The Sixth Victim
By M. Willow
Story plot: A vision of the future holds the key for the guys who are in a race against time before someone becomes the sixth victim.
Part One
Chapter One
The soft strands of Tennessee Waltz played as the two people twirled around the floor. It was a hot evening, sultry really, but the dancers seemed oblivious to the stifling heat. The soft fragrance of jasmine mingled with the stale air of the tiny room. The woman swayed as a wave of dizziness nearly swept her off her feet. She wanted to stop dancing, but her partner moved her even faster, almost out of step with the music, her long pink dress of satin and lace brushing against her ankles as they danced as one. The man, dressed in top hat and tails, held the woman close. His possession of her unmistakable.
He sang softly in her ear. "I was dancin' with my darlin' to the Tennessee Waltz …" She tensed as she heard his melodic voice. "when an old friend I happened to see." The music stopped, but the man continued to sing. "I introduced him to my loved one, and while they were dancing my friend stole my sweet-heart from me." The woman tried to break from his embrace, but his grip was tight and she was growing weaker. "I remember the night and the Tennessee waltz…"
She struggled now, her heart beating wildly, her eyes scanning the room for help.
"Now I know just how much I have lost…"
The song would end soon. She had to get away before that happened. She'd already seen the pink scarf, knew that he would use it to kill her. But how could she possibly break free? She was weak, tired, dizzy. And she was alone. No one could help her. She would have to find a way out or die. So as they danced she focused on the room.
It was a large room, the hardwood floors reflecting the many candles that provided the only light. The room held no furniture, nothing graced the walls. It was a room without character, almost as if it had been abandoned long ago, the love and character banished with the passing years. Now she noticed the smell of decay, heavy, cloying, mixing with the jasmine she wore. It nearly made her gag, but she forced her mind back to the problem at hand—she had to get away before it was too late. And getting away wouldn't be easy. He frightened her, but the candles more so. They were surrounded by them, tiny dots of light that danced as if they too could hear the music.
It was seconds before she noticed the man had stopped singing. He stood there now, indistinct in the candlelight. She could feel his eyes on her. She was dead and knew it. She closed her eyes, knowing what was coming, feeling her heart lurch. And then the scarf, so soft, satin and lace like the dress was placed around her neck.
April woke gasping for breath. It was the same nightmare she'd had several times over the past two years. They were always the same: the couple dancing. The fear the woman felt, followed by her death. April touched her throat, the nightmare still vividly clinging to her, making her feel that she was the woman who'd died.
In the beginning she hadn't been concerned, thought that the dreams were just a response to the stress of being an enforcement agent. But then the nightmares continued, each making her feel a part of the world the woman lived in. Yet, she did not know her which was a horror in itself.
April's psychic abilities were always centered on those she knew. So she had come to believe that she was seeing the past, a glimpse into the death of an unknown woman--a woman who died at the hands of a madman. It was always so with her visions. If the vision occurred when she was awake, it meant it was happening in real-time, sort of the way she'd glimpsed Illya behind the wall when he'd nearly died over a year ago. But if they occurred in the form of a dream, it meant the event had already occurred and lingered like an echo.
If only she could see the faces of the man and woman, she thought, but then dismissed the idea when she realized that knowing who the woman was wouldn't prevent a death that had already occurred.
She stood on shaky legs, grabbing the headboard for support, cursing herself for being so weak. She was trembling, her eyes darting around the room as if she expected to see the man there. Deep inside, April had a nagging feeling that she was the woman in her nightmares, and that they were really a glimpse into her future. She'd fought the idea for many months, telling herself that she wasn't precognitive, that she could no more see the future than anyone else. But in the night, when she felt the heat of the sultry room, smelled the scent of jasmine, she knew who the woman was in her dreams.
April looked about her bedroom, observing the shimmering moonlight as it threaded through the curtains. She had only recently moved to the UNCLE secured building at the urging of her best friend, and CEA, Napoleon Solo. He had insisted once she told him of her disturbing nightmares. She had decided it was the best choice, partially because she wanted to move anyhow, and partially because she enjoyed the company of Solo who lived in the penthouse apartment. Often after his dates he would stop by and they would talk into the wee hours of the night. It was an easy companionship, allowing them to be open with each other without fear of judgment. April could cry with him, tell him how afraid she was on this or that mission, all without the threat of judgment. And he could do the same.
But now she was weak, weak and scared out of her wits, for if she were seeing the future, she was already dead.
April groped for her shoes. Finding them, she padded into the kitchen. She quickly turned on the light, letting her fear recede into the nightmare world she'd left. Now she made her way over to the sink, turning on the water, and splashing cool water on her face. She wanted to stay awake, needed to really. She couldn't bare another nightmare, not tonight when her heart was beating so loudly she could hear it.
April busied herself preparing coffee and going over the nightmare in her mind. The woman had been afraid of the fire. She'd also been afraid of the man, desperately seeking a way to escape both. But she didn't have a chance because the man had strangled her. Thinking about it, April realized that not one single thing had changed from one nightmare to the next. No matter how much she wanted the woman to live, it always ended the same.
The coffee was ready, so April poured the steaming brew into a cup and added two lumps of sugar. She sat the steaming mug on the kitchen table with a trembling hand. A sudden knock at the door startled her. Her mind searched for her late night interloper, felt the familiarity.
"Napoleon," she mouthed, a smile already coming to her face.
She could always sense his presence. She looked down at her attire. The gown she wore was hardly see-through, but certainly displayed her figure to its best advantage. She thought of going to her room to get the robe she'd left on her bedside chair, but felt ridiculous after everything they'd been through together. He'd seen her dressed and undressed. It was always the problem with missions, trying to keep a level of modesty which simply wasn't possible when you were dodging bullets and trying to save the world. She and Napoleon had slept in the same bed, watched each other's back, tended to each others wounds. She was paired with him more than any other agent with the exception of Mark. In all that time, he'd maintained a level of professionalism, never gawking at her body the way some male agents did.
She headed for the door, only to see him coming in, key in hand, his face darkened with concern. They'd exchanged keys when she'd moved in. They were family, sharing a life that left no secrets. She sighed in relief when she saw him. He was dashing in a black tuxedo which meant he was either leaving or returning from a date. One never knew with the debonair Napoleon Solo.
"April, I was starting to get worried when you didn't answer," he said, turning the security system off and crossing the room to stand in front of her.
"Just who's the psychic here?" she asked as he gave her a peck on the cheek, and took a seat on the sofa, loosening his bow tie and propping his legs up on the cocktail table.
"You are, sweetheart, but lately I'm starting to wonder---" Napoleon trailed off, but they both knew what he was about to say. Lately, his sense of her was starting to cross into the realm of the paranormal. He wasn't capable of seeing things like she could, but could sense her emotions even if they were in separate rooms. It was a strange situation—April was the psychic, her visions playing as if they were movies. But she couldn't see anything unless it was within a few short miles of her. Sure, she would have an uneasy feeling sometimes, but for the most part her abilities were limited. But Napoleon was emotionally tied to her. Therefore every nightmare she had affected Solo as well. Which was probably why he was there at three o'clock in the morning, she thought.
"Unnerving isn't it." April said, but it wasn't a question. Living your life with visions and feelings you couldn't explain for most of your life was daunting. Finding that you had this ability later in life had to be even more so.
Napoleon patted the seat next to him, beckoning her to sit down. When she did, his arms enfolded her and she laid her head on his shoulder. For a few moments nothing was said, but a communication of sorts took place that required no words. Eventually, April noticed her shaking had ceased and a sense of peace settled over her.
"I'm okay." She said, sensing the silent question.
"Let's talk." Napoleon said, releasing her from his arms, and regarding her with his deep brown eyes.
But she wasn't ready to talk yet. She needed something to calm her nerves. Needed something that would make it easier to tell him she was dying. For in her heart she knew that her visions were both the past and her future. And the man who'd murdered the woman would kill her one day.
"I need something strong," she said, standing and making her way to the bar.
He said nothing as she prepared two martinis. It was always their custom that if one drank, so did the other. She used to joke that she felt like Emma Peel to his Steed whenever they did that, but it was really a way of sharing, of saying to the other you are not alone.
She returned to the sofa and handed him his drink, then both took healthy sips. April could feel the warmth as it spread through her body. She was sitting on the edge of the sofa, her back ramrod straight as she looked down into the clear liquid, her mind in turmoil. How do you tell your best friend you're dying?
"How bad are the dreams?" he asked, slicing through her indecision.
She turned and met his eyes, her tears so close to the surface. She didn't want to breakdown in front of him. She didn't want it to end this way. Her death should come fighting to save the world, standing side by side with a fellow agent, not at the hands of a madman.
A shuddered passed through her as she felt death creeping closer, filling her with its scent of decay. She felt the warmth of Napoleon's hands as he sat forward, tilting her head with his large hands, searching her eyes for the truth. In that instant another hand reached out to her.
"I was thinking of the dream," she stammered, feeling the icy tendrils of the nightmare clinging to every word.
The room seemed to settle, the colors becoming distinct, blindingly vivid. The man who sat before her now dissolved as if he'd never been there. She inhaled deeply, steeling herself for a vision.
Now another man was pressing his body against hers, his rough hands touching the soft satin of the dress. She smelled the jasmine scent and opened her eyes to see shadow and light, and what seemed like a thousand candles danced around them in a circle. And there was music that floated in the air, a strange haunting quality to it. It took her a few moments to recognize Tennessee Waltz.
"I was dancin' with my darlin' to the Tennessee waltz…" She could feel his arms tightening, pulling her closer, nearly taking her breath away. "when an old friend I happened to see…" She struggled to see the man, but his face was indistinct.
"I introduced him to my loved one…"
April concentrated on the man, the sound of the music becoming a roar in her mind. She felt her body moving around the room, the heat becoming intense, her fear welling inside her. It was difficult, but she brought her mind back to the man again, seeking to see his face, but it was as if she danced with a fathom—a man with no face, a man filled with darkness impenetrable to the eye.
Her breath caught as she sought his emotions, and then she was going deeper, deeper, seeking the thing that made him human. His emotions filled her at once, as if a thousand knives penetrated her soul. Now they were soul to soul and she felt his pain, his hatred for the woman who he held in his arms. In the center was his desire to possess her or see her destroyed? And then a blinding light filled the room and a thousand candles blazed as one.
She heard a voice, tense, calling out to her. Her soul reached out, flying to the other world, feeling the safety, the love, of one Napoleon Solo.
"I thought I had lost you," Napoleon said, his voice deep against the impenetrable silence of the room.
Napoleon had seen her have visions, but this one was different. He could feel her terror deep within himself. He could only imagine what she'd seen.
"Was it like your nightmare?" he asked, his voice soft.
April leaned into him, trembling. He pulled her to him, his arms encircling her, holding on for dear life to keep her in this world. Whatever she'd seen in her vision had been horrifying. He had to make certain she didn't have another one, so he held on tight.
"Yes," she said. "And now I know they're real,"
The words sent a shiver through his body. She'd told him about the nightmares. But they hadn't been visions, merely a story that repeated without end. He'd had nightmares like that himself—dreams so real that he ached with the force of them. They'd been remnants of missions, transformed in his nightmare world. But he was not April.
"You just seem to fade," he said, feeling the words inadequate for what he had felt—terror, sheer terror.
April looked around the room almost as if she doubted her return from the vision. He said nothing when she stood and slowly inspected her apartment, her hands gliding over the smoothness of the fireplace, moving to the wingback chair that sat next to it. And then on to the bar, it's stark whiteness blending with the neutral colors of the room. And then she was standing at the window.
Outside he could see the sun had replaced the moon, the sky changing into a delicious shade of mauve.
"How long was I out?" she finally asked as he slipped up behind her. She leaned into him as his arms encircled her, feeling the rose petal softness of her skin.
"About two hours," he whispered.
Time moved at a different pace in April's visions. An hour could feel like five minutes, but Napoleon felt like he'd witness eternity.
"Two hours," she said. "It felt like five minutes."
She turned, facing him and he could see the strain the vision had caused, her face stark white against the rising sun. "I think I should get you to a doctor," he said, knowing her answer but needing to say it anyway. What could a doctor do against something as otherworldly as visions?
"No, there is nothing anyone can do for me,"
She turned her back again and leaned into him. He once again put his arms around her, the fragrant scent of her hair nearly intoxicating.
"Tell me everything," he said, a whisper in her ear.
"I've seen my own death," she said simply.
It has been said that time is relative, but in the hour Napoleon listened to her story, he felt the vastness of it, the malleability he'd always believed in slowly dying with her words.
"I'm dying," she said finally, bringing his mind back to the reality of their situation. But his mind fought the reality of a woman seeing her own death.
He stood, pacing the floor, his eyes desperately seeking the woman who sat calmly on the sofa, her hands crossed on her lap. Had she given up on life so quickly?
Their relationship had started as one of respect. He was her mentor, the man she went to when the strain of being the only female agent seemed too much. He'd listened to her, giving advice when she needed it; a shoulder to cry on when nothing else would do. In that time he'd come to love her, to see her as family, but it went far beyond that for April was no ordinary woman. He found that he could rely on her for comfort as well. Yes, he had Illya in his life, a man who was like a brother. But sometimes he needed the tenderness of a woman. He found that in her and more. She was his sister, best friend, and confidant. She was everything to him.
Now he stood to lose that gentle spirit, that warrior woman, and the thought chilled him.
He flopped down in the seat next to her, tired, dejected. "You've never been precognitive. Your visions are limited in so many ways."
She shook her head. "But this is different," she put her hand over her heart, her deep, soulful eyes piercing his resolve. "This I can feel here. I've never been precognitive, but maybe it's because I've never been this close to death."
Napoleon let that statement sink in, knowing she was right. He'd felt it too, when she'd entered the vision, there strange connection taking him with her.
"So we change the future," he said.
"The future cannot be changed,"
He saw that she believed it, but for Napoleon Solo, the future would be changed. He had no choice.
"Then we break the rules and change it. We take what we know and change it."
He felt strength in the words. He would change the future or die trying. "I'm not going to lose you," he said pulling her into his arms again and burying his face in her silky hair. "Never going to lose you."
They held each other with a desperation that spoke of her vulnerability. Outside the world moved at a dazzling pace, but there, time stood still.
April felt renewed strength as Napoleon held her. Her world was falling apart. She'd always accepted the possibility of death in the line of duty, but this felt so wrong.
"You need to get some rest, Napoleon said, but somehow she didn't want to move. In his arms she was safe, even if it wasn't true, even if she did die at the hands of a madman.
"I don't want to be alone," she said without thinking. The statement could easily have been misunderstood by any other man, but not Napoleon. Not her best friend. He wordlessly took her hand and led her to the bedroom.
She said nothing as he removed his bow tie and jacket as she climbed into bed.
"I don't suppose you have anything suitable for me to sleep in? Maybe I should just go upstairs and get…"
"No, I can't be alone. Not now." April said, panic tingeing her words, disgusted with herself for being so afraid.
He removed his trousers leaving only his shorts and undershirt and laid them neatly on the chair by the bed. And then he crawled into bed. She sought his warmth immediately, snuggling into the crook of his arm, resting her head on his chest, the sound of his heartbeat lulling her into a sound sleep within minutes.
Chapter Two
Illya had had enough. For one hour he had watched Solo sit at his desk staring into space, idly tapping a pen against the desk. This after he had arrived at least an hour late. At first Illya figured he had been on one of his notorious dates. But he quickly dismissed that thought when he saw his partner's troubled features. He'd questioned him, asking if he was alright. Napoleon had claimed that he was just thinking over a case the old man had given him, but Illya didn't believe that for a second.
Determine to break the trance the dark-haired agent seemed to be in, Illya got up and sat on the edge of his partner's desk
"Okay, my friend. Talk to me," he ordered.
Napoleon continued to stare into space for a few moments. When he spoke, his voice seemed unsteady. "Do you believe that a person could become psychic later in life, Illya?"
Illya stared for a second wondering if his command of the English language was slipping. "Napoleon, I'm a scientific man. I find it difficult to accept the fact that April is psychic even with all the proof."
Napoleon looked sharply at him. "Don't tell me you're still skeptical?"
"Of course not. I wouldn't be here if not for her intervention on my behalf. Still, I look for a scientific reason for her ability."
"I don't think you're going to find it, Tovarish."
"I've accepted that. But one day an explanation will be found. Of course, I will have long retired from this earth so I'll just have to accept her psychic abilities even though it goes against everything I believe in." Illya paused, once again noticing the troubled look on his friend's face. "What is this talk of latent talents, my friend?"
"Well, you know April and I are close?"
"Of course," The Russian said.
Close was putting it mildly. He'd seen Napoleon with many women, most lasting only a few weeks, but April had become a part of the agent's life. They were like soul mates, each devoted to the other. No woman had ever been so intricately connected to the agent, not even Clara.
"Yeah, well, lately we've become closer," Napoleon said slowly.
Illya coughed loudly, startled by what his best friend had just said. "When did this happen?" he asked, feeling uncomfortable with the subject.
"Since the Vixen affair," Napoleon settled his eyes on him. "I don't know. We just seem so in tune with each other and it's getting stronger."
"I don't think Waverly is going to like it, Napoleon. Be careful."
It was an UNCLE policy that forbid relationships between agents. Waverly didn't even approve of the relationship between he and Napoleon, complaining that their friendship had become more important to them than the job. What would the old man say once he found out about Solo and his prized protégée, April Dancer? Illya imagined both of them being thrown out of the service.
"He doesn't know, and we're still keeping this a secret." Napoleon paused for a moment than dropped the pen he had been holding. "So what do you think? Is it possible?"
Illya felt inadequate. Was Napoleon asking if he should pursue a relationship with the female agent? Was he asking if he should leave UNCLE, go off and get married?
"I believe a famous man once said that love conquers all."
Napoleon returned to drumming the pen on the table, but this time he was looking at Illya. "So you think that's what did it, Tovarish? I love April, so I'm now able to feel what she feels?"
Illya started, looking in stunned silence at Napoleon who suddenly looked just as shocked.
"Illya," Solo said, a smirk coming to his face. "What did you think I was talking about?"
Illya returned to his desk. He could see he'd made a mistake, and so could Napoleon from the look of amusement on his face. He struggled for words to somehow get the foot out of his mouth.
Napoleon laughed. "Now, Illya, you're not falling for those silly rumors are you?"
"But... you just asked me…"
"I asked you if you thought it was possible for a person to develop latent psychic abilities."
"Oh." Was all he could manage to say.
"Let's get this straight. I love April, but I'm not in love with her. Get it? We're not in a relationship. Never will be."
"No, I don't think you can develop latent psychic abilities. Why?" Illya asked, ignoring what Napoleon had just told him. Napoleon settled back in his chair, propping his feet on the desk.
"Just lately April and I seem to be communicating without words. Without getting into specifics, I can tell when there's something wrong. I can feel her visions like I'm there too."
"Are you telling me you can see what April sees in her vision?"
Napoleon looked down, studying his hands. "Not exactly. Emotions mostly. I don't know. It's hard to put into words."
"Empathy," the Russian said. "Empathy on a different level," Illya shook his head as he processed what Napoleon just said. He leaned back in his chair, steepling his fingers. "Does it happen with anyone else?"
"Some with you. You know on missions. But with April…it's just different."
"Like soul mates," Illya supplied, his eyes locking with Solo's.
Napoleon gave him a puzzled look. Illya continued. "Think about it. You're close, but not like brother and sister. And not like lovers, but close just the same. It's somewhat like a marriage."
Napoleon considered for a few moments before speaking. "But this is hardly a marriage."
"Your relationship is a marriage in every way except the sex," Illya said. He felt the warm rush of blood and saw his friend smile at his discomfort.
"What I mean is," he stammered. "A partnership relationship is very close to that of marriage. Even though April is mostly partnered with Mark, you still work together on many occasions, especially over the past year. And partners are sort of like soul mates."
Napoleon chuckled. "Let's see, partners are soul mates, eh?"
Illya again felt a warm rush. "Well not us. We're partners and close, but with April. I mean because of her sex…"
Napoleon's eyes danced. "Don't worry. I get it. If she were male, it would probably be like us. But because she's female, I relate to her sort of like a wife only without the---"
"Precisely," Illya interrupted, not wanting to hear his earlier words repeated. "I admit it's not much of an explanation, but it's all I have."
"So what do I do about it? What if I can't handle something happening to her? What if I can't prevent it?" Napoleon said, the sadness returning to his face.
"There is nothing you can do. April is as devoted to UNCLE as you or I. She will never leave it. You must adapt to this. Learn to live with it. Protect her if you can, but know that it's not possible to do so always. April won't have it any other way. She is a woman in a male dominate field. She has fought hard for the respect due her. Do not diminish it by a lapse into chivalry, my friend."
Napoleon pushed his legs down from his desk and picked up a report. The Russian could see something still lay heavy on his partner's mind. He was making an effort to hide it, but Illya knew him too well. He suspected the problem involved April and that she had asked for confidentiality regarding the matter. Illya understood, needed it himself when his world fell apart less than a year ago. But that left Napoleon with a heavy burden on his shoulders yet again.
"I wouldn't worry about it," Illya said. "But if you have reason to do so, I am more than willing to offer my assistance."
He was rewarded with a small smile from the CEA then a shadow crossed his partner's face. Just as quickly it was gone and the cool, confident man Napoleon presented to the world was back. Illya felt a cold shiver run up his spine. He and Napoleon had been in some difficult situations, nearly losing their lives on more than one occasion, but he'd never seen the man look so afraid.
Chapter Three
April was tired. She'd spent the bulk of the day sequestered in her office with Napoleon going over her visions. She had drawn pictures of the room. She had described her general impressions of the man. She'd even described how she felt during the vision. But at the end of the day they had nothing.
Now she entered her apartment, tired, defeated, just wanting to curl up somewhere and sleep. Perfect dreamless sleep. But dreamless sleep was not likely. Now that the visions had entered her non-sleep hours, she had nowhere to run.
April shuddered. She was standing in the living room, her eyes scanning the darkness, hands coiled tightly around her gun. She was a snake ready to strike. Then she was off, heels clicking against the linoleum, racing through her apartment, clicking on the light as she went, her gun at the ready. Finally she stood in the kitchen, cool fluorescent lighting bathing the tiny room, its country decoration of baskets and lace curtains setting her instantly at ease. She was alone. Alone and utterly useless.
She sagged against the sink slipping into an uneasy depression. Useless, she thought. Useless and scared. Everything she'd ever been stripped away because of what she was.
It was the way of her life—most of the time normal, able to exist in the world the same as others. She'd done it for years, going into denial about her psychic abilities. But there was a side of her that sought release. That woman was able to see the impossible. That woman was able to reach into a soul and touch the darkness within.
April recalled her parent's punishing her for speaking nonsense. She recalled their anger whenever she would tell them what she saw. Eventually she learned it was not anger, but fear. They were afraid that the gift she'd been given came not from God, but the devil. Her father spent thousands of dollars trying to get to the root of her problem. By the age of ten, she tired of the endless doctors, ministers, faith healers. She wanted to be normal. One day her wish was granted when they simply ceased. And then one day Illya had nearly died and she found herself slowly, inexplicably having a vision that saved his life. She wondered what her parents would say now.
It had been five years since she had seen them. Her father had seen to that. Not a single call had been made to her; no inquiries concerning her well-being. They simply didn't care. But it was her mother that April missed most of all. They'd been close at one time. Helen Birchwood doted on her only child, showing her love in so many ways. But she was a traditionalist—believing what the bible said about an obedient wife. It was for that reason that April hadn't been able to contact her. Whenever she tried, her mother wasn't available. Helen Birchwood had lunches to attend, charities to support. Helen Birchwood was too busy to talk to the child she'd birthed.
And her father was a cold, uncaring man. She had never bothered to contact him. Never would. Hot anger pulsed through her as she turned on the faucet and grabbed a glass from the cabinet. Now the tears came unbidden—tears of loss and pain suddenly overwhelming her. Without thinking she threw the glass across the floor and watched it shatter like her life was doing now.
Damn it she missed them. If only she could see them one more time. Just one more time to say goodbye.
April started when the telephone rang. She stood there, frozen in place, her heart beating so loudly she could hear it. And then she moved, her pace slow. She took a deep breath as she entered the living room, her eyes automatically focusing on the telephone that sat forlornly next to her sofa.
Don't answer it, her inner voice commanded. But suddenly the room was changing, becoming something different. She watched in amazement as her world dissolve and another took its place. She spun around trying to take in every detail of it, feel its depth. Cold fear ran through her. She saw without seeing, felt the satin caress her body. Saw colors moving together, forming one color, the vivid pink shade nearly blinding her.
Now a window came into view, the curtains billowing in the breeze, the scent of jasmine filling her senses, mixing with the cloying scent of decay. And then everything darkened at once and only the telephone remained, an eerie half-light surrounding it.
And then she was moving toward it, the sound becoming louder, deafening, her body gliding across the floor against her will. It was as if an unseen hand were pushing her. She saw only the telephone now and her trembling hand as it reached for it.
00000000
Napoleon was heading for his car with Illya when he felt a sudden rush of anxiety. He was vaguely aware of the Russian speaking but his mind was shutting down, closing every sensation out, his vision darkening. He was aware of his partner supporting him as he led him to the car.
Napoleon took deep breaths as the Russian seated him on the passenger side of the car. He heard the door close and seconds later another opening. Then the Russian was there saying something he couldn't comprehend.
He leaned back against the seat, his eyes closed as sensations took over, colors moving at a dizzying speed, coming together than separating, finally settling into one color.
"Oh, god," he heard himself say. "April,"
And then he felt hands search through his pockets and realized Illya was searching for the keys. Within seconds the roar of the engine filled the air and they were moving.
00000
They found her lying on the floor next to the telephone, her body curled into a ball, her face bone white. Illya watched his partner cradle the woman, his hands gently probing her body for injury, all the while asking her if she was okay. But she wasn't speaking and her eyes were tightly closed, the hand clutching the telephone.
Illya flipped his communicator open as he scanned the area for intruders.
"Open channel…."
"No, just help me get her to the bedroom. I'll handle it." Napoleon shouted.
Illya shut the communicator. "But she needs help."
"And I'll see that she gets it," he said sharply. "Now help me get her to the bedroom."
Illya considered insisting on getting medical care for April. He eyed her, taking in not only her condition, but the condition of the apartment. No signs of forced entry and April didn't appear injured. She still held the telephone in her hand leading Illya to believe she'd received some bad news. He wondered if it concerned her family. Illya didn't know much about the female agent's past, but he did know her father served in the military.
He made his decision. "Okay, Napoleon, what do you need of me?"
Napoleon struggled to his feet, Illya supporting him as he lifted April into his arms.
"She's having a vision, Illya. I just need you to stay near in case I need you."
Illya watched as Solo tucked the female agent into bed. He recalled the first time he'd discovered her psychic abilities. Kuryakin had been disposed of in the most diabolical way by a former enemy. April had been the one to discover him when she had a vision. It was then that he had discovered her psychic abilities and swore to keep a secret that even Waverly didn't know.
April was nestled in Napoleon's arms, clinging to him, her body shaking, her hands holding Solo's so tightly that Illya could see the whiteness of her knuckles.
Napoleon himself looked terrified as he silently rocked April back and forward, trying to break through to the woman who was still seemed locked in the vision. Illya recalled seeing her once, in the throws of a vision where seconds drifted into hours. She'd said that the world she entered had no concept of time. That she'd awakened many times from them only to discover that the vision had lasted hours not the minutes she had originally thought.
Her visions were not always easy to understand. They were fluid, constantly changing, moving from scene to scene like a silent movie. During these times she would focus and try to capture the essence of it. If a person were present, she became privy to their emotions, but not their presence. She couldn't see people. They were shadows in her world. But each person was different, representing something that was unique to that individual, she'd explained once. "I know it's Napoleon because I can feel his essence. His soul."
It had seemed a strange statement at the time. He was a scientific man. A man who didn't believe in a God or a soul. But in time, he had to accept that the soul did exist in some intrinsic way he could not understand.
Now he watched her experience the vision, his friend holding her, a haunted look in his eyes. He felt like a voyeur, a person witnessing something meant only for the two people who sat on the bed, for they were both locked in this nightmare
"Are you certain you are not in need of medical intervention?" Illya asked, slicing the silence with his voice. Napoleon looked up, his eyes showing a level of pain the Russian had glimpsed but once in his partner. And that had been when he'd lost Clara.
"I'll…I'll take care of her. I'll always take care of her."
But Illya didn't want him to do it alone. He wanted to take away the terror. Let him know that he wasn't alone. That he would share in this burden. But he knew his help wasn't wanted.
"I'll take care of her," Napoleon said yet again, as if he hadn't recalled saying the words only seconds before.
"You cannot do it alone," Illya said. "You need help."
Napoleon just looked at him, his eyes boring deep as if he too could see his soul. And perhaps he could. Napoleon had been there for him, dragging him from despair, letting him feel the openness of his heart and the love that lay within. Illya had felt uncomfortable during those times. He'd tried to run away, hide his shame. He was so afraid of rejection. But when he looked into his partner's eyes after confessing his shame, he saw no judgment. And he had fallen apart and his friend was there to pick up the pieces. And he couldn't walk, and his friend was there to carry him. Now he wanted to be there for Napoleon, to let him know he wasn't alone.
"Let me help," he said. The words so simple, so deeply felt, so inadequate. He waited for a reply, but it wasn't Napoleon who spoke.
"It's time you knew," the female agent said. And April started to tell her story.
Chapter Four
The three agents sat huddled in April's bedroom. Napoleon had prepared tea, its cinnamon scent filling the room. Outside a storm brewed and rain fell against the window piercing the silence of the room. April sat on the bed, her body tightly coiled, her hands clasping Napoleon's. She was still a ghostly shade of white.
"It was Tennessee Waltz. When I picked up the telephone I heard it."
"Tell us what happened from the top," Napoleon said, meeting her gaze, as he sat next to her on the bed.
Gathering strength, she looked down at their clasped hands and spoke, her voice a whisper. "As you know, my visions don't always follow a logical path. And sometimes I see or hear things that don't make sense. In the past it didn't matter because I was seeing things that were currently happening. But this is the future and I can't pretend to understand everything."
"Just tell us what you saw or heard, your emotions," Illya said, his voice raspy. He had a small notebook in his hand, his pen poised to write.
She closed her eyes and began speaking. "First I heard the telephone ring, and then I was somewhere else. It was like watching a silent movie, the scenes moving quickly, and then slowing. Suddenly I was in a room and I saw the color pink. It was everywhere. Sort of a warm glow."
She opened her eyes when she heard Napoleon gasp.
"When I was coming over here. When I felt what you were going through. I saw the color pink. I didn't see the room or anything, just pink."
April's heart skipped a beat. She wanted to stop talking, to conceal the rest, but they needed to know. She continued, her voice competing with the patter of rain against the window.
"The telephone wouldn't stop ringing. I thought I would go mad."
"Could you smell anything? Could you see out a window?" Illya asked, never looking up as he continued to write.
"I could smell nothing at first and then I smelled Jasmine. Yes jasmine. And the window, I tried to see out of it, but I couldn't. I could see anything"
"Perhaps it was your mind not wanting you to see out that window," Napoleon said. "Maybe you were too afraid."
April spoke in a low voice. "I was scared, yes, but I wanted to see. I wanted to be able to recognize something…so I'll know."
The rest was unsaid, but what she wanted was a clue. A way to determine when the events would unfold. She couldn't picture a life always wondering, especially with what she now knew of the vision.
"Tell us the rest," the Russian said urgently. He started to write as she spoke.
"I'm not clear how it happened, but I remember being pulled toward the telephone. I remember how it hurt my ears to hear the sound of it. But I couldn't stop moving. Then I answered it and heard the music. I think…I think I screamed, but I'm not sure. Then the room changed and the man had me in his arms. We were dancing and he was singing along with the music. I remember thinking how sad the lyrics were. How sad he was."
She sighed. "And then he was gone. Just like that and I was somewhere else." Closing her eyes again, she spoke, her voice heavy with emotion at what she was about to reveal.
"I could smell smoke, feel the heat of fire." April clutched Napoleon's hand tighter as a chill ran through her body. "I remember my skin felt hot to the touch. And I saw Napoleon." She turned to look at her best friend. "You were there and your eyes…your eyes…it was like you were apologizing for something. Like you knew what would happen next and blamed yourself for it. I heard…I heard the crackling fire. Felt the fear mixed with sadness."
April turned to Illya. "Then I saw you. You were standing in the room, your eyes wide in terror. I saw a road behind you with two paths. I saw Napoleon and myself and you looking at us with sadness in your eyes. I went deeper, into your mind, into your soul. I felt your indecision. Felt the longing. You had a choice to make and it terrified you. You saw death standing there with Napoleon and I and you had to choose."
April paused as she saw the whiteness of Illya's face. Saw his hand tremble as it held the pen. And then the pen fell to the floor and she found her voice again.
"As I returned I heard a voice. It was a strange voice, neither male nor female." She closed her eyes. It said, 'The sixth victim'."
Napoleon eyes met the Russian's. Illya dropped his head as he closed his eyes, his hands trembling. He reached to retrieve the pen that had fallen to the floor and then he looked up at her, his eyes a dark shade of blue.
"Who is the sixth victim?" he asked.
For a moment all three sat in silence, the wind slashing against the window as if it hoped to get in, lightening filling the room with light and then leaving them in near darkness. And then she spoke,
"It is me, of course,"
Thunder sounded and the room fell silent again.
"But we don't know that," Napoleon finally said, giving voice to what they all knew. "Either April or myself can be the sixth victim."
"The decision has already been made," she countered.
Napoleon stood, grabbing his communicator from the nightstand. April watched as he wordlessly left the room, her eyes traveling to the blond who sat forlornly in the chair next to the bed. He seemed in shock, his disbelief changing to acceptance in light of the accuracy of her past visions. She'd saved his life once. How could he now reject the veracity of them, however symbolic?
"April, we're not going to let this thing happen. There will be no sixth victim."
"I know you'll do everything in your power to prevent it, but please, you know Napoleon is in my vision. I don't care what happens to me, but you've got to save him. Promise me that, Illya. Don't let him die. Even if it means I die."
"No one is going to die." He said determinedly, clearly rejection the logic of avoiding a future meant only for her.
April leaned forward, grabbing the Russian's hand. "You can't save us both, Illya. I've seen the future. You can't save us both. You'll have to choose and it can't be me. We both know that."
Illya said nothing, clearly understanding what she meant. Napoleon was the person that bound the three of them. The relationship she had with the Russian would not exist except for the presence of Napoleon. He was the center, the person they both loved.
Kuryakin stood abruptly, snatching his hand away. "What you're asking I cannot do. I will do everything in my power to save both of you."
"And what if it's not enough."
"I won't accept it. There is always a way."
April jumped up from the bed, the cover falling to the floor, lightening flashing across the room.
" I have to be the sixth victim. I have to be the one to die,"
"And why? Is not your life as important as Napoleon's? Is not your life of importance to you? To him? To me?" He was shouting now, his blue eyes dark with anger.
"No, not if it means I breath my last watching him die. Not if I have to spend the rest of my life without him. We both love him. I'm nothing to you."
"You saved my life once. Allow me to do the same for you. Allow me to find a way to save both of you," Illya countered.
"And if you can't. Can you live with your decision? Can you watch me live knowing it should have been him?"
"I won't choose. I can't. Don't you know what it will do to him if you die? If I let you die?"
"He'll live, Illya. He'll live because you made the right decision. And you must. Don't let the fact that I saved your life once force you into making the wrong choice."
"I won't choose," the Russian shouted. "I won't choose between you. Don't you see I can't. Don't you see that I'd rather die trying to save both of you then live…then live…Damn it, I will not watch him suffer as I have. I will not watch him die a slow death knowing the woman he loves is dead. I will not watch the guilt slowly eat away at him, knowing everyday he lives is another day without her."
April watched the Russian in stunned silence, seeing the truth for the first time. Illya crumbled into the chair, his head dropping into his hands.
"Illya you're talking about yourself. You lost the woman you loved and I'm sorry for that. I really am, but it's not the same between Napoleon and I. He'll go on, marry, and have a family one day."
She crouched in front of him, needing to get through to the blond. He looked at her and she could see the control the Russian was exerting not to break down.
When he spoke his voice was low. "How do you know, April? How do you know what he feels for you now? What he will feel once you're dead?"
April paused, her mind racing, remembering the relationship she shared with her best friend. Finally she spoke, "I only know that I want him to live. And you…you'll be there to help him once I'm gone. You'll make sure he's okay. And he'll go on."
Illya reached over, caressing her cheek "Ask anything of me. But not this. Not this. I will not choose. I will find a way to save both of you even if it means I die trying."
00000
Napoleon paced the floor as he listened to Penelope from section four.
"I'm tellin' you no telephone call entered or left April's apartment since the previous day,"
"Maybe there is some sort of mistake?" he asked, sitting down on the sofa.
"Nappie, I've checked three times. No call came or left that apartment since yesterday."
"Penelope, there's got to be some mistake. Check again."
But even as he spoke the words, he knew there was no mistake. He knew Penelope. They'd dated off and on for over a year. She was an expert in her field. Knew her job well. She wouldn't make a mistake like that. Perhaps he had known it all along. Maybe that's why he had insisted on privacy to make the call.
He wanted to scream, to do something to stop what was about to happen. He'd never felt so helpless, so vulnerable. If she died, he didn't know if he could go on.
"Napoleon, are you alright?" Penelope asked. It was only then that he realized he had stopped talking.
"I'm fine Penelope. Ah…you mind keeping this under your hat. I would prefer if this didn't get out."
"Sure. You got it. But you still owe me dinner."
"Yeah. Looking forward to it. Napoleon out." He said distractedly.
He shut his communicator, his mind numb with worry. He could hear shouting in the next room and knew what April and Illya were arguing about. Solo was fighting an unseen enemy. Knowing that the decision that had to be made would destroy one life and leave the other in shambles. He would willingly give his life for either of his friends, but what he was about to ask Illya could destroy the Russian.
Illya, his best friend, his brother. The man who'd only recently suffered the loss of the woman he loved. A man with a horrifying childhood, who'd shared the pain of it with Solo only recently. And he'd been there to pick up the pieces when the Russian fell apart. He'd shielded him from prying eyes, felt the burden the Russian carried as if it had been his own burden. And he would willingly do it again. Now he was about to put another burden on a man who was still struggling to heal. He was about to ask him to let him die in order to save April. But how could he do it, knowing what Illya would suffer because of it? Knowing that he wouldn't be there this time to help him get through it?
"Oh, god," he murmured. "I don't know what to do. I don't know how to stop this."
00000
An hour later the storm had ended and the sky was bright with color. The three agents sat in stunned silence around the kitchen table in April's apartment. She listened as her two friends discussed a course of action. She contributed nothing to the conversation. She felt so out of control. So not herself. What could she do to avoid the future?
"We wait," Napoleon said.
"Well, what do you suggest I do while we wait?" April asked sharply, coming out of her trance like indifference and regarding the two men who sat across from her.
Napoleon took a sip of coffee before speaking. "Business as usual. Act like nothing has happened. We have to consider the possibility that it is someone we know. Someone who works for UNCLE."
"So what do we do if we find him? Arrest him for a crime that hasn't been committed. Is that what we do?" April asked evenly, her anger rising. "We go up to him and say 'you're under arrest for the willful plot to kill April Dancer.' Or maybe we execute him. You know… an eye for an eye. Who the hell cares if it hasn't happened yet?" April voice was coming quick and sharp, her anger escalating. "Maybe I do it. I go up to him and kill him for murdering me." She laughed. "It's either you or me. I choose you so bang, you're dead."
"April," Napoleon said, placing his hand over hers, taking the cup that she held perilously in her shaking hand.
"I think that's a good idea," she continued in the hysterical voice. "I kill him first. I tell him why and I kill him first." April felt a sting in her eyes as the tears started to fall. "I'm an agent. I know how to kill. It would be self defense." She heard the panic in her voice, but she couldn't stop talking. She couldn't stop crying. She felt Napoleon lift her from her chair. Saw the Russian leave the room. And then she was in his arms, sobbing deeply, but her tears were not because she was dying, but because he would die.
For long moments she just nestled in his arms, smelling the faint, woodsy scent of his cologne. After awhile she felt the panic replaced by calmness. "I'm sorry for losing control like that."
"No need to apologize," He stroked her hair as she leaned into him, nearly going boneless in his arms.
"I'm not going to let anything happen to you," he said. And she could hear the sincerity in his voice. But he would die because of her and that she couldn't take.
"Napoleon, I want you to send me away. Somewhere… by myself,"
He pulled back, looking at her incredulously. "What are you asking? Are you asking me to let you go off somewhere to be killed? Well, no deal. No deal, April. I'm not walking away from this."
"You've got to," April said, cupping his chin. "There's no reason for you to die. He wants me."
"Who do you think I am?" Napoleon said, backing away from her. "Somebody who can just walk away from you.? Leave you to die? Well no, lady. I'm in it to the end."
"Well I don't want you there," April shouted. "I don't want you there to die. Do anything for me, but not this. This bastard wants me, Napoleon. He wants me. I don't know how you get mixed up in it, but I do know I want you out of it."
He glared at her, she could see his anger rising. "No, if we go down, we go down fighting every step of the way. I'm not walking away from this so get used to it."
She turned from him, feeling the fruitlessness of the whole thing. "So I guess it's till death do us part?"
He grabbed her shoulder, spinning her around. "I'm a fighting man. I'm not planning on either of us dying…at least not soon."
April took a deep breath. "Okay, fine. We fight it together."
00000
Illya felt like a caged animal as he waited for his friends to come out of the kitchen. April had completely broken down, surprising even the Russian who'd left the two alone. Now he paced the floor. He thought of having a drink. April always kept a bottle of vodka for when he visited. But what would that serve. He needed to know who April Dancer really was to solve this case. He needed to dig into her past, something he wasn't particularly relishing.
Illya had been told that her father had served in the military, yet he was always suspicious of the story. There was something about April that spoke of a more aristocratic background. Perhaps it was her manner of speaking, almost British in intonation, suggesting a woman who traveled often. And she spoke almost as many languages as he. Illya recalled conversing with her in several languages, all spoken with an upper-class accent.
And then there was her decidedly unmilitary bearing—a way of walking, her movements not as precise as one raised by a military father. She had a tendency of questioning orders, to even change them if the situation suited her.
Illya came from a military family, his father having served in the Russian army. There was always a certain behavior among military children, a sort of blind obedience. A respect for rules, order. April lacked that, but it had always been a personal matter. Until now.
Illya flopped down in the overstuffed chair, running a tired hand over his face, observing the living room. April had decorated it with an eclectic mix of styles. Her talent showing in the paintings on the wall, the restored furniture, antique with a rustic flavor that lent the room a cozy yet functional appeal. She had a bar, also restored by the female agent that sat flush against a wall, its creamy white appearance lending it a feel of another century.
Again he considered the drink, imagining the burning sensation as he drank it, feeling the instant relaxation it would lend him. He was tired, drained, and knew his friends were even more so. They'd been through a lot, a voyage to hell, but they hadn't come back yet. He braced himself for what he would have to do next. Fiercely private, the Russian didn't take delving into someone's past lightly.
Seconds later, his two friends emerged from the kitchen. Napoleon held April's hand as he led her to the sofa. Both sat down, April looking embarrassed. Illya instantly decided against the drink. He needed his wits about him if he hoped to change the future. He wasted no time in getting to the point.
"I need to know about your past," he said, getting up to sit in the chair nearer the sofa.
Now he was sitting directly in front of her, leaning back, the notebook and pen poised in his hand.
"Okay," the female agent said, taking a deep breath. "Fire away,"
Illya turned the page of the notebook. Have you been involved with anyone recently who may hold a grudge against you? Someone who may be obsessed with you?"
April shook her head. "No, other than the usual nefarious citizens we deal with everyday."
"I mean of a romantic nature at UNCLE?" Illya stammered, keeping his eyes trained on his notes. "This could easily be a crime of passion."
"I've gone out on a few dates. Never with an enforcement agent of course."
"Of course," Illya replied, clearing his throat.
"Could be a case of unrequited love." Napoleon added.
"Have you rejected anyone recently?" Illya continued, as he scribbled the reply to the previous question.
"Sure, most of the male population of UNCLE, present company excluded of course,"
She'd said it lightly, but Illya sensed she was leaving something out. He was about to say something about it when Napoleon spoke, "April, forget I'm the CEA and answer the question."
April hesitated for a moment. "One agent didn't like the word 'no'."
"What do you mean?" Illya asked as he scribbled another note.
"Jay Hampstead. I've turned him down numerous times, but he keeps coming back."
"And he's an enforcement agent," Illya added. "well aware of the rules."
"Doesn't stop some men when it comes to an attractive woman." Napoleon supplied. Illya could see the anger boiling under the CEA's surface, but he appeared calm as he listened to April.
"Has he ever threatened you?" Illya asked, scratching yet another note on the paper.
"Well, I had to pin Jay against the wall when he came in the women's dressing room?"
"What!" Napoleon said, glaring between his two friends. "Why didn't you report this?"
"I handled it." April said tersely. "Napoleon, I'm the first female agent. There's going to be some battles I'm just going to have to face alone. You're not going to always be there. I handled it and he left me alone."
"What happened? Tell me everything," Napoleon ordered. He was in full CEA mode now.
"I stayed late one evening after the party. You remember the one a few months back." She paused looking from one man to the other. Both nodded their heads. "I had spilled some wine on my blouse and needed to change so I went to the locker room. I usually keep some clothes there, just in case."
That was true of most UNCLE agents. They had a dirty business, often ruining suits with blood not always theirs. Most agents kept a change of clothes.
"I had just removed my blouse when I heard a sound. I turned around and found Jay standing there. He was drunk. I told him to get out. I was very clear that I wasn't interested. But he wouldn't listen. He came toward me anyway. Frankly, he was a bit intimidating, but I stood my ground."
"Jay weighs about three hundred pounds of pure muscle, April. Why didn't you ring the security alarm?" Napoleon asked.
"The security alarm is for the rest of Uncle's female population. Not a field agent." She paused, clearing her throat. "I ask you. If you had been alone, and Jay had approached either of you, would you have hit the security alarm?" April looked at both men waiting for a reply. When none came she continued. "He made his intentions known."
"How?" Illya asked.
"He unzipped his pants?" April stated quickly. She looked down at her hands like she had something to be ashamed of.
"You're telling me he attempted to sexually assault you?" Napoleon said sharply. "This should have been reported. The man should have been punished and discharged immediately."
"He was drunk. A lot of us were. Probably doesn't even remember what happened. I handled it."
Napoleon was practically shaking with rage. "Okay. Then what happened?"
"He came toward me and I told him to get out. He said he knew that I wanted him. That it was the reason I left the party and came in there. He was drunk Napoleon. Didn't really know what he was doing. I told him I wasn't interested, but he didn't listen. Kept saying how he knew I had it for him. He grabbed me. That's when I let him have it."
Napoleon's eyes bulged. "Have what?"
"My fist, silly. I knocked him out with one jab. Wasn't hard considering how drunk he was. I tied him up and waited for him to come to. He did after a few minutes. He apologized for the misunderstanding and begged me to untie him. I did and he left. That was it."
"April, he could have…" Napoleon started.
"I'm more than capable of taking care of myself, thank you very much."
"Okay. You got a black belt in Karate. You're adept at more than one fighting style, but the man is over three hundred pounds of pure muscle. He's 6'5. He's bested more than one agent in practice. You can't underestimate him."
"I had him tied like a squealing pig, Napoleon."
"Next time something like that happens, you tell me. That's an order."
April saluted him as if they were in the army. "Yes, sir."
"I mean it, April. I won't have my agents harassed."
April patted his hand. "I know and I'm sorry. It's just that it's hard for a woman. Jay hasn't been the first aggressive man I encountered."
"I know, but he's an UNCLE agent and we have rules governing conduct for agents."
"Is he the only one?" Illya asked, anxious to move on.
"Pretty much. The rest got tired of asking and left me alone. And outside of UNCLE, well, I really haven't had the time to pursue a relationship,"
April looked embarrassed so Illya moved on.
"You mentioned having a fiancé once," he said, remembering a past conversation he had with her one day at the Victorian house.
"Yes, but I broke it off."
Illya cleared his throat. He needed to know about April's fiancé. Dumping someone could easily lead to violence. He knew that first hand. It hadn't been that long ago when he'd broken off a relationship to pursue the woman he loved. His girlfriend at the time hadn't been too happy about it, turning from a sweet, unassuming woman into a fierce hellcat, bent on revenge. The woman had sworn she would get him if it took everything she had to do it. Yet he'd done the honorable thing by breaking off the relationship.
"Tell me about your ex-fiancé," he asked, resting his eyes on the female agent. He could see the indecision in her eyes. He was preparing to argue why he needed the information when she spoke.
"There are things about my past I've chosen not to share with anyone but Napoleon," she said. Illya felt a warm rush, but he kept unwavering eyes on her. He really was treading in areas he wasn't wanted, but what choice did he have?
"I was born in Boston to very wealthy parents…" she began.
Harold Wainright was a handsome young man who was spoiled by years of pampering at his parents hands. April had originally consented to marriage in hopes of pleasing her father, a rather demanding man who saw women as things to be ordered about. It was a week before the wedding when she realized she couldn't go through with it. She told Harold promptly. He didn't take the news well, calling her a tramp, saying that she only wanted to sleep around, not settle down and have a husband and children. But what April really wanted was freedom. She had spent her whole life under the watchful eye of her father. And he was a cruel man, capable of exacting punishment for the simplest perceived indiscretions. She'd watched her mother cower in fear of his temper. And she didn't want that sort of life for herself
Her father had been livid, accusing her of being selfish, slapping her across the face when she refused to marry the man who only meant a company merger for him. She left for New York the next day. Her father promptly cut off all money, leaving her with only the clothes in her suitcase and five-hundred dollars in her purse. She never heard from her parents again. Not even her mother whom she loved above all others. She knew that her father had not only taken away her financial support, but her mother as well. She was alone for the first time in her life.
Life was hard after leaving her family. She had a degree in art history, a field that could do little in helping her to acquire sufficient employment. She had taken odd jobs here and there, some clerical, nothing that lasted longer than three months. She had been tempted a few times to use her looks to succeed. She had more than a few offers, all sounding better than life as Harold's wife. But her strict moral upbringing had gotten in the way and she had settled for a position as a waitress at a small diner. She barely made ends meet and spent her days fighting off the advances of men. Then one day an older gentleman arrived.
His car had broken down on the highway. It was a hot, sultry day and the man had walked for two miles before he reached the diner. He'd sat while April dotted on him. He sort of reminded her of her grandfather who had passed away when she was only a child.
She and the old man had talked for nearly an hour before a car came to pick him up. One week later she received a signed invitation to have lunch with him. She accepted and April Dancer was born.
Most at UNCLE were told that she was the daughter of an ex-military man. Even Mark believed that. Only Napoleon and Waverly knew the truth, a fact that she was grateful for. She didn't want anyone to know that she was the daughter of a millionaire, a man who practiced law as a hobby, a man who had rejected his own daughter.
Telling her story to Illya brought it all back—the betrayal of her family, the life she once had, now replaced with a better one.
"Now you know everything, Illya. Except for my real name," she said mischievously.
"April Dancer will suffice," he said, meeting her eyes, clearly communicating his intentions to leave her with at least one secret.
"To maintain your privacy, I'll leave it to Napoleon to check the computer regarding your ex-fiancé. Illya stood to leave. "I'll check and see if there are any deaths reported. Your vision indicated five victims. Perhaps our killer has already struck."
"Thanks Illya," she said, coming over and kissing him on the cheek.
The Russian blushed then turned and left. And as April watched him leave, she knew they would find no trace of the killer.
Chapter Five
It had been two days since the vision. Two days of searching for answers and finding none. Now April, needing to get away from the continued stress she found herself under entered the UNCLE gymnasium. It was early yet, too early for the average denizen of UNCLE to even consider working out which was why she was there at six o'clock in the morning. She hated being stared at, her every move analyzed because she was the first female enforcement agent and the only one currently assigned to New York. There were many who believed that women didn't belong at UNCLE; at least not as enforcement agents. It was for that reason that she always worked out early in the morning.
April headed to the locker room. The gym was icy cold, in preparation for the many bodies that would inhabit it less than two hours from now. She dressed quickly, pulling on the shorts and stretchy top then making her way to the gym.
April decided that she didn't need the lights on in the rest of the gym so only the boxing area was illuminated. This area contained several punching bags and a large ring. April stood in front of a medium sized bag, her body poised to strike. Within minutes she was punching the bag with all she had, releasing the anger and frustration of what she was going through.
Suddenly April's attention was drawn to the perimeter of the room. She was certain she'd seen someone move in the darkened corner. It looked like a man of substantial size, but now as she looked she saw nothing.
She scanned the darkness, making out the exercise equipment to her right, the basketball court near the entrance to the locker room, and finally the martial arts practice area directly in front of her. But nowhere did she see a man. She was just about to return to the punching bag when something moved then stopped.
"Is there anyone there?" she asked and waited for a reply. But no one responded.
She felt so vulnerable out in the open. She was reasonably certain she'd seen someone now the hairs on the back of her neck were standing on end.
"I know you're there. I would suggest you come out or suffer the consequences."
They were brave words but she was frantic with fear. Nevertheless she was rewarded when a figure emerged. Now it stood, the light illuminating him just a little, but not enough for recognition. April imagined the man smiling, enjoying her discomfort.
"Who's there?" she asked, her voice carefully controlled not to portray fear. But again she received no answer. Now cold fury swept through her. "If this is some sort of game I suggest you find someone else to play with."
The figure moved again. April could see the outline of his body now. He was a large man, his arms pressed rigidly to his sides. She watched as the darkness parted and the large, lumbering figure of the man emerged. It was Jay Hampstead.
He stood there, his eyes undressing her. Neither spoke for seconds, and then she moved forward, grabbing her towel from the ropes.
"So what brings you here this early, Jay?" she asked, careful to keep her voice leveled. She didn't want him to sense her fear.
He shrugged. "Came to see you. Knew you like to come here in the morning sometimes. Thought what the hell."
She noticed he wasn't dressed for the gym nor was he carrying a bag that could contain his gym clothes. Instead he wore a short-sleeved white shirt, black pleated pants and a tie. His muscles were showing, rippling as he walked toward her.
She backed away as he advanced. He was still looking her up and down, a smirk on his face. Every now and then his eyes would dart around the room as if he were checking to see if they were alone.
"So what say you and I get together one of these evenings?" Jay asked slowly.
April grabbed her towel from the ropes and wiped the sweat from her face. She needed to get out of there now. They were alone in a part of the building that didn't have cameras. The elimination of cameras was done to give the personnel some feeling of privacy. The gym was in the basement near the center of the building. It was believed to be secure because of its location. Now it had become her own private hell for no one would hear her if she called for help. Napoleon was right. Jay was a formidable fighter against the strongest man and she barely reached his shoulders in height.
"You know how I feel about that, Jay. And there are rules concerning fraternizations between enforcement agents."
"You don't seem to mind when it comes to Napoleon and that commie bastard." He said, his dark eyes flashing in anger, moving forward as he wiped his hands across his chin.
"I'm not going to dignify that with an answer," she said tersely. "The gym is yours." She bolted past him, intent on returning to her office. A shower could wait until there were more people around. But he moved quickly, grabbing her arm, and spinning her around to face him.
"Probably doing it with the old man, too," he said. "Is that how you got your job? The old man first and then Napoleon and the commie?"
April turned her arm sharply to the left, breaking the hold. Jay raised his hands as if in surrender, backing away from her. "Come on, nobodies here. Why don't we have some fun? It will be a kick doing it right here at headquarters."
"I already told you I'm not interested." She started for the door, her heart racing. She heard his footsteps as he followed her. In seconds he had his arms around her in a bear-hug. She could barely breathe, but she struggled against his embrace.
"I'm not drunk now and I think a man and a woman can find something better to do besides fighting," Jay hissed.
And then he grabbed her breast roughly. April slammed her hill into the instep of his feet and he let her go. April staggering then fell to the floor. She rolled onto her back, feet braced, knees bent. He was coming at full speed, his eyes blazing. Once he was in striking distance, she sent her feet sailing into his groin. She missed as he averted his body just in time. Then he was on her, both of them struggling on the floor, bodies rolling as April struck him in the face, aiming for his eyes. But he was strong and held her with fierce determination. April made a decision. She wasn't about to make it easy.
0000000
Napoleon was getting dressed when he had the overwhelming feeling that April was in danger. He knew she was at the gym because she'd mentioned going in early to workout. Now he kicked himself for not insisting on accompanying her everywhere she went until the case was solved, but the visions had not been about headquarters. She was safe there, or so he had thought.
He picked up his communicator and tried to call her, but she didn't answer, which may only mean that she was either working out or was in the shower and couldn't hear the communicator. Or she was in danger and unable to reach it.
"Open channel D," he said, his heart racing.
00000
April had put up quite a fight, landing more than one good blow against the large man, but in the end Jay was winning. She couldn't keep fighting. Now he had her pinned, his hot breath making her gag, his body sprawled on top of her. She was dizzy from her last attempt at getting away when he'd slammed her head to the floor. The man was careful not to hit her anywhere that could be seen. It would be her word against his.
"You're gonna like it baby. I'm gonna make you want to dump those two friends of yours once you get a piece of me," he whispered in her ear.
"I told you no. Let me up Jay. Let me up and we'll forget all about it."
She hated the pleading sound in her voice, but she was desperate. She'd always imagined that something like this could happen in the field. Not at headquarters by a man who promised to uphold the law.
Jay ran his hands down her body then slipped his hands between her legs. He lingered there for a second, rubbing her back and forwards.
She screamed knowing that there was no one to hear her, but she had to try.
Jay laughed. "Isn't that sweet. The little enforcement lady screaming like a regular girl,"
"Let me go. I'll report this. You'll---,"
"Your word against mine, April. No one gonna believe you. They never believe the woman."
April locked eyes with him, her voice cold. "You'll pay if you ever touch me."
But he merely laughed. He roughly pulled her hands over her head, holding them effortlessly with one hand. With his free hand he pulled off her shorts and pried her legs apart. Soon April heard him open his zipper and then he positioned himself between her legs. Her mind distanced itself from her body. It was a meditation technique she'd learned in her yoga studies. And she was grateful for it. She wouldn't have to be there for what Jay was about to do.
Distantly she heard her name being called, and the sound of running feet. And then the large man was lifted away and she looked into the blue eyes of Illya Kuryakin.
Illya sat down next to her, taking her hands, but she still wasn't ready to come back. At least not yet. She saw the curious stares of the guards as they took Jay away. He seemed unconscious and April wondered if Illya had done something to him.
The Russian removed his jacket and covered her lower body. It was only then that she saw her shorts lying on the floor, a witness to what had occurred. Then he was handing them to her and turning his back so she could get dressed. She did so in a cool, detached way, the shame burning her like a hot iron.
It had been her fault, she thought. Her fault for coming to workout in an unsecured area. Her fault for not reporting the man the first time he'd tried something. Her fault all of it.
Someone entered the room and she heard the Russian roar, commanding them to get out. Now they were alone.
"How did you know?" April asked.
"Napoleon called."
The Russian stood, offering his hand. She stared at it for a moment, then took it
"Come on, we need to get you to the infirmary."
She leaned heavily on him as he led her from the room.
0000
Napoleon arrived soon after April was situated in the infirmary. He found Illya in the waiting room drinking a cup of coffee.
"I heard as soon as I got here. I need to see her."
"Sit down my friend, she is fine. The doctor is tending to her injuries now."
Illya watched his friend fall apart. Napoleon was clinching and unclenching his hands as if he pictured Jay's neck within his reach.
Illya still remembered the frantic call. He had gone in early to get some work done. He was in their shared office and Napoleon had asked him to check on April. "She's in danger," he'd said, and Illya had immediately thought of the vision. But Napoleon had gone on, telling him that she was in the gym and that something was happening because he was nearly going out of his mind.
Illya had wasted no time in getting to the gym, commandeering two guards as he went. He didn't know what he was walking into, but he trusted his friend.
Now the dark-haired agent stared at the door to her room and Illya wondered briefly how he knew which room she was in. The infirmary had a dozen such rooms.
"Wait till I get my hands on that bastard," Napoleon said, his hands balled into tight fist.
"You will not need to, my friend. Mr. Waverly is seeing to him."
Which meant a trial would follow. If he were found innocent, he would be returned to duty. Of course that wouldn't happen because Illya and two guards had both witnessed the crime. The man would be found guilty.
"We won't see him again," Illya said.
Napoleon didn't say anything, his eyes still riveted on the door to April's room. They both knew the penalty for a crime against a fellow agent. Jay would not serve one day in jail. He would not return to his former life, his memory of UNCLE erased. Instead he would simply disappear. No questions would be asked. None would be needed. He was a dangerous man. A man who simply couldn't be unleashed on society.
"Did he….did he…" Napoleon asked, sitting heavily in a chair.
"I don't know. I think I got there in time."
"Thank you for believing me when I called," Napoleon said.
"How could I not?"
The door opened and a middle-aged man with brown hair and a determined chin walked in. It was Doctor Timmons, the chief physician at UNCLE headquarters. Illya recalled the man treating him many times in the infirmary. He was a gentle man, his pain for what the agents suffered palpable.
"How is she? Can I see her? Is she hurt?" Napoleon asked the doctor in rapid fire succession. The doctor came in and took a seat.
"She's fine. A little shaken, but doing pretty well considering. She can go home and I suggest she take a few days off. Maybe a week."
"Can I see her?" Napoleon asked quickly.
"Yes. Go right in. She's awake." Napoleon rushed to the room, leaving the doctor and Illya alone.
"Is she really okay?" Illya asked, remembering the frightened woman and their long walk to the infirmary.
"Yes, considering. She has been through a frightening ordeal. And by the hands of a colleague no less. She will need the support of her friends." The doctor paused, his green eyes meeting Illya's. "I'm aware of the close friendship you share. I suggest you surround her with it now. Let her know that she's going to be okay. Take her to that Victorian house of yours for a few days."
Illya smiled, remembering how they always returned to the Victorian house. Even after everything had happened to him. After losing Lisa, he still went there. He still enjoyed fishing up the road. Still enjoyed the country atmosphere and spending time with Roy.
"Yes, I'll let Napoleon know immediately. It sounds like a good idea."
"Good," The doctor stood, offering his hand. "I'll give Waverly my prescription for one week at the Victorian house. Friends included, of course." He smiled as Illya took his hand and shook it gratefully. They did need a little diversion, Illya thought. Someplace where they could forget the world and the Victorian house was the place to do it.
0000
April was sitting on the bed when Napoleon entered. She had some bruising on her arm, but otherwise seemed unharmed. At least physically. He still didn't know how far Jay had gotten. Napoleon sat on the bed and met April's eyes.
"I'm sorry, Napoleon."
Napoleon was perplexed. "What for?"
"For being stupid. For not listening. I really thought I could handle him. And now look."
"It's not your fault. It's my fault for not seeing the type of man he was. It's my job to notice these things and I failed."
"No you didn't. He was good at hiding it."
"Not that good. He was always loose cannon, but he's got the job done so we kept him. I should have let him go a long time ago."
Napoleon realized April's hands were shaking. He wanted to touch her, calm her, tell her everything was going to be alright. But he'd seen rape victims in the past. Many didn't want to be touched. Some were so traumatized that they would never be the same again. All their lives fearful of men. Never seeking the intimacy of touch. Never knowing the love of a man.
"He's in custody now," he said slowly, his voice barely above a whisper. He'll be taken care of."
"I know. I won't have to worry about him. None of us will."
Napoleon knew what she meant. Jay had been a suspect, but now, he was no longer a candidate. Nevertheless, he would make sure things were carried out. He would be there the last day Jay breathed.
April didn't say anything for a while, her hands shaking, looking at him with sad eyes. He threw caution to the wind and grasped her hand. He sat down on the bed and gathered her in his arms. She did not pull away.
"Did he hurt you?" he whispered.
April took a deep breath as Napoleon waited for the answer. If Jay touched her he wouldn't be accountable for his actions. UNCLE wouldn't get a chance to take care of the man because he would do it with his bare hands.
"No," April finally said. "Illya got there in time, but if he hadn't. If he had come just a few minutes later…"
"Don't," Napoleon said, pulling her closer, kissing the top of her head. "He got there in time. You're safe now. He'll never hurt you again. No one will ever hurt you again."
She rested her head on his chest as he smoothed her hair. Napoleon could feel some of the tension leave her body.
"What good am I if I can't take care of myself? What happens in the field? To me? To my partner? They're right. I'm a danger to whoever is partnered with me. Mark might as well be on his own for the good I'll do."
"Listen to me, April. You're a superior agent. One of my best agents. I trust you with my life. So does Mark. So does Illya. But if you think that means you can beat every man on the planet, you're wrong. Nobody can do that. Not even me believe it or not."
April laughed, drawing back to look into Napoleon's eyes. "And here I thought you were invincible,"
"No, my dear, but what I am is psychic. Somehow. At least when it comes to you. I guess you rubbed off on me."
"Illya told me how he knew."
"Yes, and I can't explain it."
"Well, welcome to my world."
"Oh, well, at least we're in this together." Napoleon said smiling.
Chapter Six
They returned a week later from their vacation at the Victorian house. During their stay, Napoleon managed to discover that all of April's former boyfriends were happily involved with someone else or living in another country. None appeared to have a grudge against her. Most spoke fondly of their time together.
April's ex-fiancé was now a married man with two beautiful children. He headed his father's company, the old man having retired two years earlier. So that left them with nothing—no leads, and closer to a future date none of them wanted to think of.
Now all three agents sat in April's office. In a few days a forth member would join the team--her partner Mark. Currently he was on assignment in an undisclosed area somewhere in Europe. April had decided to tell him everything when he returned. She fully expected him to go into big brother mode and though she would never admit it, she looked forward to it. Mark was protective in the way most partners were with each other. He wouldn't be pleased to discover that he had been left out of the loop yet again. Still, how could she call her partner and tell him she was going to die soon?
"Penny for your thoughts." Solo said, perching on the edge of her desk.
April looked into his deep brown eyes. His smile was reassuring, but she could see the ordeal was having an affect on the CEA. She saw lines that hadn't been there before. He seemed tired, listless, on edge. They'd had an entire week at the Victorian house. A week of fishing, reading books on the veranda, and talking into the late hours of the morning. Yet when they returned, the weariness had returned with them.
"Nothing much," she said, trying to put on a smile. "Just thinking how lucky I am to have such good friends."
She was indeed lucky. Both men had doted on her, seeing to her every need, never leaving her alone. For the most part her recovery had been quick. All agents went through psychological training to endure ordeals of every kind. Theirs was a dangerous business. One had to have good coping skills just to survive.
"We better get back to work before Waverly suspects something," Illya said, rising from the chair.
Illya was blushing from her last comment. April thought it was remarkable that the stoic Russian appeared cold to the world, yet beneath it all was a warm caring individual.
At that precise moment Waverly's secretary called ordering them to his conference room.
They found Waverly sitting in the conference room, eyes downcast as he flipped through a folder. He didn't acknowledge their presence as each sat around the table. He seemed tense, his body hunched over the files, his face furrowed in contemplation. When Waverly looked up, his eyes were distant, his face marred with worry, the dark circles prominent under the eyes. Waverly cleared his throat. "I shall dispense with the formalities and get straight to the point."
He flipped a switch and the picture of a distinguished looking man of about sixty appeared. He had thinning grey hair and eyes as blue as the sky.
"Wilford Calburn," Waverly began. "Award-winning scientist who died of a heart attack a little over a month ago. He developed a weapon, a small bomb that could fit on the head of a pin. If exploded, it could level ten city blocks. It's a dangerous weapon in the wrong hands."
Waverly added tobacco to his pipe and tapped it lightly on the table. "Mr. Calburn was a benevolent man. When he realized what he had invented he came to us and showed his invention. He had deep respect for our organization. In the end, however, he felt it too dangerous even for us and destroyed it. Or so we thought."
Napoleon tensed, thinking of the possibilities of a bomb the size of a pen head.
Waverly continued, "In spite of our best efforts to ensure its destruction, I have since discovered its existence. It seems Wilford Calburn couldn't bring himself to destroy his masterpiece. Instead he destroyed only the blueprints. The actual bomb has been left with his brother. It was placed inside an antique watch passed down from his grandfather."
The screen changed again and a man who bore an uncanny resemblance to Wilford Calburn appeared. He looked to be in his mid-fifties with the same striking eye color as his brother, but where Wilford seemed kind, his brother seemed distant, angry with the world. There was something about the face, the eyes cold, a smile that stopped short of a sneer.
He stole a glance at April. She was absolutely still, her body tense, her eyes narrowed as she took in the figure on the screen. She turned to him and their eyes locked and for a moment he saw nothing, felt nothing but their deep soul connection. Terror ran through him, drawing its icy claw down his spine. He fought to regain his composure, turning his head to look into the face of Thomas Calburn—the man with eyes as dark as night in spite of the blue, The mouth cruelly turned, the hands resting on the back of a chair—large, bone white hands. The hands of a killer.
"Thomas Calburn," Waverly began, bringing Napoleon's attention back. "Brother of Wilford Calburn. He and his brother were very close, but he is unlike his brother in many ways. He is a self-made man, uneducated, rich only through strategic investments and a somewhat shady past. He is strictly legitimate now. It is rumored that his wealth can be attributed to his assistant, a woman who is very devoted to him—one Cynthia Skylar."
Waverly paused then continued. "Which brings us to our present concern."
"I take it that his brother left him the watch?" Napoleon asked
"Indeed Mr. Solo. Indeed. It has been in the family for generations—an antique pocket watch."
Waverly flipped a switch and a swank nightclub appeared. Solo had seen the club on occasion, but had never frequented it. It was simply too retro for his taste. He enjoyed living in the present.
Now he looked at the dazzling marquee— pink, proclaiming the name of the club. And underneath the name a glass filled with pink liquid tilted to the side.
"The color pink," Napoleon mouthed. He looked at Illya. The Russian had the notepad out and was writing quickly. Even from where Solo sat he could recognize the Cyrillic writing which was shocking in itself. Illya always made a practice of writing in English..
"Mr. Calburn is the owner of a club called The Pink Martini. Strictly a hobby I'm told. It is believed that the bomb is either on his person or in one of his many residences throughout New York. Of course it could also be in the club."
"How do we know he has it?" Napoleon asked.
"We received a letter from Wilford Calburn," Waverly said, flipping a switch. The letter appeared on the screen.
Mr. Waverly,
Every man wants power, his fifteen minutes of fame. I once endeavored to achieve power by creating a devise so diabolical that I wanted to destroy it. In the end I couldn't do it.
If you are reading this, I am dead and my brother is now in possession of the weapon. It has been disarmed so it posses no threat to you. It is merely a way of claiming my immortality. I tell you this only so you will be aware of its existence.
Please accept my humble apologies.
Wilford Calburn
"He is a bitter man, lady, gentlemen. A man driven to extremes by the loss of a woman nearly twenty years ago," Waverly said.
Napoleon's heart skipped a beat and as he looked at April, he saw it had the same effect on her—she was deathly pale. It was Illya who asked the question that made his blood run cold.
"What happened to her, sir?"
"Her name was Sabrina Wellesley and he is obsessed with her. Nearly twenty years ago he operated the predecessor to The Pink Martini. It was his first business endeavor, long before he found his fortune. He employed Miss Wellesley as a singer at the establishment. Unfortunately, she ran away and he never got over it. There are rumors," Waverly said slowly. "That Miss Wellesley was killed by Mr. Calburn and her body hidden. My informants believe he was inflamed by jealousy. They were to be married, you see."
"And has no one sleeked to ascertain Miss Wellesley whereabouts?" Illya asked.
"We have, but unfortunately Miss Wellesley was using an assumed name. I'm afraid it is nearly impossible to find her…unless she wants to be found. Since her disappearance he has sought and perhaps killed other women. We were only able to locate two."
"And the others?" Napoleon asked, grasping a pen tightly in his hand.
"Five women have disappeared…that we know of. We have contacted their families, friends. They have simply vanished. I do not doubt Mr. Calburn's involvement in the matter. However, more is at steak. We must find the bomb or many could die."
"But what about the women?" April asked quickly.
"Our first priority is locating the bomb. The women are also of importance, but this must take precedence." Waverly said, leveling his eyes at each agent.
"Has he made any attempts to sell it, Mr. Waverly?" Kuryakin asked.
"No. I am almost certain Mr. Calburn is unaware of the power he holds. Which makes it all the more imperative to seek this weapon and have it destroyed. It must be found, lady, gentlemen. It must be found immediately."
Waverly looked at each of the three agents before turning his attention to Solo and continuing.
"He is delusional, recreating the club he had when Miss Wellesley was still a part of his life. Intelligence has indicated that his brother's death may have pushed him over the edge. He has no one now except his employees. Such is the man who holds the world's fate in his hands. Should he realize what he possesses…we are in a dire situation. I have no doubt he would sell it to the highest bidder…given his past."
The screen changed to that of an antique pocket watch, the gold trim nearly blinding to the eye.
"This is the watch," Waverly continued. "Wilford Calburn sent this picture along with the letter. It is a treasured family heirloom of little value. You see the grandfather was a poor man who had only this watch to treasure. Since his death over forty years ago, it has been passed to first the father and then Wilford. It was Wilford Calburn's idea of putting it in a watch. A sort of legacy to be passed down."
"I don't understand, sir. Why would he tell us of its existence and even provide a picture of it?" April asked.
"Simple. He was not aware of the power of the devise. You see he disarmed it, thereby making it useless. However what he didn't know is that even if it is disarmed, the very material it is made of presents a danger."
"Danger?" Napoleon asked.
"Indeed, Mr. Solo. You see, only after Mr. Calburn died did we discover a flaw in his design. The bomb will explode if exposed to extreme heat, such as fire,"
"And Wilford didn't know about that?" Illya asked.
"Unfortunately, test did not indicate the flaw until later. Once the devise was destroyed, we saw no reason in dredging it up."
"Has anyone tried to retrieve it?" Illya asked.
"Yes, we've made several attempts. To no avail. It is possible that it is hidden somewhere that we are unaware of or that he carries it on his person. In short, we've checked all of his homes. We've checked his deposit boxes. We cannot afford to alert him to the importance of the watch. We must therefore be discreet."
"How should we proceed?" Napoleon asked, his heart hammering.
"We go in, Mr. Solo. We go in. And soon."
Chapter Seven
The plan was set within days. Each of them would become a part of Thomas Calburn's life, befriending those he knew, observing his every move, becoming his best friend if possible. And most importantly, they were to avoid his discovery. They couldn't afford to let Calburn know power he held.
Now, Solo sat alone in his office going over the material that would help to save the world from a horrible fate. Solo focused on Calburn. The man didn't have many friends and went through women like they were nothing more than playthings. While Solo could relate to the man's appetite for women, there seemed something cold and calculating about the way Calburn did it--He dated only the very young, women who had an innocence about them. Women who were malleable in other words. He would hire them to sing at his nightclub, offering them a start to a career in show business. He had contacts around the world that more than ensured any woman of success and he flaunted it to his best advantage. Of course his intention was only to imprison them, make them into the woman they could never be: Sabrina Wellesley.
No one had seen a picture of Sabrina because Calburn had ordered them all destroyed, but descriptions indicated that she had light red hair and brown eyes. She was a beautiful woman with a talent to match. And Calburn had loved her. Napoleon was pretty sure he'd killed her as well, but finding Sabrina's family or anything about her past had led to a dead end. She was a woman who had never existed. And Calburn was a monster who killed her over and over again in the women who followed.
So now six women had disappeared. Was Sabrina the first? Was that what was meant by the sixth victim? Had April become confused, misinterpreting her vision to mean another life would be claimed when in fact six women were already dead?
Solo read through the interview of one of the women lucky to get away. Cindy Houghton said that Calburn suffocated her, demanding that she never leave his sight. She'd eventually come to her senses and left him. "I consider myself lucky to have gotten away," she'd said at the time of the interview, safe back home with her parents. "He threatened me. Made me feel I was nothing without him. I never doubted that he would have killed me if he had the chance," she'd continued. "But I have five brothers who put the fear of God into him."
Napoleon continued to read how the woman had been only twenty-one when she met him. How he had her color her hair to a light red color. How he taught her how to walk and talk like Sabrina. She was his prized protégée. But then one day, she grew up and wanted to leave. And Calburn was livid, threatening to ruin her career. And he had told her that he would see her dead before he let her go. It had taken stealth on her part to escape into the night and seek the protection of her family. Yet even now she was afraid for her life.
So Calburn had gone on, looking for the love of his life in every woman and never finding her, Solo thought.
Solo picked up a picture of an attractive blonde woman. Her name was Cynthia Skylar and she'd been Thomas Calburn's assistant for the past twenty-five years. She'd been there when Sabrina was a part of Calburn's life, but before that they'd been lovers, living together for several years. Now she was his confidant and sometimes lover, the woman many had said made him a rich man.
Cynthia had been educated in the best schools. Solo figured the woman had to be in love with Calburn to give up the outstanding career her education could have afforded her. Now she was forty-five, never married, and had no children. Not an enviable position for most women. Solo felt sorry for her. She was still attractive, but wasting her life on a man who would never love her.
Solo picked the next picture up. It was a man of about thirty with short, brown hair and delicate features. John Philip worked under Cynthia, but he was a friend of Calburn. Many described him as an opportunist who was waiting for Cynthia Skylar to vacate her position so he could take over. But that wasn't likely to happen. Thomas trusted Cynthia implicitly, still relying on her business acumen. An acumen he lacked.
Napoleon sighed. Within a few days, everything would be in place. April had already gotten a job at the club as a waitress. Her job was to keep an eye on things going on at the club, and to grab Calburn's attention if possible. Napoleon hadn't wanted her in on the case for the obvious reasons, but there weren't that many female UNCLE agents available. In fact, three years after April had been recruited; there were scarcely more than ten female agents around the world.
And then there was Illya. He'd used his musical talent to secure a position in the band. He'd let it slip that he was also a voice coach— that in case they needed it later. April was going in as a waitress, but they all figured that Calburn would hire her as a singer once he got a look at her since he'd never replaced the last girl.
As for Napoleon, he would be a customer who catches the eye of Cynthia Skylar. He hoped to garner information from her that would lead him to the bomb.
Napoleon leaned forward, his shoulders hunched, the weight of the world seemingly on them. He felt like a clock was ticking, the sound growing louder as time passed. He had no doubt Thomas Calburn was the man in April's vision. And somehow it would end with death. He could only hope the death would be his.
TBC
