Napoleon pulled away from the pointed nails digging lightly into the underside of his chin and found his back coming into contact with a cold, hard wall behind him. Raising his eyes, he discovered something else as well. His hands were raised above his head, his wrists encircled snuggly in manacles that were just as securely attached to the wall. Testing the strength of his bonds succeeded only in causing the metal of the rings to dig sharply into the flesh of his wrists. Sighing in resignation, he lowered his gaze to meet that of his captor.
"It would appear, yet again, that you have me at a disadvantage, Angelique," he said evenly. "Why don't you, um, let me go so we can.talk on more even footing," he continued pitching his voice to more seductive levels as he met the blue eyes of the woman standing so close to him that he could feel her breath wafting warm across his face.
Napoleon saw indulgent humor reflected in those eyes as the woman trailed her hands down his chest before stepping away from him.
Smiling ruefully, Angelique said, "I do apologize for the inconvenience, darling, but I did so want to talk to you." Indicating the chains with an airy gesture of her hand, she said, "And this was the only way I could be sure you'd take the time out of your busy schedule to spend a little of it with me. You don't mind, do you?"
Napoleon almost laughed at the look of shy hesitancy the blonde slanted
at him from under lowered lashes. It was a studied expression, calculated
to disarm and charm the recipient. He wondered just how long Angelique
had had to spend in front of a mirror to achieve that mask of innocence
and guilelessness. And he felt a pang twist in his heart as that
look, feigned
though it was, reminded him of another blonde who had gazed at him
that way, pure honest emotion shining from his azure eyes just a week ago.
Napoleon did resent like hell taking the time for this. He had no idea how much time had passed since he had been drugged just as he had no idea where he was or what game Angelique was up to this time. The need to find his partner was building in him as the fear for him increased with every minute he was wasting here with Angelique. For the time being though, it looked like he was going to have to play her games till he could formulate a plan to escape.
Ignoring the sense of urgency forming in his belly, he said, "Of course not. You know I always enjoy our times together, but uh, isn't this a little medieval for you? Why don't we go somewhere more comfortable?" he asked forcing himself to smile at her with the full force of his charm.
The bright red slash of her mouth curved in a smug smile before Angelique
turned away, her stiletto heels clicking hollowly on the stone floor as
she crossed the room to a table standing in the middle. The room
had a dungeon-like quality, the dank, fetid air and the sound of water
dripping against hard stone adding to the effect. A staircase in
the corner disappeared upwards its steps worn and bowed in the center.
It was in doubt though if the original purpose of the room had been as
a dungeon however. The manacles clasping his wrists and those hanging intermittently
along the stone walls were made of new steel rather than old iron.
The table holding an array of instruments was of the folding metal variety,
the weak light of
the torches flaring from the wall sconces glinting off its surface
in soft amber hues.
The woman standing at the table was another incongruity, her tailored suit and elegant coif out of sync with the background of the room. Angelique leaned over the table, her pale, red-tipped hand hovering over the instruments laying on its surface as the light from the flaming torches flickered over her form.
As Napoleon watched her movements warily, he couldn't help but notice for the first time how dull and flat was her hair, the bottle blond color lacking in the myriad shades and highlights to be found in Illya's vibrant mop.
Raising her eyes to Napoleon's, Angelique said, "I don't know, Napoleon. It has a certain appeal." With that, she picked up a whip its lash made of corded leather and tipped with a metal stud. Curling the lash around her hand, she grasped the handle and began to pace the small room tapping the whip against her leg as she went.
"There are interesting rumors floating around the world on little THRUSH wings, Napoleon. I thought you could enlighten me as to their truthfulness."
Even though he knew what she was referring to, Napoleon raised a quizzical eyebrow and asked, "Yes? What rumors would those be, Angelique?"
"Is it true that Kuryakin has resigned UNCLE and returned to the Soviet Union?" she asked as she continued her pacing.
"Yes," he replied as his eyes followed her distracted movements.
"And you, you have resigned also?"
"Yes," he said again.
Angelique stopped her agitated pacing and, throwing the whip back on the table, advanced on Napoleon. Pressing her body closely to his, Angelique ran her hands under Napoleon's jacket caressing his chest and back with languid strokes meant to tantalize and seduce. "Why?" she breathed against his throat as she brushed kisses along its length before moving on to nibble and bite at his lips.
Angelique's perfume tickled his nostrils its scent cloying and overly sweet. Her face was truly a mask, its features hidden under the engineering feats of foundation and powder, her blue eyes brittle and speculative under artificially curved eyebrows. As her hands and body moved against his in a sensual rhythm, just as he had noticed the lack of depth to her hair color, Napoleon felt for the first time the absence of feeling, of emotion on her part and on his in this familiar game they played at. He enjoyed sex with Angelique. He used to enjoy this game, thrilling in the guilty pleasure of lying down with the enemy, but it was just that. It was only a game, a game that was no longer important or intriguing to him. It no longer satisfied. He found himself wanting more, needing more, but not from this blonde.
Sensing his unresponsiveness, Angelique pulled back slightly and scanned his face. Then sighing, she said, "You're in love with him, aren't you?"
Meeting her gaze steadily, Napoleon said again simply, "Yes," and knew with newfound confidence and joy that that statement was no longer just a subterfuge for another assignment.
Angelique lowered her head for a moment before raising it again and, flashing Napoleon an impish smile, she flicked a key from the cuff of her jacket and unlocked the manacles securing his wrists.
Moving back to the table, Angelique leaned against it as Napoleon stood chafing his wrists trying to get the circulation moving in them. Confused, he shot her a puzzled frown raising his eyebrows in question.
Crossing her arms, she shrugged and said, "I realized a long time ago how you felt about your partner. I had hoped, however, that you would never realize." Chuckling softly, she crooked a finger and said, "Come."
Following her up the winding staircase, Napoleon shook his head in bemusement that such a fundamental truth about himself had remained hidden from his consciousness, but had been perfectly obvious to a woman he only met with once or twice a year to play meaningless cat and mouse games. He was beginning to suspect that Mr. Waverly had been in on the secret as well conjuring up this plan in a wily attempt to play matchmaker as well as to accomplish the purpose of the mission. Now he only had to find out if Illya knew also, and if his feelings were returned. His sense of urgency to get on with his mission increased as a second objective was added to his agenda, impatience sparking in his belly as he moved out into bright sunshine with Angelique.
As Napoleon surveyed his surroundings, he saw that the room they had
come from was really a cellar to a building that lay in crumpled ruins.
There were no other buildings to be seen in the vicinity, nothing but hillocks
of grass covered with a thin layer of snow and a dirt road stretching into
the distance. A man emerged from a black sedan sitting about twenty
feet from
the ruins. After Angelique set a complicated series of locks
on the trapdoor covering the entrance to the cellar, the hulking man, obviously
a THRUSH strong man, moved some large pieces of stone over the trapdoor
camouflaging it from prying eyes.
As the THRUSH goon returned to the sedan without a word, Angelique produced a pair of sunglasses from a pocket as she turned to Napoleon.
As she took in his appearance, she laughed and pulled a handkerchief from another pocket and began to wipe the red smears of her lipstick from his neck and mouth. Glancing up at him, she must have read the questions in his eyes for she started to speak.
"There were THRUSH assassins waiting for you at the airport. This,"
she said as she waved her handkerchief in the direction of the building,
"was just my way of preventing that and having a little fun in the process."Replacing
the square of white cloth in her pocket, she continued a wistful note in
her voice, "I've enjoyed our little games over the years Napoleon,
but while I may be sentimental, I'm not suicidal. You're free
to go, but you'll get no further help from me."
As Napoleon opened his mouth to reply, she held up a forestalling hand, "I know you're up to more than just wooing a recalcitrant Russian. You're on your own on both counts from now on."
Then turning his jacket collar up to ward off the chill of the air,
she smiled at him affectionately before saying softly, "Goodbye, Napoleon."
Turning on her heel, she strode quickly towards the car. As the driver
opened the back door for her, she threw a last glance at Napoleon and said,
"Oh, I will tell you this much. You are in the Soviet Union."
Then with a
flash of white teeth, she slipped into the car. The driver got
back behind the wheel and with a roar of the motor, headed down the snow
covered road bouncing roughly over its frozen ruts.
Napoleon shook his head and smiled wondering if he would ever understand the workings of that woman's mind as he followed the black car arrowing into the distance.
Illya smiled snuggling into the soft depths of the featherbed he was
lying in. His half-conscious mind registered the warmth surrounding
him, in the comfortable bed and from the fire he could hear crackling nearby.
He also heard the quiet murmur of voices, but rather than concentrating
on the words, he allowed himself instead to enjoy the soothing cadences
produced by
his native language. One voice in particular stood out comforting
in its familiarity.
'Napoleon?' Illya frowned for in the next instant, his sluggish mind knew it wasn't Napoleon. Loneliness settled in his heart as he remembered Napoleon was back in New York and he was on his way to the Soviet Union.
His brow furrowed in puzzlement as he tried to recall how he came to
be in this bed. His eyes snapped open in remembrance just as a hand
gripped his shoulder shaking him gently. Gazing up into the concerned
gray eyes of the
man bending over him, Illya's frown curved into a smile as he whispered,
"Sergei."