Waiting Games
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The carved name was rough under his fingers, the rest of the stone was polished and smooth. Sainte-Geneviève-des-Bois, but a graveyard is a graveyard. Harry Beldon had laid no wreath, he'd brought no flowers. He'd only come to say goodbye.
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"I've been waiting seven years for this moment", his own words, hollow now, mock him. He hurls the empty gun away with a curse. It is over. It's as clear as the sound of Kuryakin's harsh breathing on the other side of the ledge. He ducks as another bullet cracks into the rocks above his head; a flying shard scrapes his cheek.
Too long, he knows he's waited too long.
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"Go away Harry."
She stood at the window her back to him, arms crossed, holding herself in. She hadn't changed at all. Her hair had the same honeyed glow, the milk pale skin, those disquieting eyes; she hadn't changed at all.
"Why Anouk... why Victor?" He asked the question he'd come to ask.
She remained silent, staring out at the green tunnel of the old garden as though a reason might rise from its mossy paths. Her voice was flat when she finally answered. "Victor gives me security. A future for the girl."
"And what does he get from you?" the sharpness of his own voice surprised him.
"I invite people to the Salon."
"And you introduce them to Victor's friends."
She turned toward him then and shrugged, her eyes pure ice. "Tout le monde comes to the Rue Jacob, you know that. You're the one who always told me it was all a game. Mischa has been dead for three years Harry. How long did you want me to wait for you?"
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He pulled the leather curtains closed to shut out the night as the train hurtled north on its way to Berlin. He took the flask from his pocket, the Armagnac slid down his throat, smoky and warm. So that's New York's golden boy, he mused, the new generation; all Cutter's spit and Waverly's polish. You're a clever devil, Carlo-he raised his flask in a silent salute-assigning Solo to drive me these last two days in Geneva. Carlo had made his point. Alexander was shaping UNCLE in his own image.
He was fifty years old, and he'd waited too long for old men to get out of the way. London should have been his, now he had Berlin instead. Berlin, where East and West bled into each other, where he would make his own destiny. He'd get his own young men, as good as Solo, better; mold them into his weapons. UNCLE Berlin was waiting. It would make him or break him.
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"Dammit Illya, you could have put up a fight to stay here," the words burst out in a shout. "You don't belong in New York. America is black and white, you have no idea how parochial they are. Another year, and I'll be Northeast. You'll be my Chief of Enforcement."
"I would hardly call Alexander Waverly parochial."
He'd waited too long to put his cards on the table. He could read it in Kuryakin's downturned mouth, the hunch of his shoulders as he picked at the fruit bowl, the way he swirled his port without looking up.
"UNCLE is not Waverly's personal fiefdom. Do you think Talbott and that popinjay Solo will really accept you? Is that who you want to play second fiddle to? Your future is here."
Kuryakin raised his eyes then, his face closed. "I go and I do what I am told to."
Frustrated, he pounded his hand on the table. "Don't play dumb Russian with me. You've been plotting this for months, haven't you. Since you and Solo met on that Oostende run."
He could feel Kuryakin withdraw, heard the chill in his voice.
"You are being ridiculous Harry. For better or worse, my future is in New York."
He bit down on his fury, knew he should hide it. He picked up his glass and forced a smile.
"A toast then, Illya Nikovetch. To the road not taken."
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Dynastie. Berlin's favorite Chinese restaurant. City of lies, city of spies. All of them here, watching each other and waiting; hiding in plain sight. Harry knows this game inside out.
He entered the private dining room without knocking, closed the door quickly behind him. The room was dark and sleek, the laquered table and chairs the only hint of the East. The tabletop gleamed in the light from the recessed grill just above, the man waiting for him sat half in shadow.
"Exquisite pidan, better than I've found in Paris. Surprising." Victor Marton gestured with the enameled chopsticks, his eyes glittered as he leaned into the light; he didn't bother to get up. "Bonsoir Harry, sit down my old friend, sit down. Anouk always said it was just a question of time, but I confess, I had begun to wonder how long it would take you to join us."
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He's on the ground now, bruised and spent, no match in the end for the younger man. The shooting has stopped, silence and smoke drift up from below. Illya up here, Solo down there. Partners. Waverly's men. Bile rises in his throat; the old fox has won after all. But he can take Kuryakin with him, the thought comes, fierce and satisfying. If he hadn't come to Berlin, hadn't fooled him with eyes just like Mischa's eyes...
He fumbles in his jacket, finds the grenade. Makes his last move, he pulls the pin.
All those years, all that waiting-reduced to five seconds. No time at all. An eternity.
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The letters carved in the granite feel rough when he runs his fingers across them. Sainte-Geneviève-des-Bois, always silent, crowded with graves.
"You should have waited for me Mischa. We were partners, why did you go to Narva alone?"
"And what kept you away Harry?" The same words as always ring in his head. "Red lipstick? cheap perfume? another bottle of wine?"
"It was supposed to be a game Mischa, why did you forget that it was meant to be just a game? You and Alex, Dima, Samoy-when did you turn it into a war?"
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The grenade slips out of his nerveless hand and rolls away.
He sees realization dawn on Kuryakin's face. The familiar blue eyes meet his for a moment, then the Russian turns without a word and launches himself off the rocks into the water below.
No time left at all now. The waiting is over.