THE WEATHER-OR-NOT AFFAIR
Prologue
The Post lay across his desk, opened to a certain article: "Tempest Trax Tornadoes."
Kuryakin gave the story a quick scan and tossed it aside. Napoleon Solo appeared with coffees and files.
"That scientist is in town," Solo mentioned with studied indifference. "What's-er-name? Stormy?"
"Tempest."
"oh, yeah. I seem to recall you two were hot and heavy last summer."
"Hmmm…"
"Paper says she'll be here for a week, lecturing, fund raising…"
"Uh-huh." The Russian concentrated on counting his paper clips.
"She's staying at the Plaza. Shall I have your mail forwarded?" inquired the ever-solicitous Chief of Enforcement Agents.
Illya took a long drink of coffee.
"OK, I give up," Solo declared. His teasing was frustrated by his partner's lack of response. He began to drone on about the details of their new mission.
"252," Illya interjected inconsequentially.
Solo pulled a puzzled expression out of the files. "What?"
"Flight 252. 1:30 pm. Gate 17. Suite 1450."
# # # # #
He stood in the crowded concourse waving a sign that read "Traverse." She spotted him, and pinned him with a smoldering gaze that never wavered. Her deliberate, direct path toward him was calculated to produce the maximum drama of their reunion.
"Dr. Traverse," he made a short bow.
"Dr. Kuryakin, " she nodded in acknowledgement.
They gave deferential handshakes as respected colleagues, and he carried her bag to the parking lot.
"Wanna fool around in the back seat?" she lifted her eyebrows suggestively.
"I'm driving." He replied shortly.
"Well, then I guess we'll have to fool around in the front seat."
Act 1 Tempest, and a tea pot
Illya Kuryakin had met Tess Traverse during a slump his partner diagnosed as "adrenaline deficiency." Their recent missions had been predictable and pedestrian, providing minimum job satisfaction. Then the team was dispatched to the Great Plains of Oklahoma to capture Dr. Nimbus. The Thrush scientist was developing a weather control system, and world economies were facing disruption.
Tess and Illya's lives collided in a corn field. He had been plowing his car through sideways, chasing a flock of Thrush. She had been barreling down a dirt road, her eyes focused on a threatening cloud formation.
They collided, and each stamped out of their vehicle and slammed their doors. "What are you, nuts? This is very expensive equipment! You've interrupted my chase—I've waited thirty-eight hours for this system to develop! Look at this wind—I'll never catch it now!" she wailed.
"My-dear-young-woman-" he clipped off each syllable precisely. Kuryakin could become excruciatingly courteous when he was angry. "I was in pursuit of some very dangerous individuals, and your reckless driving has allowed them to escape!"
She made a quick evaluation and determined that her vehicle was at least road-worthy.
"Hop in, Buster."
He shoved her across the seat and secured the steering wheel. "My name—" he cranked the key "—is not—" he jammed the stick into gear"—"Buster!" He tramped the gas pedal and the van lurched forward, mowing down innocent vegetation.
Since the crash had lost him all trail of his quarry, he charged after a secondary target—her storm. The van bounced and careened and tossed her against the door, against the dash. "You're some driver!" she shouted against the wind.
"Close enough for you?" he hollered back and she whipped out the camera from around her neck and started filming.
"Stop!" she yelled, and bolted out of the van. She pointed the camera directly above her to capture the violence in the sky.
Kuryakin leapt out beside her. After all, there was still the matter of exchanging insurance information.
Then a scalpel of lightening sliced the sky open and rain drenched them. She gleamed blue-white as the bolts sizzled across the plains, thunder shaking the ground beneath their feet and echoing forever. "Isn't it glorious!"
She grabbed him in a frenzied, full-body kiss with a passion that seemed part of the storm itself. His arms tightened around her and they remained clenched together while slivers of rain pelted them dizzy. She dragged her lips across his cheek and next to his ear. "We really should hit the ground," she invited urgently, "we're prime targets for stray strikes like this."
They rolled down into the mud, managing to remain wildly wound around each other.
"Miss—"
She shook her head. "It's Doctor—Dr. Tess Traverse."
"DR. Illya Kuryakin," he emphasized his rarely-used title. The handshake felt silly and superfluous, considering the intensity of the embrace.
"Meteorology."
"Quantum mechanics."
"U of Tulsa."
"Cambridge."
She smiled. "You win this round. I study storms."
"I battle bad guys."
She looked him up and down. "Dr. Kuryakin, I do believe you're all wet. May I offer you a towel and a cup of tea in my little house on the prairie?"
# # # # #
Act 2 Lightning strikes
The towel was welcome, the tea bracing, but the chit-chat in the cramped research trailer was stilted. It was as if words were a physical barrier impeding their instant intimacy.
"My partner is the one with the flirtatious banter. I don't usually do this," he admitted.
"Unlike me. I'm forever crashing tons of specialized equipment into corn fields to meet men." Tess smiled and shifted in her chair. " Forget flirting. Let's concentrate on what we have in common: Science. Like, electrically-charged excitement." She scooted closer, her eyes never leaving his face. "The magic of magnetic attraction," she removed the tea cup from his hand and set it aside. "Chemical combustion-" she nested her feet in his lap, "biological imperatives—"
He unlaced her shoe and set it down gently, then slowly peeled off her muddy sock. Her bare foot was so cold, he automatically began to massage it between his hands to restore the warmth. Her toes wiggled, pink and chubby. He playfully kissed at them. He felt her tiny gasp as he took one toe into his mouth and swirled his tongue around it.
Tess realized she had been holding her breath, and exhaled sharply. Emboldened by her response, Illya slid one hand up her bell-bottomed pantleg and caressed her calf.
# # # # # #
"MMmmmm…" she purred and stretched. "Are you sure you don't usually do this?"
"Most assuredly not."
"More's the pity." Her fingertips traced his spine. "Don't you find it at all difficult to summon up all that stodgy upper-school reserve while you're naked under that sheet?"
"Most assuredly not." He bumped her and she yelped and made a mad grab around his waist to anchor herself.
"Hey, I'm holding on for dear life here," she reminded him of the trailer's thin-twin mattress. "I know it's not de luxe accommodations, but I have to justify my accounts to the grant committee. Next time, it's the Plaza for us."
"I find conditions here quite accommodating, thank you." He reached across and deep-kissed her and didn't think he would ever stop.
# # # # #
Just before dawn, Kuryakin removed his shoes and stepped stealthily into the agents' hotel room. The light snapped on, blinding him. Busted.
"Getting a really, really early start?"
"Good morning, Napoleon," he greeted steadily, attempting to retain some modicum of dignity.
"4:18 in the morning to be precise. My partner is always very precise. Perhaps you've seen him?"
"Napoleon—"
"Far be it from me to comment on your personal life—"
"Yes, very far be it," the Russian warned
"Look, we've been teamed for a while now, and it's just not like you—"
"To get the girl?"
"—to abandon all logic and professionalism and good sense. Now, the good doctor checks out…"
"You investigated her?" Illya sputtered.
"Not as thoroughly as you have. Her special knowledge can help us on this case. Now, as to practical matters: I suggest you pack a ditty bag to take with you on these impromptu camping trips, so I don't shoot you crawling back in here in the wee hours. Creates much too much paper work. Toss me a pair of your socks," he caught them and set the ball atop the black and white hotel television. "Now you are an official presence in the room. I do not falsify reports, even for partners."
Tess's expertise was a boon to their investigation (which became classified as The Weather Vane Affair) and Tess herself became an epiphany to Illya. He had been totally unprepared for this sensual ambush, and astonished by his own responses, intensified by the August plains' heat.
They spent three heart-thumping weeks together before their work hailed them to opposite coasts. He was in Boston; she was in Brussels. He was in Tokyo, she was in Toledo.
Then in April, the wild spring winds whirled Tess to New York City.
Act 3 Stormy Weather
"Late supper?"
She nodded. "As soon as I work the room for donations and line up some grant money."
She pressed a key into his palm, closed his fingers around it, and brought it to her lips. "I hear the room service is great."
"But I wanted to show you the city…"
Her hands made paths up and down his forearms. "I don't need the city."
# # # # #
Illya stirred and became unhappily aware that the adjacent pillow was vacant.
"SSsshh…" she dropped a soft kiss on his ear. "Go back to sleep, I'll re-set the clock."
"I've been giving it a lot of thought," he mumbled. "I don't want you to go."
"Duty calls," she reminded him lightly. "I don't want you jumping into the middle of a revolution in Franastan, either, but come Friday you'll be on that plane because that's what you do. And this is what I do."
"Too dangerous." With four syllables, he dismissed her life's work
Tess pressed on."I've developed equipment that can save lives, protect communities. I need to demonstrate its effectiveness to get money for more research."
"Is there no one else qualified to fly into the storm?" he grumbled.
"I've assembled a good team. But it's my project. It's what I've worked for, studied for, and –OH!" She recoiled. "My sweet lord! You want me to stay home and bake cookies!"
"I like cookies."
Tess turned her back to him and began to brush her hair vigorously. "Maybe we should discuss this when we're both awake."
"Maybe we should discuss this when we're both in the same time zone." He could not bite back the bitterness in his tone.
"That's unfair. We both have our work. We knew that."
Illya did not want to be fair. "There's options. You could settle in a lab. You could teach."
"You know a woman has to work twice as hard as a man to get the same opportunities, the same funding, the same recognition for her work—"
"Can you commit to something, to someone, besides your work?"
The question knocked her breathless for a moment. "Now I know you're not awake. I'll be back before seven. Will you wait for me?"
He stiffened. "I may have to leave for Franastan earlier than we planned."
"I hope not," she said, more gently now. ""We've had so little time…"
He turned away so her lips landed in his hair.
Act 4 Rain, rain, go away
He clicked on his communicator. "Kuryakin."
"Illya? Where are you?"
"Cooling my heels at the Plaza. Tardy Tess was supposed to be here by seven but she's running late. Or perhaps I am being punished for this morning."
"You haven't seen the news?"
"I hardly think our quarrel would be fodder for WABC. How did you hear about it, any way?" He paled as he recalled Solo's penchant for practical jokes. "Please assure me you did not have her suite bugged."
"Sit tight. I'm in the neighborhood."
"Ordinarily, I'd welcome the company, but I'm sure Tess is on the way and we have some—ah—making up to do."
"Wait for me. Solo out."
Intrigued by his partner's cryptic call, and thirsty, Illya strolled downstairs to the Plaza's elegant lounge. He ordered a Grey Goose, and glanced absently at the television above the bar. A breaking news story kept interrupting regularly scheduled programming.
The engine of a small private plane had been struck by lightning. WABC had exclusive film footage of the debris, scattered over a half-acre of green rolling hills.
Epilogue "For April is the cruelest month, mixing memory and desire…" T. S. Elliot
A callous records clerk had cross-coded the Weather Vane Affair as "Tempest in a Teapot," and gossiped that the file had been signed out four times in the past year by ol' section 2 number 2 himself. Then it went mysteriously missing and had to be reported to the CEA.
After a perfunctory search, Solo wrote it off as "misfiled" and directed future researchers to the microfiche account. What the hell, he figured. What's the good of being partnered with the CEA if—besides, he was not really falsifying a report if he only suspected what had happened.
Tess had been snatched from Illya's life as suddenly as she had swooped into it. The lightning bolt seemed to have short-circuited his heart, disconnecting it from his daily life. He performed as smoothly and effectively as ever, saving the world on a regular basis because "that's what I do."
Only Solo sensed that ashes lay at his core. He finally understood what Illya had learned one sweltering summer on the Plains. Lightning never strikes twice.
finis_