"Wise as Serpents, Innocent as Doves" Part 2
Thursday, 1 a.m.
Her hand slapped at the alarm clock, to no avail. She opened her eyes and squinted at the clock, simultaneously realizing that offending noise came not from her alarm clock, but from her communicator.
"This had better be really, really important," she grumbled, flipping on the bedside lamp.
"Em, please meet me at Charlie's." Illya's tone of voice held a certain dread, something Emerson was unaccustomed to hearing.
"Nikala, what's happened?" She was now wide awake, pushing off bed clothes, her feet searching for slippers.
"Napoleon and April are missing." Illya paused. "Charlie should be made aware of the situation."
"And I'm your back-up?" Emerson pulled on her robe and padded across the bedroom to the balcony, cigarette in hand. Illya smiled.
"Yes, you are my back-up. Somehow, I believe that Charlie will have need of you." Emerson lit her cigarette and stared into the dark New York City night.
"I'm thinking that you're going to have need of me, moj l'ubimec (my darling)," she countered. "Meet you there in half an hour. Close Channel D."
The elevator doors opened and Illya headed to the Solo apartment, dreading the coming conversation. He stood just outside the door, took a deep breath, and rang the bell. He waited impatiently.
"Illya?" Charlie asked sleepily, opening the door. Illya followed her into the apartment, pausing just inside the door. All color drained from her face. "What's happened?"
"Napoleon and April failed to report as scheduled," he said quietly, his hands clinched into fists.
"Where … are they missing … or …?" Illya moved to her side and took her hand.
"They were in Caribou, Maine having delivered Miss DuChein and Dr. Sherrill to the facility in Battson." He paused, searching for the right words. "They reported their arrival in Caribou, that they were going to dinner … that was three hours ago."
She read his impassive face and caught her breath. "No … send Mark … send Jack and Peter … "
"I am acting CEA. It is my responsibility."
"Do you think, for one fucking minute, that I'm going to sacrifice you, too?" Charlie shoved him, hard. Illya had never seen her so angry or so afraid. "No!"
"Charlie ..."
"No!" She wandered around the huge living room, moving blindly. "No! 'Pasha would never forgive me … or you!" Emerson appeared at the door. "Em, tell him, please!"
"I'll agree with Charlie," Emerson said, pushing past Illya and taking Charlie in her arms.
"I am acting CEA," he explained quietly, closing the door and resetting the alarm system. "It is my responsibility …" Emerson glared as Charlie sobbed against her shoulder. Illya fell silent.
"We're both well aware of your position, Nikala," Emerson answered. Charlie calmed herself and glared at Illya. "And, we're equally aware that you think that you're the only one who can take the lead in this assignment."
"You have no idea what it's like. Em understands. It's sheer hell, Illya, never knowing … anything!" She paced the room, stopping in front of Illya. "Never knowing when Waverly will show up at the doorstep."
"I've ordered extra security," he said, his eyes falling on Emerson, "for both our families." He looked at the two most important women in his life. "All will go well, Charlie. You have my word."
"Keep me posted, Cossack," she said, offering a weak smile. "I'll take care of things here." Illya, feeling more unsettled that he ever remembered, paused at the door.
He kissed her. "See you tomorrow, Emie."
She knew what that meant.
"Gnat's ass chance in hell," April spat, turning her back on Trap and Verity. Adrenaline steadied her balance and cleared her pounding head. She wheeled on them, standing just inches from Trap. "There's no way in fucking hell that Kuryakin will fall for this."
Verity smiled and brushed her red hair behind her shoulders. "Believe me, Miss Dancer, Mr. Solo will beg for Mr. Kuryakin to come and save him. Guards!" Two burly men entered the cell. "I believe that Miss Dancer would benefit from an object lesson. Take her to the exam room and make her comfortable."
April decided that a little passive resistance was in order but, compared to the size of the guards, she wasn't big enough to provide much resistance, passive or otherwise. She grinned to herself naming her guards Frick and Frack. "You guys must do a lot of weight lifting," she smirked, her toes dragging behind her.
"Shut up," Frack ordered, putting more pressure on her wrist.
"I'm just trying to be friendly," April replied, smiling at the guard to her right, Frick, she decided. He ignored her. Frack snorted.
Frack punched at the buttons of a key pad, and they dragged April through the door. Her dark eyes made the circuit of the room. An exam table, replete with straps in various permutations, dominated the center. A blindingly bright surgical lamp lit the table, casting the rest of the room in muted grays. She glanced at the procedure tray and shuddered. Vials and syringes lined up like toy soldiers awaiting orders.
"I want you to understand what I have in store for your colleague, Miss Dancer." Verity's long, slender fingers played over the vials. "Twice Mr. Solo has robbed me of those I held dear; my sisters, Felicity and Charity." April schooled her features, wondering what sort of parents produced three psychopath daughters. "He killed Felicity. He killed Charity." She smiled at April. "Now … I will punish him … kill him … slowly." April shrugged.
"I'd think that you would realize by now that Napoleon Solo has more lives than a stray alley cat." April apprised the room again, liking the odds. "It'll take more than one nut case and a withered old man to kill Solo." Her head snapped back from the ferocity of Verity's slap.
"You are very much like him … like Solo," she snarled. "So full of yourself. So damn cocky." Trap chuckled at the little drama. "So many choices, Miss Dancer," she purred. "How shall I ever decide?" She selected a teal green vial and filled a syringe. "I am beginning to find you tiresome."
April winced as the needle jammed into her bicep. She shivered and glared at Trap. "Is this the best you can come up with, Trap? A new version of the 'Do It Yourself Chemistry Kit' we all had when we were kids?" Trap laughed, perching his bony frame on a lab stool.
"I would suggest that you mind your tongue. Verity has a very quirky sense of humor." April felt the drug coursing through her veins.
Verity smiled at Trap. "This one, I think, darling." She turned her attention to April, her voice filled with awe. "This is my favorite. Something very special … for Mr. Solo." For the first time, April had to name the cold terror blossoming in her gut. The malevolent gleam in Verity's eye was terrifying.
"This will make everything … every nerve ending … every sensation … hypersensitive." She caressed the vial like a lover and closed her eyes. "Pain, pleasure, fear, terror … it will be exquisite."
Bertha Theobald patted her pocketbook and smiled. Her ticket out of Battson, out of Caribou, and out of her boring, dull life rested within. As she packed a suitcase she reflected on her life and imagined how gloriously it was about to change.
Her face, round as the full moon, flushed as she remembered her childhood and youth. Born the youngest of eight children and born late at that, Bertha had weighed in 14 pounds. Her mother, bless her gentle soul, had nearly died in childbirth. Her brothers and sisters, the youngest more than a decade older, had teased her mercilessly, nicknaming Bertha "The Piglet."
Blessedly, that nickname had fallen by the wayside as she grew not only older, but also larger, than any of her brothers. Standing nearly six feet tall and weighing more than 300 pounds, Bertha soon discovered the strength of her body and the power of intimidation. Classmates at school rarely dared to call her names to her face, but often banded together to torment her. Her father, the ass hole, never came to her defense and her mother, dear soul, never crossed her husband about anything.
Bertha had hoped, fervently, that her life would change when she graduated high school and left home to attend secretarial school in Portland. The first day in town, she met three of her classmates and they rented a two bedroom apartment within walking distance of the school.
Within a week, Bertha realized that her pretty, flirtatious, petite roommates were sought after by the young men attending the business school nearby. No one, not one young man, ever asked Bertha on a date much less to have a soda or coffee after classes. She became the brunt of jokes and rumors and spent two miserable years in Portland.
Now, all of that was going to change. She set the packed bag aside and turned down the covers of her double bed, glancing at her new gray suit, just another example of the new, improved Bertha.
As she settled into bed, she hugged her pocket book close and closed her eyes. I'll show those snotty bastards, she grinned, patting the purse. They'll never believe what I've done. They'll never disrespect Bertha Gladys Theobald again!
Thursday, 2 a.m.
Illya spread the latest satellite maps on the large conference table, his glasses perched on the tip of his nose. Jack, Pete, and Mark sat around the table reading their briefing folders. Half empty cups of cold coffee littered the table.
"The Battson facility was attacked 90 minutes ago," Illya said, rubbing his temple distractedly. "Miss DuChein is missing. Dr. Sherrill was discovered murdered in his cell."
"How did Thrush manage to send in such a force?" Mark asked, worry etched on his face.
"It was … what is the phrase Napoleon uses … da, 'an interior job'," Illya explained. Jack chuckled.
"'Inside job,' Illya," he corrected. His dark face sobered. "How'd they pull it off?"
"The heating system malfunctioned," Illya explained, hitching his hip on the edge of the table. "We suspect sabotage." He ran his hand through his long blond hair and continued. "A local heating and cooling company sent a truck and workers. We now know that while the truck was legitimate, the workers were not." Pete issued a low whistle.
"Who cleared them?"
"Bertha Theobald," Illya shuffled papers and pushed up his glasses, "assistant to the Commandant. She made the initial call and cleared them through security." He shook his head. "Oddly enough, Napoleon and April saw the truck while they were there."
"Okay, Napoleon and April are missing, Battson is rubble, Sherrill is dead, Angelique is missing, and Bertha's fingerprints are all over it," Mark synopsized. "Who's behind it all?"
"Dr. Eligeus Trap," Illya answered. "And, Verity Wexler."
"Bloody hell!" Mark, Jack, and Pete said in unison. Illya nodded.
"Quite, mates." Illya turned their attention to the maps. "I have agents from the Quebec office investigating possible locations where Trap might be found. However, if we could locate Miss Theobald, that would save us some time and effort." Mark grinned.
"By the looks of 'er, she shouldn't be too hard to find," he said, tapping her photograph and personnel file. "This one ain't exactly dainty!" Illya grinned.
Napoleon pushed himself up and immediately regretted his decision. The world tilted on its axis and he slowly returned his head to the rough mattress. Closing his eyes he struggled to reconstruct the last few hours, or what he thought … hoped … were only a few hours. He slowly rolled to his back, opened his eyes, and squinted into the face of Eligeus Trap.
"Ah, Dr. Trap, I presume." Trap offered a raspy chuckle.
"I have long heard of the Solo wit and now I am fortunate to experience it first hand." Napoleon pushed himself up and closed his eyes.
"Now that I've made your day, Trap, can we conclude this little meet and greet?" He gave serious consideration to vomiting on Trap's shoes and then thought better of it.
"I'm afraid not, Mr. Solo." He rubbed his gnarled hands together with what Napoleon assumed was glee. "We have much to learn from you."
"We?" Napoleon tried to ignore the chill along his spine. "Now you're talking like the Queen."
"We, Mr. Solo," Trap whispered; resting his hand on Napoleon's pounding head. Napoleon pushed Trap's hand away and stood unsteadily.
"Unfortunately, Eligeus, I'm not fit company at the moment." He stumbled as he pushed past his captor. "We'll have to do this another time." Trap shook his head.
"I'm certain that you are charming no matter your attire, Mr. Solo." The door opened and Verity entered. Napoleon stopped and frowned. Verity smiled and her tongue tracing the curve of her blood red lips. "May I introduce Miss Verity Wexler?"
"Dominique," Napoleon stammered. "Do you take requests?"
Emerson took one more glance at her friend, convincing herself that Charlie was completely and totally asleep. As she closed the door to the Solo bedroom, she thought back to the hours of conversation the two women had shared.
"What if he's dead, Em?" Charlie had asked, her blue eyes clouded with worry. "What if the Old Man didn't have the balls to come here himself? What if …" Emerson shook her head and mixed another shaker of martinis.
"Charlie, you know that Illya would never lie to you." She paused, reconsidering the remark. "Okay, he'd never lie to you about something this important." She poured the drinks and delivered them, joining Charlie on the couch. "Any way, Alexander has balls the size of a bull elephant. If 'Pasha were dead, and he's not, Alexander would be here with guards and the whole nine yards." Charlie downed her drink in one gulp.
"Would you do it again, Em?" Em raised an eyebrow.
"Do what?"
"Marry Illya." Emerson shook her head. Charlie nodded and did a poor job concealing her yawn.
Emerson hugged her. "Better question … 'why did we do it?'"
"Sex," Charlie said with a grin. "'Pasha's the best lay ever." Emerson rolled her eyes and laughed.
"That's one answer; one that I can agree with from my perspective." She stood up and stretched. "Actually, Charlie, it's because we're two of the most idiotic broads on the planet." Charlie laughed and then cried. "We just have to share them with a very demanding and unforgiving mistress." She giggled. "And one in drag no less!"
"I guess a mistress called UNCLE would be a drag queen." Charlie allowed Emerson to pull her to her feet and push her down the hall to her bedroom.
Now, as Emerson keyed in the alarm codes and closed the door behind her, she wondered. Would I marry Nikala again? She walked across the entry hall and opened the door to her apartment. A sly grin dawned on her tired face.
You bet your sweet ass, I would!
Thursday, 3 a.m.
Jack, Pete, Mark, and Illya entered Waverly's office, each of them looking exhausted. Waverly, who never seemed to sleep, glanced up, pipe in hand.
"You have a plan, gentlemen?" Illya nodded. "Please be seated."
"Miss Theobald is of most interest to us at the moment." Waverly nodded, searching for a match and taking the light offered by Jack.
"It would seem that Miss Theobald is something of a lynchpin this affair." He shuffled yellow telexes and handed one to Mark. "The Quebec team is currently interviewing the staff of the hotel and the nightclub where Mr. Solo and Miss Dancer were last seen. Apparently, Miss Theobald was there also."
Mark Slate paced to the credenza and poured himself a cup of coffee. The three other agents watched, knowing the worry and fury that burned in him. Illya understood implicitly. No agent would respond to the capture of his or her partner with anything less than a full blown assault.
Alexander Waverly toyed with his pipe. "Please sit down, Mr. Slate," he ordered little authority in his voice. "Pacing the floor will not hasten finding Miss Dancer and Mr. Solo." Mark returned to his seat, sighing loudly. "Nor will theatrics." Mark colored at the remark.
"So, Miss Theobald was seen in the bar in Caribou," Illya said quietly. "I doubt that she has gone very far." He glanced at Mark. "With permission, sir, I will send Mr. Slate and Mr. Wilson to Caribou." Waverly nodded, taking in the haggard group of agents.
"I concur, Mr. Kuryakin," he said, drawing on his pipe. "The Quebec team will continue its investigation and report any findings directly to you" He stood and walked toward his private study. "All of you will report to agent housing and get some sleep." Mark opened his mouth to protest, but Waverly, his back to his agents, cut him off. "Mr. Slate, if you are to perform at optimum levels, you will get some sleep." Mark's jaw snapped shut, but the look of anger on his face did not change.
The door to Waverly's study opened silently. "Consider it an order, gentlemen. You are dismissed."
Two large Thrush guards entered Napoleon's cell and stood behind Verity who tapped a cudgel against her well-muscled thigh. Trap leaned against the wall.
"Got you trained, uh?" Napoleon asked, taking a step back. He smirked. "Big guys like you taking orders from a woman!" Verity slapped him. Napoleon staggered.
"Please be quiet, Napoleon. I do hate to harm you before I'm ready." Napoleon rubbed his cheek and wiped blood from his split lip.
"So, you guys go to school to learn how to do this?" he asked, grinning at his guards.
"Mr. Solo, you have been warned," Trap cautioned. "As I told your lovely colleague, Verity has a rather quirky sense of humor."
"Quirky, is it?" Napoleon asked, leaning casually against the bunk, his arms crossed. He smiled, thinking that he was acting more like Illya every day, tempting his captors. "I love a woman with a sense of humor." The look in Verity's eyes chilled him.
"Leave us," she ordered, advancing on him. "You should know better, Napoleon. You should know better than to provoke me." She leaned in and licked the blood from his lip.
"Personally, Verity, I'd say that's kinky rather than quirky." The cudgel slammed against his left upper arm and Napoleon fell to his knees, sickened by the sound of breaking bone.
She grabbed his face and smiled. "I must discipline you." Leaning down, she kissed him, her tongue pushing into his mouth. When she released him, he slumped against the bunk, trying to protect his injured arm.
When the second blow came, unconsciousness claimed him. All he could see was Felicity, the first Wexler sister he'd encountered.
Thursday, 4 a.m.
The rocking chair creaked like a metronome, but Alexi continued to fuss. Emerson kissed the tears on his face and smiled. "I know, baby, things are unsettled, aren't they?" Alexi sobbed and laid his head on her shoulder.
Emerson wanted to blame his crankiness on teething, and that was a part of the problem, but she was also convinced that all of her children could sense the disturbance that now hung over them like a pall. She patted Alexi's back and hummed the lullaby from 'Hansel and Gretel'. He settled against her and she soon felt his breathing even out and deepen. Rising quietly she tucked him into his crib and slipped into her darkened bedroom.
"Mama?" Nicky's voice asked tentatively.
"What's wrong, Nicky?" she asked, a weary smile on her face. The little blond sat in the middle of the king sized bed, blue blanket in hand, eyes red and puffy.
"Had a dream, Mama," he said soberly. "A real, real bad one!" She joined him on the bed and gathered him into her arms.
"Want to tell me about it?" she asked, tucking the blankets in around them. She kissed Nicky's head and absently rocked the toddler side-to-side.
"Where's Papa?" He relaxed a little.
"He's working, baby." Nicky's blue eyes met hers.
"Is Papa okay?" She shuddered at the calm, coolness of his question.
"Uncle 'Pasha's out of town and Papa's taking care of his job, too." Nicky considered the answer, accepted it, and cuddled in her arms. "Now, tell me about your dream." Nicky sighed.
"We're in the park … all of us .. Alexi, too," he relaxed a little more. "And, um, I was chasing a ball."
"You're a very fast runner."
"Yea. It rolled into some trees … and I, um, I ran after it." A slight tremor coursed through his small body and Emerson hugged him more tightly. "I was scared, Mama."
"Of the trees?"
"Yup … they were big and dark and they had arms." He pushed up, waving his arms side to side. "Like monsters or sumpin.'" Emerson smiled
"Or 'something', Nicky," she corrected gently. She brushed his hair out of his eyes, smiling at his haircut that he described as 'Just like Papa's'.
"Okay. Anyway … the girls followed me …" His face grew dark with worry. "And, um, the trees grabbed them!" Emerson's eyes widened.
"That is scary!"
"I tried to go after 'em … save 'em like Papa does … but, um, the trees wouldn't let me in … they, um, hit me and knocked me down!" Emerson pulled him close.
"Were you alone at the park, Nicky?" He nodded. "But, baby, you're never alone at the park, are you?"
"Nope."
"Papa or Mama are with you … or Cav or Miriam, right?" He nodded again. "And, we always have a couple of our Uncle's with us, don't we?"
"Couldn't find 'em, Mama." He sighed as only Nicky could. "I hollered. I cried, but nobody came. Nobody." He sobbed softly and Emerson kissed his head.
"It was a dream, Nicky," she soothed. "You know that it didn't happen, right?"
"I know." Emerson continued to rock him.
"I think I might know what caused this." He tipped his face and she grinned. "I'm thinking it might have been that extra scoop of ice cream you had at dinner." She squeezed him and he giggled. "I'll have to remember that; only two scoops of ice cream for you, little one!" Nicky sat up and frowned.
"I'm not little, Mama!" His eyes sparkled with indignation. "Alexi's little! Not me!"
"Too true, Nicky," she said, slipping out of bed.
"Let's wash up and then I'll tuck you in, okay?" Nicky paused, letting his legs dangle over the edge of the bed. "Nicky?"
"Will ya' stay 'til I'm asleep?" She scooped him up and carried him to the bathroom.
"You betcha, big guy." He giggled from his perch on the vanity. "I'll keep the monsters away!" She wiped his face with a cool cloth and then picked him up. As she climbed the stairs to his room, she felt him relax.
"Everybody has bad dreams, Nicky," she said quietly.
"Even Papa?" She smiled at his innocence.
"Even Papa."
"Who stays with him and keeps the monsters away?" Emerson tucked him in; making sure that the blue blanket was in his fist.
"I do, sweetie. I do."
Illya listened to his team mates settle into their bunks. He prowled the room, stopping at the windows. Below he could see the street that ran in front of Del Floria's and noted a few early risers hurrying on their way. A sound behind him caused him to turn.
"Better get some sleep, Illya," Jack whispered. "Can't have the Old Man in a snit, now can we?" Illya shook his head and climbed up into his bunk.
"Worried?" Jack asked from the bunk below.
Illya considered his answer and opted for the truth. "Any time there is a Wexler involved, Jack, all of us have cause to worry." Jack patted the bottom of Illya's bunk with his big hand.
"We'll bring 'em home, mate," he said softly. "On my sainted mother's grave." Illya rolled over and pulled up the blankets.
"I know, Jack. Sleep well."
We are going to need all of our sainted mother's and more, Illya thought, watching the sky begin to lighten.
Eligeus Trap stood on the flag stone patio; heavy camel hair coat pulled tightly around his thin body, and watched the helicopter land. He smiled. The door opened and one of the many guards assisted the passenger.
"My darling," he called, opening his arms to receive Angelique into a warm embrace, "I trust that you are well?" Angelique pulled away, tugging her mink even closer to her body. She swept past the old man and into the study, walking to the bar. Trap followed, shaking his head.
"What's with the goddamn side trip to Quebec? Afraid that your little operation might be compromised by the likes of me?" Angelique poured a healthy measure of single malt Scotch for herself and a smaller one for Trap. "I was lucky that your goons allowed me a shower and change of clothing once we got to Quebec!" She glanced at her reflection in the Louis XIV gilt mirror and frowned. "Look at me, Trap! I look like a goddamn refugee from some third world nation!" Trap took his drink and relaxed behind his desk, focusing his attention on his drink until she fell silent.
"You were taken to Quebec for your own protection. It seemed prudent to have you out of the country for a few hours." He smiled ruefully. "I should have known better, Angelique, than to expect any sort of gratitude." He sipped the Scotch.
"Gratitude? That's what you expected?" Her laugh was hard and angry. "Let's see, I spent … how many months, Eligeus … as a 'guest' of UNCLE?" Eligeus kept his silence. "Too many … that's how long it took you to get a plan in place!" She folded her body, now pounds thinner, much less well rounded, onto the sofa, and pouted. "I was beginning to think that you'd forgotten me!"
"I am cut to the quick, my Angelique," he murmured, smiling. "Had you not gotten yourself into this difficultly, your rescue would have been completely unnecessary." She fixed him with a glare.
"This … fiasco … was not my fault, Eligeus," she protested. "My plan was fool-proof … I had Kuryakin in my hands and we were progressing in deprogramming him. It was that idiot Sherrill!"
"Whom you chose," Trap noted, frowning at his agent. Angelique blanched at his tone. "It was Sherrill who led Solo and his team to the building." He paused. "It was you, my darling, who allowed Solo to succeed." Angelique's temper flared.
"You are not going to pin this on me, Trap!" She rose and advanced on him, her highball glass crashing against the fire place. "You failed to provide me with sufficient security! You failed to consider all of the possible options in protecting the plan!" She stood against his desk, fury on her face and in her voice. "I warn you, Trap, do not attempt to betray me. If I fall, so do you." He chuckled.
"There's my girl!" He embraced her, and kissed her cheek. "I was worried that my Angelique had been stolen from me. Afraid that they had broken you … harmed you in some invisible way." Releasing her, he stepped back. "I am so grateful to have you home, my darling." She relaxed marginally and smiled.
"I want a hot bath, a massage, and a decent night's sleep," she ordered, walking toward the door. "What's a girl gotta do around here to get a little service?"
Napoleon kept his eyes closed; trying to decide what had roused him from his stupor, the various parts of his body that throbbed or the cold metal beneath his naked body. Naked and bound, tightly bound.
"I know that you are conscious, Napoleon," she said, tracing her blood red finger nail along the faint scar on his left cheek. "Open your eyes and look at me!" He opened his eyes.
"You are very beautiful ...," she said, pulling the sheet from his body and grabbing his balls. She squeezed until he cried out.
"I've been told," he whispered, struggling to breathe. She traced the scars from his encounter with her sister, Felicity. The now faded circular scar on his abdomen from the trocar and, letting her fingers move slowly downward, to those on his groin and thigh.
"I'm quite certain that many women have told you that … perhaps Felicity told you …" She frowned at the deep scars and shook her head. "Felicity was very … very cruel, wasn't she?"
Napoleon swallowed hard. "It was a memorable experience." The frown morphed into a terrifying grin. She ran her blood red finger nails along his torso and caressed his cheek.
"I shan't be so … violent … with you," she promised. "Felicity lacked a certain, how shall I say it, skill in such situations." Napoleon closed his eyes. "I, on the other hand, employ a delicate technique."
"Is that supposed to make me feel better?" he asked, willing his body not to respond to her touch.
"I know all about you, Napoleon, I've read your file … memorized it." She ran her hand up his thigh and squeezed hard, leaving the genesis of a bruise behind. He grimaced. "We're going to take a little stroll down memory lane."
"Memory lane?" His eyes now open, narrowed. She laughed and kissed him.
"Back to the great Mid-west, Napoleon. To St. Louis. When your partner was shot. " Napoleon shook his head.
"A momentary glitch, that's all." She selected a syringe filled with blood red liquid.
"This is my own design," she said, tying off Napoleon's right arm. "It will help you remember … relive … everything." She laughed. "Everything will come roaring back to you, darling." He winced as the needle found his vein.
"Too bad my partner isn't here, Verity," Napoleon slurred, already feeling the effects of the drug. "He's the scientific one."
"Don't worry about Illya, Napoleon," she assured. "He'll be joining us soon enough."
Thursday, 5 a.m.
April roused from her slumber and blinked at the bright light. What the hell?
"Ah, Miss Dancer," Eligeus Trap greeted, running his yellowed nail along her cheek, "you deign to join us once again." April pushed up on her elbow and fixed Trap with her best imitation of the 'Kuryakin Glare."
"Shit! I thought this might just be a bad dream!" She sat up and swung her long legs off the bunk. "I don't know about you, Trap, but I'm famished." Trap smiled.
"One can only imagine," he said, snapping his fingers. A guard appeared. "You will bring Miss Dancer food … immediately!" The guard disappeared.
"Where's Napoleon?" she asked, running her fingers through her tangled hair, aware of the ache in her shoulder from the injection.
"How charming of you to be concerned for your compatriot," Trap mused, walking the circuit of the small cell.
"So, where is he? Has Wexler killed him yet?" April stood and stretched, feigning disinterest in Trap's wanderings.
"Oh, no, Mr. Solo isn't dead." He smiled like a corpse, all jutting bones and yellowed teeth. "Miss Wexler has just begun her interrogation." April crossed her arms and frowned.
"He won't tell you anything, Trap. No matter what you ask, he'll give you some half-assed answer and you'll go off thinking that you've broken the great Napoleon Solo." Trap grinned.
"I have no desire to break Mr. Solo," he said, lowering himself to the bunk. "Although, we did manage to break Mr. Kuryakin." He brushed at his trousers. "Some how I doubt that Mr. Solo would be any greater challenge."
"You didn't break Illya Kuryakin," April charged her voice hard and low. "You fucked with his mind, but you didn't break him." Trap shrugged.
"Dear Miss Dancer," he said, his eyes gleaming, "perhaps we define 'breaking' in different ways. But, trust me on this, we did break Mr. Kuryakin and, quite thoroughly, too." The door opened and two guards entered; one carrying a tray of food, the other wrestling a small folding table and two folding chairs. Trap stood up.
"I believe that I will join you in your repast," he said, offering a chair. "Personally, I hate to eat alone."
Alexander Waverly sat in his private study silently consider the events of the last few hours. For once, he had followed his own order to his agents and had caught a two-hour nap, knowing that the next 24-hours would be critical. His wrinkled hand opened the dark blue incident folder.
To: Alexander Waverly, Chief, Section 1, UNCLE North American Headquarters, New York.
From: Col. William Spenser, Commandant, Battson UNCLE Facility
Topic: Assault on the Battson Facility
The heating system was apparently sabotaged from within with the assistance of one or more of the employees at our facility. A local heating/cooling company was called to effect repairs. It is now believed that the repair personnel was co-opted providing the opportunity for multiple explosive devices to be placed strategically throughout the facility.
Shortly after midnight, there was an explosion in the facilities maintenance area followed by at least a dozen more explosions in other areas. Primary lighting was disabled, as was the generator back-up. Our assault force of guards was dispatched to the holding areas in order to secure prisoners. Four guards were killed, two each outside of Miss DuChein's cell and Dr. Sherrill's cell. Miss DuChein was liberated. Dr. Sherrill was found dead of a gunshot wound to the head.
More than two dozen guards were injured in subsequent blasts and in a brief firefight with those persons who had assisted in Miss DuChein's escape.
At present, Battson is secured and we are operating on generators acquired from the Quebec and Caribou offices. All other prisoners are accounted for and staffing is in place to assure their confinement.
Signed, Col. William Spenser, Commandant
A hand written note scrawled across the bottom of the report. Alex, I lost some of my best people in this attack. I do not hesitate to tell you that this event has had and will continue to have devastating effects on moral for my team. I believe that my personal assistant, Bertha Theobald, was involved in the planning and implementation of this attack and I want her sanctioned immediately! In fact, I'll take care of it myself! And, of course, I deeply regret the situation of your two fine agents. Rest assured, we will do whatever is necessary to assist in recovering them. Awaiting your orders, Will
Waverly permitted himself a tiny smile, imagining the fury that currently resided at Battson in the form of its Commandant. Will Battson was never a man to be trifled with, and this incident would make working with him damn near untenable. Yet, Waverly couldn't imagine a better man to have on point in this situation. He pressed a button and within seconds, Kristianna Blackstone appeared.
"Yes, sir?" she asked, pouring fresh coffee for both of them.
"I must draft a response to Col. Spenser's communiqué," the elderly man ordered. "Having Will in such a state is nearly as dangerous as having Thrush loose in the area." Kristianna settled into the matching leather wing chair and produced her steno notebook. "Shall we begin?" he asked, sipping his coffee.
Thursday, 6 a.m.
Charlie rolled over in bed, her arm automatically searching for Napoleon. She opened her eyes and the conversations of the night before swept over her like a menacing wave. Pushing up on her elbows, she frowned.
"Might as well get this circus started," she said aloud. The door to their bedroom burst open, Tony and Liz making a bee-line for the bed.
"Where's Daddy?" Tony asked, diving onto the bed and scurrying next to his mother.
"Working, sweetie," Charlie said, pulling Liz up next to her. "He's very busy right now." Tony and Liz exchanged glances.
"I heard Uncle Illya and Auntie Em," he announced, his wide blue eyes fixed on Charlie. "Last night, I think." Charlie ruffled his hair.
"They stopped by for a minute." She frowned at Tony. "You were supposed to be asleep, young man!" Tony grinned.
"Had to pee." Liz cuddled closer.
"Daddy coming home?" she asked softly. Charlie shuddered.
"Maybe." She played with Liz's dark curls. "You know that sometimes Daddy has to go away for work. That's what happened this time." Liz sighed.
"But, he's okay, right?" Tony asked, settling into the crook of Charlie's arm. She kissed his head.
"Daddy's okay, Tony." She pulled the sheet and blankets around them. "What say we cuddle here for a while and then see what's for breakfast?" Liz yawned. "I'll take that as a 'yes'."
The three settled in and Charlie listened as her children fell asleep in her arms. Em's right, she thought, feeling the weight of their relaxed bodies against hers; we are two of the most idiotic broads on the planet.
The cell door closed behind the guard who carried away the empty breakfast tray. April glared at her 'host'.
"A young woman as lovely as you, Miss Dancer, should smile more often," Trap offered. April's facial expression did not soften.
"I would be pleased to smile, Trap, if I had something worth smiling about." She stood and stretched, willing him to leave. Trap stood and walked to the door.
"Perhaps you would be pleased to see your compatriot, Mr. Solo?" he asked, a hideous smile breaking open his skeletal face. April crossed her arms. "I do so want you to be comfortable."
"What's the point, Trap? So, I see him. Doesn't mean I can do anything to help him, does it?" Trap shook his head.
"It is always possible for you to assist your friend," he said, tapping on the cell door. "I would think a visit might reassure you that Mr. Solo is, at this point, relative unscathed." April snorted.
"Verity Wexler isn't about to leave Napoleon 'unscathed', as you put it." April stood within striking distance of the withered old man. "She's looking for blood; lots of it. All of it from Napoleon." Her fist shot out only to be caught in a punishing grip.
"Ah, Miss Dancer," Trap said softly, twisting her arm behind her back, and pulling her close, "you disappoint me. I thought we were making progress, but now I fear not." April chilled at the maniacal grin on Trap's face. "As soon as Miss Wexler is ready, you will see Mr. Solo." He released April's fist. "Until then, I think restraints are in order."
Illya padded silently out of the bathroom, a towel wrapped around his waist. He paused, smiling at his three sleeping comrades. He had to admit, the Old Man was right once again. A few hours sleep did make a difference.
Dropping the towel, he pulled on his boxers and followed with a white t-shirt, tucking it in neatly. Perched on a hardback chair, he added his socks and white shirt.
"Don't forget the pants," Pete suggested his voice more of a stage whisper. "The Old Man wants us to look our best at all time, ya' know." Illya chuckled.
"I'm waiting to see what tie he chooses," Mark said, stretching and running his hands through his curly blond hair. "I'll wager it's either black … or black." The damp towel landed on his face.
"I will thank you both to remember that I am Acting Chief Enforcement Officer," Illya said, grinning at his friends. He nodded at Jack, who slumbered like an ox. "Who will awaken Jack?" Mark and Pete exchanged shrugs.
"Since you've taken great pains to remind us of your vaunted position, I vote for you," Mark quipped, rolling off his bunk and landing lightly on the floor. Illya shook his head.
"I think that Pete should waken his partner."
"Is that an order?" Pete asked, covering his head with a pillow. Illya, tucking his shirt into his trousers, grabbed the pillow and lobbed it at Jack's snoring form.
"Yes, it is an order." Jack sat up immediately, Special in hand.
"Who's the motherfucker …?" he shouted. Pete covers over his head, answered.
"That would be the Acting Chief Enforcement Officer, mate." Jack dropped his gun.
"Well, as long as it's a motherfucker with rank." He kicked off the covers and rose to his full height. "Ya' gotta watch those little guys; they're the worst of the lot."
Jack and Mark joined Pete and Illya in the UNCLE commissary, Jack carrying a tray laden with breakfast, Mark carrying only a cup of coffee.
"Any news?" the blond British agent asked, slipping into a chair next to Illya.
"Interviews are completed," Illya answered, spearing a chunk of sausage. "As we surmised, Miss Theobald is our best and first target." Mark liberated a piece of toast from Jack's plate, just avoiding being impaled by a fork.
"Any sightings?"
"Get your own bloody breakfast," Jack snarled good naturedly. Mark ignored him.
"Not yet, but as I said earlier, I doubt that she has gone very far." Illya dropped his fork and glanced at his new team. "Miss Theobald may have been smart enough to betray us, but she is not smart enough to evade us." Pete noted the cold glint in the Russian's blue eyes.
"When do we leave?" he asked, eager to get involved in the search and rescue. Jack and Mark nodded in unison. Illya sipped his hot, black coffee.
"Within the hour," he said standing and stretching. "We will meet in Mr. Waverly's office at 8 a.m., review any recent information, and then the two of you may depart."
"You remember, don't you Napoleon?" Verity whispered her lips close to his ear. "You remember what happened in St. Louis?" Napoleon groaned.
"Illya … shot." He coughed. "Assignment … gone bad." She grabbed his face and turned it.
"You know who shot him, don't you?" Napoleon struggled against her grip.
"Rouge agent … UNCLE agent." She smiled.
"You know who shot Illya, don't you, Napoleon?"
"No! Don't … don't remember …" Her cigarette found the tender skin on the inside of his arm. Napoleon screamed.
"Tell me, Napoleon. Who shot your partner?" She twisted again. "Tell me, and the pain will stop." Napoleon's eyes fluttered open. "Tell me, 'Pasha," she murmured, "and the pain will stop." Napoleon blinked, terror shining in his eyes.
"I … I …" He took a deep, shuddering breath. Verity selected a scalpel and held it before his eyes. The blade sliced cleanly across his chest, leaving rivulets of blood in its wake. Verity smiled, dropping the scalpel. She lit another cigarette.
"You, Napoleon, you shot Illya." He shook his head. "You wanted the Commie Bastard dead, didn't you?"
"No … Illya … my friend … partner." He turned away from her. "No. No!" The cigarette crushed into the open wound, sputtering out in his blood. Napoleon's scream filled the tiled room.
"Illya disapproves of you, doesn't he? All those women … how distracting they are to you." Verity grabbed his face and turned his head roughly. "He doesn't respect you, your position, your authority, does he?" Napoleon closed his eyes. "Illya thinks that you're a pervert, that he's superior to you in every way!"
"Illya … no … no … doesn't obey me …" Napoleon coughed and moaned at the pain in his broken arm. "We … partners …"
"Remember, Napasha," Verity crooned, stroking his face. "You're tired of his attitude, his insubordination. What else could you do?" Napoleon sobbed.
"Insubordination … superiority …" His eyes widened in recognition of what he had done. "I … I … shot … him." She smoothed his hair and kissed his forehead. "Sweet Jesus! I shot him!"
Verity lit another cigarette and smiled. "Very good, Napoleon. You know what they say, darling; 'The truth shall set you free'."
Thursday, 7 a.m.
"Where's Papa?" Tia asked, slipping into her chair at the breakfast table. Emerson raised her eyes from her coffee cup and frowned.
"I believe the proper phrase is, "Good morning, Mama. Where's Papa?" Tia grinned. Emerson relented.
"Papa's working this morning, darling." Miriam refilled Emerson's coffee cup as the rest of the crew trooped in. "Give Miriam a hand with breakfast, please."
Nicky grabbed the milk bottle, Tasha the juice, and Anushka carried the cereal bowls. Tia took the plate of scrambled eggs and bacon while Miriam ladled oatmeal into the bowls. Anushka sat next to Emerson and frowned.
"Where's Papa?" Emerson rolled her eyes.
"Miriam, when did my children develop amnesia about proper manners?" Miriam laughed and glanced at the children.
"Good morning, Mama," they chorused. Emerson grinned.
"Papa's working this morning and sends love and kisses to all of you." Nicky managed to pour his milk without spilling it and dove into his oatmeal.
"Is Auntie Charlie okay?" he asked, careful to swallow his food before talking. Emerson nodded, filling plates with bacon and eggs, passing them around the table.
"She's fine, Nicky. You'll be riding to school with Tony and Liz as usual." Nicky's spoon clattered noisily in his empty cereal bowl. Three sets of blue eyes settled on Anushka.
"We know you were there last night," she said softly. Emerson laid her knife and fork carefully on her plate, and leaned back in her chair. Honesty is the best policy, she reminded herself.
"Auntie Charlie was worried about Uncle 'Pasha and Auntie April," she said evenly, her eyes moving from face to face. "Papa and I went over to talk for a while." The children took it in and returned to their breakfast, finishing quietly. Emerson smiled at her brood, watching as they carried their dishes to the sink. Anushka stopped beside her.
"Is Uncle 'Pasha …?" she whispered. Emerson leaned over and kissed her oldest daughter.
"Everything will be fine, baby. Auntie was just worried, that's all." She followed the children into the entry hall, helped with coats and book bags, grabbing the girls' ballet bags and following them to the elevator. Tony and Liz joined them. On the way to the lobby, the six children chattered excitedly about school, friends, and dance class.
Agents Finster met them in the lobby, smiling at his charges.
"Mrs. Kuryakin, let me take those," he offered. Emerson gratefully surrendered the bags.
"I'll see the girls this afternoon after dance class," she said, passing out hugs and kisses to all of them. "Nicky, you'll come home after school with Liz and Tony."
They followed Agent Finster out the door and into the UNCLE limo. Emerson smiled and waved. "Love you!" She leaned against the plate glass, watching the car ease into traffic.
"It's going to be one motherfucker of a day."
April rubbed her bloodied wrists, glaring at Frack who had taken great pleasure in restraining her. Hanging suspended by her wrists for an extended period of time made her even more determined to take what ever revenge presented itself.
"Your gettin' company shortly," Frack announced, cupping April's face in his huge hand. "Ya' know, you're a pretty little thing." He leered at her, licking his lips. April smiled brightly.
"You have no idea what it means to me, receiving a compliment from a man like you." She grasped his wrist and sank her teeth into the palm of his hand. Spitting out his blood, she grinned. He backhanded her and stormed out of the cell.
"Do that again, bitch, and I'll break your skinny little neck!" he shouted from the safe side of the cell door. April rubbed the swelling on her cheek and smiled.
"Give it your best shot, asshole!" She closed her eyes and tried to ignore the pain that throbbed into her temple. "Mark's going to be pissed," she mused, resting her head against the cool, damp stone. "Always says that my mouth will get me killed one of the days."
The cell door clanged open and Napoleon was tossed onto the bunk, his head landing in her lap. He moaned, trying to protect his broken arm, sweat gleaming on his bruised face. April's soft hands caressed his face and he struggled against them.
"No!" he shouted, trying to escape her touch. "Don't touch me. No!" He pushed off the bunk.
"'Pasha! It's okay! You're with me!" He stumbled away and fell to his knees. "'Pasha, it's me, April." Napoleon shook his head, eyes shut tightly.
"April … don't touch me …," he growled, crawling towards the corner. "Don't."
"I have to touch you, Napoleon," she ordered, frowning at him. "I have to see if you're injured." She rose gracefully and walked toward him, concerned at his mental state. "Please, Napoleon, let me have a look." The senior agent sobbed and curled into the wall.
"No, please," he begged, "I killed him. I … shot … him!" April stopped, confusion on her face and concern in her eyes.
"You haven't shot anybody, 'Pasha. You don't have a gun," she said, her voice soft and low. "Verity's been working on you and God only knows what she's done." She rested her palm against Napoleon's shoulder. "Please, let me check you over." He shuddered at her touch.
"No! No! You … don't understand," he stammered, allowing her to turn him toward her. His eyes were wild with fear, something April had never seen in him before. She smiled.
"Okay, boss, explain it to me then." She pulled up the surgical scrub top he wore and shook her head. "Look's like she's been busy. Your left arm is probably broken … just above the elbow." She continued her survey. "Nasty knife wound, but nothing serious; bruises and welts." She pressed against his ribs, satisfied that nothing was broken. She held his wrists, turning his arms to expose the soft flesh. "And, of course, burns. The bitch!" Lines of circular burns dotted his inner arms, some already blistering. "I'm sorry she did this to you, 'Pasha."
"Deserved it," he answered, refusing to make eye contact with April. "I killed him." He pulled out of her grasp and touched the burns. "What I deserve." April's fingers rested on his forehead and she frowned at the fever. She silently counted respirations and then found his carotid pulse.
"Your breathing is shallow and your pulse is racing," April said, offering her hand. "Come on, Napoleon; let me see if I can splint your arm." She smiled gently. "Then, you need to rest and so do I." He shook his head.
"Can't." She grabbed his hand and pulled.
"Stop farting around, Napoleon," she said, willing him to stand. "Come with me and we'll get comfortable." She was startled when Napoleon pulled her down, his face mere inches from hers.
"I can't … be close to you!" he hissed, putting painful pressure on her wrist. "I killed him, see? If I killed him … I can kill you!" April relaxed her arm and tried to slip out of his grasp.
"Who did you kill, 'Pasha?" she asked, thinking that she sounded as if she were speaking to a terrified child. Napoleon blinked and dropped his eyes. He released her and curled into himself.
"Illya. I killed Illya."
8 a.m., Thursday
Bertha Theobald stood in the new car show room waiting for the sales manager. She was torn between a navy blue Chevy and a chocolate brown Buick. She inclined toward the Buick.
Her father, the ass hole, had once owned such a car, treating it better than either Bertha or her mother. She smiled at the thought of owning a new car, one with zero miles, one that would take her away from the boring life that had plagued her nearly 40 years.
"Miss Theobald," the sales manager said, a huge smile on his pock marked face. "We're not usually open this early, but I'm told that you're in the market for a new car and that financing isn't an issue." He glanced at the brown Buick. "Ya' know, it isn't necessary for you to choose between just these two." He pointed to the lot. He took her elbow and steered her toward a copper colored Corvette. "Now this, Miss Theobald, has your name written all over it." He opened the door and waved her in.
Bertha tugged at the skirt of her new dark gray suit and leaned down to take a look. It smelled wonderfully. The seats were leather, the softest thing she had ever felt in her life. Her hand fluttered to her chest and she breathed deeply.
"Oh, I don't know, Mr. Forrester," she said, blinking rapidly. "I'm not sure that I'm a Corvette sort of girl." He nudged her arm, sending a cascade of ripples through the fat, and grinned.
"Miss Theobald … may I call you Bertha?" He smiled and she nodded. "Bertha, every girl is a Corvette girl."
Bertha's imagination ran wild. "Can I drive it?"
"You betcha', little lady," Mr. Forrester said, producing the keys and helping her into the car. Bertha's bulk and height made it a tight fit. "Just fire 'er up and away we'll go!"
She started the engine, amazed at the throbbing power of the car. They pulled onto the main road and drove slowly out of town. "Once we get out and have some space," Mr. Forrester said, resting his hand on hers, "I want you to open 'er up and see what she'll do for ya'."
A few miles from town that's exactly what Bertha did, shifting smoothly from gear to gear until the powerful engine was humming along at 85 miles an hour. Mr. Forrester grinned.
"Ya' know that this baby's a convertible, dontcha?" he asked, watching the trees blur past. "Yup, Bertha, just imagine yourself movin' on down the road of life, top down, your hair blowing in the wind, headin' off to new adventures." Bertha imagined that, and more. She smiled at Mr. Forrester.
"So, men notice a car like this, uh?" she asked, pushing the speedometer up to 90 miles an hour.
Mr. Forrester grinned and patted her hand. "Bertha, they not only notice the car, they notice the girl behind the wheel."
Neither noticed the squad car.
Emerson poured another cup of coffee and tried to sort out her schedule. Cooing and a sweet baby laugh from the hall caught her attention.
"This one's been looking for you," Cav laughed, handing over Alexi. "He's fed, bathed, and in a good humor. I wouldn't waste it, if I were you." Emerson kissed his round, rosy cheek and he smiled.
"That's my boy!" He chortled and reached for her earring. "Ah, no playing with the baubles, moj rebenok (baby mine)," she said, pushing his hand away. The Kuryakin glare from an infant is a thing to behold. "You could save that attitude, you know," she said, nuzzling his belly and making him laugh.
Cav and Miriam joined her at the table. "How is Mrs. Solo?" Miriam asked, worry on her face and concern in her voice.
"When I left her this morning, sound asleep," Emerson answered, moving Alexi to her lap and offering him his teething ring. "I'm taking her in with me and keeping an eye on things."
"Have they found them yet?" Cav asked, wriggling her fingers at Alexi who reached for her and dropped the teething ring. "You're going to want that later, malen'kij mal'chik (baby boy), and then where will it be?" Alexi's dark blue eyes fell to the floor and he grinned. Emerson laughed.
"You flirt just like Papa, don't you?" Alexi smiled up at her, reaching for her earring again. "Net, Alexi, Vy ne mozhete igrat' s moimi serezhkami!" (No, Alexi, you may not play with my earrings!) The smile dissolved into a wail. Cav reached for the baby.
"I don't think he understands Russian that well, Cav," Emerson said, watching as Alexi stopped crying and glared. "Okay, maybe he does." She kissed his blond head and walked to the hall. "Vy von'uchiye gniloj!" (You are stinky rotten!) she laughed, watching Alexi grin slowly. "Von'uchij gniloj!" Miriam and Cav exchanged glances.
"She's worried," Miriam declared, lifting the baby from Cav's arms. Cav sipped her coffee.
"I would be, too."
The meeting in Waverly's office revealed little new information. The four agents read carefully through the interview summaries, making comments and drinking more coffee. Mark walked to the windows, anxious and keyed up. He jumped when the teletype began to clatter out a new message.
"Something of interest, Mr. Slate?" his boss asked distractedly. Jack and Pete were on their feet, ready to move.
"Bertha Theobald has been arrested. She's being held in Caribou." Waverly glanced up, the hint of a smile crossing his face.
"It would seem, Mr. Slate, that you have your assignment. Please take Mr. Ahern with you. Mr. Wilson will remain here and work with Mr. Kuryakin."
Thursday, 9:00 a.m.
Emerson collected Charlie and the two rode in silence to the office. In reception, Emerson took Charlie's hand. "Lunch, around 12:30?" Charlie shook her head as they waited for the elevator.
"Look, Charlie, you've got to eat and I'm the best company you can get at the moment." The look Emerson received wasn't exactly promising. "Okay, I'll come get you if I must and I'll bring a couple of bruisers from Section 3!" Charlie grinned.
"Okay, 12:30, in the commissary," she agreed, walking into medical.
Emerson's coffee cup sat on her desk, illuminated by the light of her desk lamp. She stopped and glanced around the darkened room.
"You might be one hell of a spy, Kuryakin, but I know all your tricks!" Illya appeared out of the shadows and smiled.
"I thought perhaps I would ply you with coffee." He moved to the couch and invited her to join him. She hung her coat and kicked off her shoes, depositing her purse and case on her desk. Grabbing the steaming hot coffee, she joined him.
"Usually, it takes a good deal more than coffee to buy my attention," she said, leaning down to kiss him. "What's the news?" He glanced nervously at his hands.
"We have a lead," he said as she sat down and leaned against him. "A Miss Bertha Theobald." Emerson's head rested on his shoulder.
"Continue." Illya kissed her hair.
"Mark and Jack are on their way to interrogate her." Emerson looked up, surprise on her face.
"You've caught her?" Illya shook his head.
"No. She was arrested for speeding by the Caribou police department." Emerson laughed and squeezed his arm.
"That's one for the books! 'Hunted Betrayer Arrested for Speeding', she said, miming the quotation marks. "Should be on the front page of the Times." Illya's somber face did not change. "What?"
"Once Miss Theobald has divulged their location we will move in and extricate them." Emerson stood and walked to the sliding glass doors, fishing her cigarettes from her pocket.
"We?" she asked, her back to Illya, "Charlie will never …"
"The decision does not rest with Charlie," he said, his voice low and hard. He sighed, remembering the identical conversation he'd had with Charlie. Emerson blew a thin stream of smoke toward the ceiling and turned to face him.
"Let Mark handle this, Nikala," she said evenly, keeping her temper in check. "With Jack and Pete, the three of them along with God knows how many other agents, can pull this off."
His blue eyes fixed on her, as cold and forbidding as Siberia in December. "Napoleon would never leave me behind -- has never left me behind -- and I will not leave him behind." She smiled sadly.
"I remember that speech," she said, allowing him to wrap his arms around her. "We were on our way to Cambodia." He held her close and she rested her head on his chest. "Stop smiling at me!"
"Why is it, Em that you can remember a snippet of conversation from more than seven years ago, but you cannot remember to collect the dry cleaning from Del Floria's?" She lifted her head and kissed him.
Thursday, 10 a.m.
Angelique made her breakfast appearance dressed in a navy blue Channel suit replete with a pearls and matching earrings. Trap glanced up as she took her seat at the table.
"I trust that you rested well, my dear?" he asked, signaling the maid to bring coffee.
"Delightfully, Eligeus," she answered, adding cream and sugar to the cup. "Now, I'm starving!" Angelique rose and began filling her plate from the sideboard. "There's nothing like a nice, long bath followed by a vigorous massage, and several hours uninterrupted sleep." She returned to her chair and smiled. "What have you planned for today, darling?"
"Nothing that involves you, my Angelique," Trap answered, raising his coffee cup in salute. "In fact, I am thinking of sending you to California." Angelique blinked.
"What? Why would you do that?" Her sterling silver fork fell heavily against the bone china plate.
"Shall we say, darling, that you are yet too … how do they say it?" Trap smiled. "Ah, yes, 'too hot to handle'." He walked to the windows overlooking the front lawn. "And, I would think you would enjoy some time on the beach." Angelique picked up her fork.
"You have a point, Trap," she said, spearing a bit of egg. "I haven't seen the light of day in … months." He nodded, never taking his eyes from the window. Her eyes narrowed. "What's going on?" Trap turned and smiled.
"I have many guests to see to, my dear, and I fear I won't be a good host." He stood behind her chair, resting his hands on her shoulders. "And, you need a rest … and a new wardrobe." Angelique shrugged off his touch.
"You're up to something, Trap. Either tell me, or I'll have to do a little spying on my own." She stood up and refilled her coffee cup. Trap frowned.
"As I said, I have guests." Angelique laughed.
"Guests, Angelique. Shall we leave it at that?"
"UNCLE … and you don't need my help?" Trap shook his head.
"Verity has things well under control." The bone china cup and saucer crashed against the wall near Trap's head.
"That nut-case whore?" Angelique ranted and prowled the room. "She's certifiable; you know that, don't you?" She paused in front of her boss. "I've seen all the Wexler sisters at work, Trap. Whatever you're after, she won't get it for you."
"But, Angelique, there isn't anything that Verity's new toy can tell me." He smiled again. "But, there is something he can deliver to me."
Angelique felt the hair at the nape of her neck stand up. "Who's her new toy?" Trap laughed loudly.
"Napoleon Solo."
"Get with the program, Cates," she said aloud. Reaching for her coffee cup, she frowned at the cold contents. Emerson stood and stretched, frowning at the files on her desk. Having read the same sentence multiple times and still not processing the information, it was time for a break. She dumped the cold coffee and filled the cup from the carafe on the credenza. A plate of pastries beckoned. Choosing a jelly filled donut; she wandered to the patio doors and stared out at the courtyard.
She was preparing for the first session of what she and Charlie had jokingly named 'UNCLE Pre-marital Counseling 101.' Since she and Charlie were the first to marry active Section 2 agents, and had learned the ropes the hard way, it seemed a good idea to help other poor fools preparing to undertake the same journey. She was expecting half-dozen agents and their fiancés at 2 p.m. Blowing a thin stream of blue-gray smoke toward the ceiling, she grinned.
"So, what'cha gonna' tell 'em, Cates," she asked aloud. "That there's nothing more exhilarating than being in the lives of the two most exciting and dangerous men in UNCLE? That you wake up every morning wondering what thrills await you?" The door hissed open.
"Talking to yourself, Em?" Joanna Fleming asked, grinning at her boss and colleague. Emerson chuckled.
"I'm told it's important to seek the counsel of the wise when making a decision," she answered. "So, I figured I'd start close to home." Joanna laughed.
"Nothing wrong with your self esteem." The older woman helped herself to a coffee cup, filled it, and took a seat at the round table near the patio. "Worried?" Emerson gave a wry chuckle.
"Not me. I cast my lot with Alfred E. Newman. My by-word is, "What, me worry?" Emerson joined her friend at the table. "You know, for a spy organization, we do a piss poor job of keeping secrets."
"That's precisely why you can't keep secrets around here," Joanna explained. "We're all spies, or wannabe's. You can't keep anything from us!" Emerson laughed and rested her hand on Joanna's arm.
"Let's just say that we're holding our own at the moment." She sipped her coffee. "I talked to Illya this morning, but haven't heard anything in awhile."
"Not bad intel for a woman who shouldn't know anything." Joanna rose and brought the plate of pastries to the table. "You know that I'm here if you need me."
"Thanks, Jo." Emerson grinned. "Do you think you could help me with this new group; 'UNCLE Pre-marital Counseling 101?" Joanna laughed.
"I never thought that you'd stoop so low as to use my former status as a nun against me!" She selected an apple Danish. "And, although I've never tied the knot, I do know a couple of things about relationships." Emerson rolled her eyes.
"Hey, a relationship by any other name is still a relationship!" Joanna crossed her legs. "I've lived with as many as 50 women of all ages, sizes, and temperaments. Trust me, if I can do that I can handle pre-marital counseling!" The two friends and colleagues ate their pastries in silence, their thoughts elsewhere.
"Charlie's in medical trying to do her job," Emerson said, glancing at Joanna. "As usual, we're trying to keep things at home on an even keel. The kids are off to school and the girls to ballet lessons after that." She shrugged. "Just another day in the life of UNCLE section chiefs."
"You look exhausted, Em," Joanna observed, leaning back in her chair and regarding her friend with a jaundiced eye.
"Thanks for taking my self-esteem down a couple of notches." Joanna leaned forward and took Emerson's hand.
"Any time," Joanna smiled, her concern not quite covered. "How are the kids handling this?"
"As they always do." Joanna shook her head. "Okay, after I left Charlie's and got home … Illya had returned to headquarters … Alexi was fussy and it took an hour to settle him. Then, when I'm ready to climb into bed, I find Nicky there already."
"Not a good sign when your children want to sleep with you."
"Thank you, Dr. Spock," Emerson said, toying with her coffee cup. "He'd had a bad dream, something about the trees in the park grabbing his sisters." She grinned. "With all the sibling rivalry he puts up with, you'd think it wouldn't have been a nightmare, but a relief to be rid of them!"
Joanna frowned. "Ever given any thought to having the kids work with a therapist?" Emerson rolled her eyes. "They do live pretty disrupted lives, Em!"
"Jesus, Joanna, it's not like they know anything else!" She fetched the carafe and poured fresh coffee. "And, yes, I do worry about things sometimes. I'm not a complete dolt." Joanna caught her hand.
"They may well not 'know anything else'; as you put it, but they do recognize that their lives are very different from their friends." Her eyes were serious. "Even Alexi isn't immune." Emerson sighed.
"Are you suggesting that my kids have Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder?" Joanna nodded.
"Why is it so impossible, Em? I mean, look at the past few years; married, pregnant, a missing brother-in-law and two nieces, twins, guardian of the girls, lose your brother-in-law … in the line of duty no less … adopt the girls, another pregnancy, Illya undercover without knowing about the baby …" Emerson held up her hand.
"I get it, Joanna, I get it!" Emerson blushed at the edge in her voice. She fell silent. "You've got someone to suggest, I take it?" Joanna smiled.
Thursday, 11:00 a.m.
Lt. Gregory Winston paced the sidewalk in front of the Bangor Police Department watching and waiting for the UNCLE agents. What had started as a simple traffic stop had escalated into an international spy game. Winston's head was spinning.
He glanced up at the sound of squealing tires to see a navy blue Chevy driven by a slight blond man careen into the parking lot. The blond quickly exited the car, now parked in the chief's spot, followed by a tall, dark skinned man.
"I'm sorry, sir," Winston said, advancing on the blond, "you'll have to move your vehicle." The blond pushed past him, tossing the keys over his shoulder.
"Take care of it," Mark ordered, trailing Jack in his wake.
"Um, Mark," Jack whispered, grabbing his partners arm, "that is Lt. Winston." Mark stopped, returned to the surprised officer, and retrieved his keys.
"My apologies, Lt. Winston," Mark said, pocketing the keys. "I am Mark Slate and this is my partner, Jack Ahern. UNCLE North American Headquarters, New York." The young officer nodded numbly, wondering at Mark's British accent. "I believe Mr. Alexander Waverly has been in contact with your department."
"Yes, sir, Mr. Slate," Winston stammered. The blond didn't look anything like an international spy in his opinion. "If you'll go up the stairs and take the first door on the left, please."
Mark and Jack headed up the stairs with Lt. Winston right behind them. "I wish to see Miss Theobald immediately," Mark said over his shoulder. Winston noted that the man wasn't in the least winded. Winston shook his head.
"My reports on the arrest and initial interview are available to you, sir, but I cannot allow you access to the prisoner."
"Lt. Winston," Jack said, taking the young officer by the elbow and steering him away from Mark, "Miss Theobald may seem a harmless, middle-aged spinster, but I can assure you, she is a dangerous woman. The Battson Facility was over run last evening and more than a dozen guards were injured. At least four are dead and two of our agents are missing." Lt. Winston took a deep breath and schooled his expression.
"Miss Theobald is in custody on a speeding charge; nothing more." Winston stopped speaking; realizing that he'd lost sight of the blond agent. "Where's your partner?"
Jack glanced around and shrugged. "Probably the loo." Noting the confused expression on the officer's face, he quickly explained. "Sorry, mate. I'm an Aussie … Australian … Mark's in the toilet, probably." Lt. Winston nodded, wondering what sort of organization hired people from half a world away and people this particular color. "Now, if I could see the police report?"
"Not until your partner shows up." Jack sighed and pulled out his communicator.
"Open Channel D. Mark, are you about?" The flush of a toilet came through loud and clear. "We're waiting for you."
Mark glared at the communicator. "Ask him where Miss Theobald is being held. I'm in no mood to toss the entire building." Jack grinned. "Tell him that we haven't got all day," Mark snapped, ending the transmission. Jack raised an eyebrow, unused to this side of the normally implacable Mark Slate.
"Miss Theobald is my prisoner," Winston said, frowning at the agent. Mark stormed in, the door bouncing off the wall.
"Where is she?"
"Lt. Winston was just telling me that he is responsible for Miss Theobald," Jack said, raising an eyebrow. Mark took the hint.
"May we see the prisoner, Lt. Winston?" he asked with all the charm of a well behaved English school boy. The three men took the stairs to the basement and Lt. Winston spoke quietly with the jailer who gave apprising looks to Mark and Jack. Jack leaned down. "I'm thinking, mate, that they don't see many folks my color in these parts," he grinned, "and even fewer Brits." Mark grinned.
The group stopped at the first of four cells and the jailer fitted one fat key into an ancient lock and turned it, all the while wondering at what sort of people made for spies these days.
"Miss Theobald, this is Agent Mark Slate and Agent Jack Ahern from UNCLE."
What little color remained in her pasty face drained away. "I ain't talkin'."
Lt. Winston frowned and entered the cell. "You are implicated in quite a string of events and these gentlemen wish to interview you." She towered over the officer and glared at Mark and Jack.
"You can't make me talk, little man," she snarled, advancing on the officer.
Mark, his blue-gray eyes fixed on Bertha, pulled a crumpled envelope from his pocket and shoved it toward Lt. Winston. "This transfers authority for Miss Theobald to UNCLE," he said.
Winston opened the envelope and hastily read the letter signed by Alexander Waverly. "He does not have the authority …"
"Ah, but he does, mate," Jack said, smiling at the officer. "Miss Theobald is wanted on conspiracy to harm the welfare of the American people." He winked at Bertha. "You've gone international in your little crime spree, Shelia." Winston made an attempt to stand his ground.
"She is my prisoner and my responsibility," Winston stammered.
"Not anymore," Mark growled, slapping a cuff on Bertha's substantial wrist and then to the cell bars. "You can stay and watch … or you can leave … now."
"No!" she screamed, struggling against the cuff. "You can't do this! I'm an American citizen!" She looked imploring at Lt. Winston who turned to Jack.
"I am forced to file a complaint," Winston said, squaring his shoulders and pushing past Jack.
Jack shrugged. "I'd start with the Queen Mum if I were you." Winston huffed his way out of the cell.
Angelique found Verity in the library, sipping a cup of coffee and perusing the stacks.
"I understand that you have a new toy, Verity," Angelique said, pouring a healthy measure of Scotch. Verity turned and smiled.
"Isn't it a little early for such things, Angelique?" she asked, pointing to the tumbler of Scotch. Angelique ignored her. "Sometimes, my Eligeus talks too much," Verity said, moving away from the shelves and perching on the corner of Trap's desk. Angelique's china blue eyes narrowed. "Concerned that I might harm your favorite UNCLE agent?"
"You're in over your head, Verity," she warned. Verity laughed rudely. Angelique lit a cigarette and fixed her adversary with a glare.
"And, of course, you would know such things, wouldn't you, Angelique?" the tall, beautiful woman snapped, her eyes filled with derision. "I'm aware of your 'relationship' with Solo … what is it Thrush Central calls you … the Thrush Whore?" Angelique relaxed in an overstuffed chair and crossed her legs.
"Do they, now?" She offered a cold smile. "And, what pray tell, do they call you … a sociopath for hire, available to the highest bidder?"
"Do you have any idea what I will do to you, Angelique?" Verity whispered.
"Don't threaten me unless you intend to follow through," the blonde replied calmly, taking a long draw on the cigarette.
"I will kill you," Verity whispered.
"That may well come to pass, Verity," Angelique said, a feral smile on her pretty face, "but not today."
Thursday, Noon
Charlie glanced up from her desk and smiled. "So, you didn't trust me to show up, uh?"
"I thought I'd cover my bets and come and collect you," Emerson replied, resting her hands on the edge of Charlie's over flowing desk. "And, I've got an appointment this afternoon." Charlie shed her lab coat and followed Emerson out the door.
"Hear anything?" Charlie asked, pressing the call button for the elevator.
The elevator arrived and Emerson pushed the floor button. "Illya tells me that they've got a solid lead and that Mark and Jack have been dispatched to handle the interrogation." Charlie sighed and leaned against the back wall.
"At least Illya's sent Jack and Mark. Maybe he heard what I said, Em." Emerson laughed.
"How long have you known Illya Nickovetch Kuryakin, Charlie?" The young doctor grinned and blushed. "He's like a goddamn fire horse; every time he hears a bell … or a communicator … he assumes that he's the only one who can put out the fire!"
"I won't clear him for this, Em." Charlie's face was somber. "I won't let him go." Emerson shrugged, trying to look unconcerned.
"It won't matter, Charlie," she said, a sad, knowing smile on her face. "No matter what you say, I know that he'll never let anyone else take the lead on this. Not when 'Pasha's life is in the balance." The door opened and Alexander Waverly appeared.
"May I prevail upon you to dine with me?" he asked, offering a rare smile.
"Of course, Alexander," Emerson said, taking his arm, "nothing's better than dining with the boss."
April curled behind Napoleon, her arm protectively across his waist. Grateful that he had finally calmed enough to agree to lie down; she worried, listening to his ragged breathing. His fever was, if anything, worse, and he had refused her offer of water.
"What am I going to do with you, 'Pasha?" she whispered softly, holding him close. She closed her eyes and drifted off to sleep.
The faint scent of Angelique's Channel #5, mixed with the tell-tale smell of her cigarettes tickled his nose. Eligeus Trap seated himself behind his large and imposing desk and considered his options with the two head strong and dangerous women that currently confused and confounded his plans.
He could send Verity off on another assignment; her skills were needed elsewhere. But, if he sent her away he would only pay in spades later, and pay back with Verity was exceedingly dangerous.
Leaning back in his oversized leather chair Trap tented his fingers and smiled at the thought of Angelique, naked, frolicking on a tropical beach. That image delighted him endlessly.
Sending her on holiday would be simple and expedient. Her past involvements with Solo were legendary in Thrush and, in this particular instance, gave Trap pause. She had, after all, helped the Russian escape the explosion at Dr. Devon-Jones' farm and had gone so far as to endear herself to the Russian's wife. He smiled.
No, this time Angelique was unnecessary to his plans; a potential threat to their success. So, he would make travel arrangements, have her bags packed immediately, and send her off to the Caribbean or someplace suitable to such a woman. He reached for the phone.
1 p.m., Thursday
"Open Channel D."
"Channel D is open, Mr. Slate."
"Illya Kuryakin and make it fast."
"Yes, Mark." Illya's tone was somewhat distracted and Mark wondered at it.
"Theobald has given us the location. I need a strike force in the air … now." Illya frowned at the microphone that linked him to his colleague. Peter was on his feet, grabbing satellite maps, waiting to check coordinates.
"How can you be certain that she is telling the truth, Mark?" Illya glanced at Pete, concerned that Mark was pushing too hard with too little information.
"Damn it, Illya, they're being held at Trap's compound … his estate … near the Canadian border." Mark glared at the communicator and then at Jack. "Get me a strike force!"
"Mark, I need more information. The Canadian/Maine border is rather a large one." Mark sighed in exasperation. Jack grinned, taking the communicator.
"G'day, mates! Miss Theobald sang like the proverbial fat lady."
When April awakened, she was alone. "Where the hell is Solo?" she yelled, pounding on the cell door. Frick's face appeared behind the bars.
"Miss Wexler retrieved him," he answered softly. April slumped against the door, feeling for the first time a real sense of failure. "Can I get you anything, Miss Dancer?"
April snorted. "The key to this goddamn door, a gun with a full clip, my partner, and a helicopter. In that order." She heard Frick sigh.
"Sorry, Miss Dancer."
She listened to his footfalls fade down the corridor and cursed the tears of frustration on her cheeks.
Alexander Waverly paused at the windows of his office and read the telex he had just received from Eligeus Trap. Pacing the room, he read the communiqué again.
Mr. Alexander Waverly, the telex began, I hold two of your top agents, Miss April Dancer and Mr. Napoleon Solo. Shall we consider them insurance? You provide to me what I ask and in return, I will release to you, Miss Dancer and Mr. Solo.
Dispatch Dr. Illya Kuryakin to my estate near Battson not later than 6 p.m., this evening, Thursday. I will forward the coordinates as soon as I am in receipt of your reply.
Dr. Kuryakin is to come alone. To do otherwise is a sure death sentence for all three of your agents.
I demand response to this telex not later than 3 p.m. today.
Dr. Eligeus Trap
He glanced at his watch and pressed the intercom button. "Miss Blackstone, please send for Mr. Kuryakin."