along with him. For simply attempting to send me to the West
to safety, my parents were slaughtered. My foster family put their lives on
the line to get me out of the country and if word of these idiots approaching
me gets back to Russia, the Grigorievs will suffer for it."
"I know. Word has reached the Soviet Union." Napoleon said quietly.
"Ebat-kopat!"** Ilya got out of the water and stalked into the bedroom. Napoleon
pulled the plug and followed. A blond hurricane was pacing the room. Napoleon
sat on the bed and waited. Classes in ballet had bestowed the elegant bearing
belonging to royalty. Ilya's colleagues had unknowingly picked up on it as
well. Ice Prince was eerily appropriate. Even now, though highly upset, you
could have balanced a glass of champagne on Ilya's head and, despite his rapid
pacing, not a drop would have spilled.
"Ilyusha, sit down. Let's see if we can figure a way out of this mess." Napoleon
suggested. "As far as we know, those down-at-heel would-be courtiers are going
to try and make the claim you are descended from the late Tsarevich. Their
motive is more than likely mercenary; which is wonderful."
"You've taken leave of your senses, Napoleon." The pacing continued.
"No. We borrow a trick from the confidence tricksters. We bait and switch.
Those greedy royalists have it wrong and you are going to tell the world all
about their stupid mistake. It's a fact. You are most definitely not descended
from Tsar Nicholas. Your parents were merely humble workers helping to edify
socialist Russia when they fell victim to a man even the KGB is doing its
best to discredit. Who's going to tell the real truth? The KGB? Not very likely.
By revealing the truth, they embarrass themselves and their masters. The only
thing that has me worried is your grandmother."
Ilya stopped in his tracks, a wry smile twisting his features. "Don't be.
She's a very smart woman. Maria Borodin died in Paris fifteen years ago and
had a very elaborate funeral. It's no accident that I'm working for UNCLE;
covert operations run in my family. Although not a revolutionary, Baba Masha
is a pragmatist. She wanted and wants no part of our tarnished past. I quote:
'The good old days, Ilyusha, were not all that good, and even if they were;
they're gone for good.'" Ilya's expression sobered.
"Her marriage to that officer opened her eyes. The fanaticism of the royalists
made them almost as excessive as Stalin and his not-so-happy band of butchers.
The émigrés here have no idea who she really is. Her maid was buried in Paris
and Baba Masha used that passport to come to the United States. As far as
they know, she's the widow of a clerk who was murdered by the White Russian
army. The Danish royal family established a small pension for her, which is
paid through the French government.*** So what do you propose?" Ilya sat on
Napoleon's lap.
"A pre-emptive strike. You inform the local KGB goons that you are convinced
those nuts who've been bothering you will make a noise like a hoop and roll
away when you state once and for all they are talking through their collective
karakul hats. If the Soviets ask, you will also tell them that you have too
much respect for your foster father to embarrass him or the agency he gave
the best years of life to by revealing to anyone your true ancestry. If they
inquire about that ring you bought, tell them the truth. You got it as a kind
of souvenir, in the same way some people collect Nazi memorabilia. I'm sure
they'll appreciate your comparing the Romanovs to Hitler." Napoleon grinned.
"Finally, we get Uncle Alex to spring your foster family as soon as possible.
As long they are in the Soviet Union you are vulnerable."
"Do you really believe Mr. Waverly would be able to do this?"
"I don't see why not. He knows, and more importantly, knows all about some
very powerful individuals. A little blackmail-a much under-rated tool of statecraft-and
the Soviets could find themselves bouncing checks from here to Vladivostok.
They release the Grigorievs, shred a few files, and no one will ever know
that I've been making love to a Russian Grand Duke."
NS*IK*NS*IK*NS
The best laid plans of mice and men usually result in a scarcity of cheese
for all concerned. Napoleon's suggested stratagem might have worked given
time. Instead, he came home late the following evening to find Ilya packing.
"Did we get an assignment?"
"No. I'm being recalled to the Soviet Union." Ilya shut the heavy suitcase
and went into the kitchen.
"Says who?"
"The Minister for State Security." Ilya replied flatly.
"He cannot order you to return..." Napoleon began.
"He can, and he has. Polya, if I don't go, the Grigorievs will be stood up
against the wall and shot." Ilya slammed one of the cabinet doors and pulled
open a drawer, surprised when the handle came off in his hand.
"I'm going with you."
"No. That will only make matters worse. The KGB would like nothing better
than to declare me a decadent perverted sodomite, execute me, and have done
with it."
"Mr. Waverly..."
"Cannot do anything. Not if he wants to see the seventy-four employees of
our Moscow office again."
"They wouldn't dare."
"Oh yes they would. A mass execution would be too provocative, but the camps
would soon incapacitate all but the strongest of those UNCLE staff members.
They will shoot some 'for trying to escape.' The camp hooligans will probably
account for another twenty percent. Rape, hard labor, sub-standard rations...
they'll all die eventually." Ilya frowned and poured a large shot of vodka.
"Ilyusha, I'm not going to stand by and let this happen. It's not too late
for you to clear this up."
"I will try your suggestion, but I don't hold out much hope. I'm an embarrassment
to them."
"When do you have to leave?"
"They're sending a car in one hour." Ilya turned away, not wanting to see
Napoleon's face.
"My God. Come here."
"Polya, don't make this harder for me than it already is..." His protest was
cut short as Napoleon gathered him into a fierce embrace. Ilya struggled,
then gave himself over to his partner's need, and the truth be told, his own.
"I will always love you, Polya. But this is the end of us..."
"No. Not while I'm alive. If I have to arrange my own private war with Russia,
I am not going to leave you in their hands." Napoleon's voice was thick.
Ilya knew he couldn't bear to hear Napoleon's voice break so he covered the
trembling lips of his partner with his own. The playful teasing that usually
preceded their lovemaking was dispensed with. There wasn't time. Napoleon
stripped off his clothing as his partner hastily removed his. They raced to
the bed where Napoleon wrapped Ilya in his arms. He kissed Ilya gently and
pulled back. "God only knows when we will do this again. I don't want to rush.
If your escort has to wait in the hall, so be it."
Napoleon reached for the lubricant and prepared them both. Ilya raised his
hips and impaled himself. Napoleon drew in a gasping breath as he was enclosed
in the tight sheath of hot muscle. Biting down on his lower lip, he commenced
to thrust slowly. Neither man spoke. Ilya fixed his gaze on Napoleon's handsome
face, committing every shifting expression to memory. Napoleon quickened his
pace in spite of himself as Ilya pushed against him. All too soon, it was
over.
As Napoleon collapsed on top of his lover, Ilya finally closed his eyes and
let his tears fall. "I will never stop loving you. No matter what happens,
remember this Napoleon. You are the other half of my soul." A harsh sob vibrated
against his chest.
"I will wait for you, Ilyusha. If it takes a thousand lifetimes, I promise
you, we will be together again."
Two hours later Ilya was on an Aeroflot jet bound for Moscow. They'd said
their good-byes. Ilya closed his eyes, remembering the feel of Napoleon. By
the time the plane landed, Ilya had succeeded in re-establishing the cold
mask he used to hide his feelings. Seated between two burly KGB operatives,
Ilya wondered which of the transit prisons would be selected for him as his
new "home."
A dark colored van was waiting at the terminal. A brief glimpse of smoggy
gray sky and Ilya was bundled inside. There were no windows in the rear of
the vehicle. Knowing the driver would take a circuitous route, Ilya closed
his eyes, marshaling his energy for what was to come. A confession was assured.
The only way to avoid giving one was to die. Eager cooperation was regarded
with suspicion. Stubborn silence was broken down. Using a variety of disorienting
techniques, the inquisitors and guards usually had their victims singing self-accusatory
arias within a week.
The van stopped and Ilya heard a clicking sound. The guards used cheap metal
cricket-shaped toys to signal to their colleagues when they were conveying
a prisoner. Although the largest of the Moscow transit prisons could accommodate
thousands of inmates, during the interrogation phase Ilya would not be allowed
to see anyone other than his guards and the stone-faced interlocutors.
"Head down, hands behind your back!" One of the escorts bellowed. Ilya had
already assumed this position. A flurry of clicks and Ilya was marched into
the core of the prison. The incredible number of unfortunates who'd preceded
him during the height of Stalin's reign of terror had actually worn a trench
in the stone flooring.
When they reached a holding cell Ilya was ordered inside and the thick metal
door boomed shut. The room was little more than a very deep coffin: seven
feet long, four feet wide, with a twelve-foot ceiling clearance. Four two
hundred-watt bulbs garishly lit the "box" and its single piece of furniture:
a four-legged wooden stool. Ilya sat down, closed his eyes and waited. The
isolation phase was designed to play upon a human's need for social interaction.
Most prisoners could not help but talk to their inquisitors when finally released
from solitary confinement.
Ilya was not "most prisoners." His past left him very well prepared to endure
months with only his own thoughts for company. Irregularly dispensed rations
and trips to the empty latrines prevented prisoners from guessing the amount
of time they spent in the box. The blinding lights were never turned out.
Day and night ceased to exist. Hours, days, weeks later, the door was opened
and Ilya was escorted to a preliminary interrogation room. He took his seat
on yet another stool. The man charged with obtaining Ilya's confession slowly
turned over the pages of an immense file.
Ilya smiled to himself. Civilians, confronted with a six-inch thick dossier,
assumed all was known and usually began to damn themselves. Ilya knew that
only the first couple of pages held any real data related to him and his "crime."
The remaining pages were bogus: confiscated manuscripts, or clumsily re-typed
pages from the telephone directory.
"Family name, first name, and patronymic." The impassive man did not look
up.
"Kuryakin, Ilya Nikolaievich," Ilya replied quietly. A series of routine questions
followed: his date of birth, birthplace, education levels... all designed
to establish a pattern that would lull civilians into responding to questions
automatically. Sure enough, after nearly an hour of innocuous inquiries, the
trap was sprung.
"Do you know why you are here?"
Ilya was prepared. He said nothing. After another half hour's silence, Ilya
was escorted back to his "box." The first round was a draw.
* The Dowager Empress Marie Feodorovna, mother to the last Tsar, was the younger
daughter of the King of Denmark. Her older sister married King Edward VII,
eldest son of Queen Victoria, who had been responsible for introducing hemophilia
into the Russian Imperial family through her grand-daughter, Alexandra.
** I have it on the best authority, my indefatigable beta-reader Katya Baturinsky,
that this can be loosely translated as "Oh shit!"
*** To the best of my knowledge, Nicholas II had no surviving siblings. "Baba
Masha" is the creation of my fiendish little mind. EP