Disclaimer: I don't own anything related to Man from UNCLE.
A/N: For my wife, who has been waiting patiently for the rest of it for at least three weeks now.
Sometimes the simplest things could feel like decadence, Illya thought, as he closed his eyes and slowly savoured his tea. The sweetness of the jam mixed with the soft, smoky taste of tea straight from the samovar, and with the hushed murmur of Russian being spoken around him, it was enough to make him feel like he was home.
It had been a tough week. He and Napoleon had barely got out of Belize with their lives, and Illya had suffered a broken arm that he apparently really shouldn't have tried swimming with. Or hitting off a speeding boat. Or using to hold down the clamps so he could defuse the bomb with his other hand. Medical had only released him that morning very grudgingly – he got the impression they did not entirely trust him not to go out and injure himself still further. Napoleon, predictably, had escaped without a scratch, and had managed to charm a date out of Sandy, the pretty American tourist they'd rescued along the way.
Not that he really minded. A quiet night with his book and some good food was more what he was in the mood for.
Speaking of which, Agnia, dropped his steaming bowl of thick solyanka in front of him. "Eat," she commanded, almost rudely, in Ukranian. "Every time you come in here you look skinnier."
"It's because I miss your cooking when I'm away," he answered in the same language. "Thank you."
She shook her head at him, muttering darkly, and brought over some dark bread rolls as well. "See you don't leave any," she warned him, gesturing at his cast. "You need all your strength to grow new bone."
He didn't argue. "Of course," he said, inclining his head gravely.
She liked him because he spoke the language of her childhood, before the revolution, Russification and everything that came with it. He gathered she'd been a loyal party supporter along with her late husband, once upon a time, but then he'd supported Trotsky and they'd fled the country when Stalin came to power and somehow ended up opening a cafe bar on the Lower East Side.
He came down here every so often, perhaps once a month, more or less. It was...comfortable, that was the word. The battered copper samovars, the dozens of faded cushions scattered around the place without a single one matching, the month old copies of Pravda and Izvestia left lying on the tables, the peeling sign above the door that read simply Головна in uncertain script...it had an inconspicuous feeling to it that allowed him to feel like he vanished the moment he stepped through the door.
Here, for an evening at least, he could indulge himself in the dangerous luxury of thinking in his own mother tongue.
Oh, the truth was he liked living in America. All politics aside, he liked the culture and he liked the people and yes, he liked the fact that his own little outbreaks of nonconformity met with little more than a disapproving word about his hair or wardrobe. But it wasn't home and it never would be. And it was vital that he spoke and thought and above all reacted in English at all times. When a split second meant the difference between life and death, he had to be sure to be understood the first time.
But sometimes he worried that he might find himself forgetting. That he might be left speaking Russian as a foreigner would, formal and clumsy and wrong. A foolish fear, perhaps, but one he couldn't quite shake.
Before the war he'd been more or less bilingual. He'd grown up speaking Ukranian at home to his family and Russian everywhere else. After the war there had been no home left, and Russian had been the only language he heard, the language he thought and dreamed in. Now Ukranian was simply another language he spoke, no different in his head from German or Japanese. His heart was a different matter, and he regretted that loss, regretted that when he dreamed of his parents, his sister, they spoke to him in a language that was no longer his own.
Now, more and more, he found himself dreaming in English, and yes, that bothered him. He had no wish to lose Russian the way he'd lost Ukranian. And so he let himself have evenings like this – the simplest things that felt like decadence - amid his fellow countrymen many of whom, he suspected were here for similar reasons.
There were other places in New York where Russians gathered. After all, New York had more than its share of emigres and exiles. But the ones who made their way here were the ones who were looking for discretion, the ones who could not or would not join the larger community. Those, perhaps, who would go home if they only could. To his knowledge there were half a dozen KGB agents who were regular patrons, most of whom he recognised from their occasional stints following him around whenever one of the powers-that-be was feeling particularly paranoid, and perhaps as many GRU men, plus one CIA operative who had caused a certain amount of consternation before it was realised he had simply found a taste for Russian food while on assignment. And then, of course, there was him. The lone Soviet UNCLE agent, neither exiled nor under Soviet control, not free to stay and yet not easily able to return. He existed in a kind of no man's land and while he enjoyed hearing the murmur of Russian around him, he never attempted to strike up conversation with anyone but Agnia.
Look how melancholy his thoughts had become. He shook his head at himself in mild exasperation. This was supposed to be a night of simple pleasures, not a night spent questioning his place in the universe. Not to mention his soup was getting cold as he sat here bemoaning his fate. He dipped his spoon in and smiled at the rich flavour. Agnia really had an undeniable talent.
Now... He looked from his book to his spoon to his broken arm with mild displeasure, before managing to bend the book – a dog-eared copy of Anna Akhmatova's Stikhotvoreniya - back and prop it up against the cruet so he could continue to eat and turn the pages one handed. There now. This was the life.
For a while he managed to read and eat in peace, stopping only to ask Agnia for another helping of solyanka, and while he was conscious of the door opening and closing, he took little notice of the comings and goings until the two police officers walked in.
Unnatural silence fell for a second, and when the buzz of conversation resumed it was quiet and forced. There wasn't anyone in here who didn't have reason to instinctively fear the police.
Illya was in the far corner, the wall to his back. He kept his head down for the moment, curious to see what was happening. In the opposite corner he could see Anton Gushchin the only KGB officer currently here, doing the same. It was unlikely to be him they were looking for; if the Americans were searching for KGB it would be the FBI they would send, not the NYPD. And certainly Illya was safe by virtue of having done nothing wrong. As Napoleon told him; that counted for something here.
The police officers swaggered up to the counter, apparently intent on Agnia. Illya licked his finger and absently turned a page noting that she did not seem surprised to see them. Resigned, and perhaps a little afraid, but not surprised.
One of them – the taller one, with his dark hair in a crew cut, lounged offensively across the counter. "Well?" he said, the twang of English jarringly cutting across the room. "We gave you an extra three days. Are you going to pay your neighbourhood tax or not?"
Agnia gazed at them, her lips pressed firmly together for a long moment. "I do not have it," she said at last in halting English.
The other police officer, the plump one with the mop of curly hair, spat on the floor. "Dumb commie bitch," he said. "We let scum like you into the country, the least you could do is obey the rules. You want to keep this crummy place open, you gotta pay the tax."
"We've been generous with you," Crew Cut added. "We wouldn't want to see anything happen to this place...or to you."
A shakedown, then. A couple of rogue police officers demanding protection money. He took a deep breath, managing his anger and he stood up slowly, not wanting to draw attention immediately, not wanting to escalate things before it was time.
Agnia reached into the till and flung a bunch of bills onto the counter. "There," she spat. "I hope it chokes you."
Curly picked it up and flicked through it. "You're about twenty dollars short," he said. "Plus another five for the late payment fee."
"I told you, I do not have your money," she said. "So you go jump in lake."
Crew Cut made to reach across the counter his hand raised as if to strike her, but Illya moved swiftly, appearing at his elbow and blocking his arm without actually making physical contact. "That would be a very bad idea, officer," he said firmly.
"Oh yeah?" Crew Cut sneered. "And just who the hell do you think you are, comrade?"
Carefully keeping his special well hidden, he reached into his pocket and fished out his UNCLE ID. "Illya Kuryakin, UNCLE," he said. "And I am telling you to walk away right now and not come back."
"Really." Curly walked around him slowly. "UNCLE, huh? And is that supposed to mean something to us?"
Crew Cut batted his ID out of his hand contemptuously. "The United States doesn't employ any cops with names like Kur-ar-kin." He spoke the mangled version of Illya's name like it left a bad taste in his mouth. "What, did you have that ran up for you at the copy shop?"
"No," he said evenly. "We are an international organisation, not American. And my ID is genuine. The fact that you do not recognise it speaks volumes to your training...and to your intelligence."
They both stared at him incredulously. In fact, the entire bar appeared to be holding its collective breath. "What did you just say?" Curly demanded.
"Leave it, please," Agnia begged him in Ukranian. "This isn't worth you getting hurt over. These are dangerous men."
He smiled slightly. "They really aren't," he told her in the same language.
"Hey!" Crew Cut said sharply. "Stop that. In this country, we speak American."
"Of course," he said ironically. He sighed. "My point, officers, is that I am a law enforcement agent, like yourselves, however my jurisdiction far exceeds your own. One phone call to your precinct would be enough to confirm my organisation's credentials, so there is little sense in me lying about it. I am trying to have a quiet evening, so if you walk out the door right now and do not return, I will be happy to let this matter drop."
Curly guffawed. "Are you threatening us, little man?"
He had tried to be patient, he had tried to be reasonable, he really had. Subtly, he shifted his weight in readiness, putting the counter to his back, and he let the ice show on his face. "You are the ones threatening old ladies, demanding money from those you are sworn to protect. Do you really think that I am the one who should be worried right now?"
They stepped in closer, looming over him and making it clear how much taller and broader than him they were.
He smiled sharply. "You want to intimidate me?" he asked. "You are not even the worst people to threaten me in the last twenty four hours."
"You need put in your place," Crew Cut said, a sharp smile of anticipation creasing his face as he lunged forwards.
Illya stepped aside smartly at the last possible moment and grabbed the back of Crew Cut's collar, shoving him forwards in one easy moment so he cracked his head off the counter and fell to the ground insensible.
"Too slow," he said to Curly, shaking his head mockingly as Curly stared at him, his mouth hanging open as he fumbled to draw his baton.
He swung it wildly towards Illya's head, but again, it all seemed so slow, and Illya brought his broken arm up swiftly, catching the baton on the plaster cast. He cried out through gritted teeth as the pain jarred through him, but he was still able to lash round with his other hand before Curly had time to recover, punching him squarely in the face. As Curly stumbled backwards, he swung out again and Illya didn't quite manage to dodge catching him a glancing blow on the cheek. But he was already pressing forwards, sweeping out with his leg, neatly tripping Curly and keeping him off balance, giving Illya time to follow up with a swift karate chop to the back of his neck that sent him to the floor.
He stepped back slowly. Two for two, and the 'fight' had barely lasted ten seconds. Normally that would be something to be proud of, especially when he was working one handed but now...now he was standing over the unconscious bodies of two New York police officers. This might be a little difficult to explain.
The shocked silence was broken by Agnia wailing. "Oh, look what you've done!" she exclaimed. "Foolish boy, you must never fight back against government men. Didn't you mother ever teach you that? They will lock us all up and throw away the key."
Crew Cut groaned and half raised his head, and Illya sighed and stooped over him, quickly retrieving the man's handcuffs from his belt and using them to cuff his hands behind his back – something else he thought he deserved a standing ovation for accomplishing one handed. For good measure, he did the same to Curly. At least that would give him time to think.
When he looked up, everyone in the bar was staring at him nervously. He met Gushchin's eyes. "Well, what are you waiting for?" he asked in exasperated Russian. "Go on. Get out of here."
He wasn't altogether surprised when everyone stood at the same time as the KGB officer and practically ran out the door. No one wanted to be involved here. Which meant he was going to have no witnesses to agree that he'd only acted out of self-defence. Really, he should never have expected anything else.
"And now you chase away all my customers," Agnia complained.
He sighed, suddenly tired, and perched up on the counter. "How often have they threatened you?" he asked. "How much money have they taken from you?"
There was a guarded look in her eyes. "Enough," she said. "They take from all the businesses round here. And before them, it was someone else. It is the way of things."
Of course. The way of things. He glanced down at his cast morosely. The blow from the baton had practically split it in two. At this rate, medical were going to tie him to a bed and refuse to let him out ever again. He looked back at Agnia. "It ends tonight," he said. "It ends now."
"Do you have any idea what you've done?" Crew Cut asked hoarsely, staring up at him. "Assaulting a police officer in the course of his duties? Taking them hostage? They're going to lock you and the old bitch up for the rest of your lives."
Unlikely. But he couldn't deny, things could get very unpleasant for him in the near future. He had no doubt that UNCLE would be able to smooth things over eventually, but in the meantime, if he, a Soviet citizen, went to the NYPD with this story, the FBI would be all over him. Again.
He sighed and drummed his heels absently against the counter, his hand pressed lightly against his cheek. Blood oozed slowly between his fingers. "Do you have any verhuny?" he asked Agnia in Russian. "And perhaps some vodka?"
"Oh, so fighting with the law gives you an appetite," she demanded huffily, pouring out his vodka he thought, possibly, out of habit.
"They are not the law," he said in English, looking down at them as she banged down the plate of pastries beside him. "You only get to be the law if you keep it."
"You don't like it, go back to Russia," Crew Cut snarled.
Ah, yes. The obvious place to live if one had a problem with officials abusing their power. He didn't voice the sarcastic thought even now...but he didn't censor it either.
As loath as he was to admit it, he needed some help here. Automatically he reached into his jacket pocket for his communicator only to find it wasn't there. Oh, of course. His was lying in a boat wreck in Belize, and as he had been loaned out to Section VIII until he was declared fit for field work, he hadn't had an opportunity to get a replacement. No matter. Sandy was a nice bourgeois girl in search of just the right amount of adventure and rebellion, so that narrowed Napoleon's likely choice of restaurant down to three – four at the outside, and if his partner had been particularly in the mood for seafood.
He took a big bite of verhuny and just let himself enjoy the sweetness for a moment before he smiled at Agnia. "May I borrow your phone?" he asked.
It was an evening for indulging in little luxuries, Napoleon thought, as he sipped his champagne and watched Sandy's eyes light up as the waiter brought her a complicated construction of chocolate mousse and ganache in a spun sugar shell. It made his teeth itch just looking at it, but no matter. It was all part and parcel of the wonder and decadence she was looking for.
Champagne on ice, oysters caught fresh that day, a live band playing mood music in the corner, and a beautiful woman sitting opposite him in a dress that was full of tantalising suggestion. All was very right in Napoleon's world.
"Oh, that's amazing," Sandy said as she took a bite of dessert. "Oh, Napoleon, you have to try some."
She held her spoon out across the table and he smiled and obliged. "Delicious," he agreed.
"So where are you taking me after this?" she asked in between mouthfuls.
"There's a new nightclub opened," he said. "The Matador. I thought we might try there." Truthfully, while the club was indeed new, he had already been there once or twice – enough to know that it was somewhere he'd be more than happy to take her. But the thrill of supposed discover was all part of the fun of the evening.
"And after that?" she asked archly, and he took note; the undercurrent in her voice was more about excitement than nerves.
"After that?" he repeated with a smile. "Well, we'll just have to see, won't we?"
"Oh!" She blushed prettily.
He leaned forwards intent on offering some new remark of charm and flirt, when he spotted the waiter approaching the table again.
"Telephone call for you, Mr Solo," he said.
"Really." He pursed his lips thoughtfully. This could well be a trap. He hadn't mentioned to anyone that he was coming here tonight. "Thank you." He slipped the waiter a couple of dollars as he stood up and smiled at Sandy. "I'll be back in a few minutes," he promised. And if by chance he wasn't, he didn't want her worrying and coming to look for her.
Casually, he walked towards the phones at the front of the restaurant, his hand hovering over his gun, alert to everyone around him. But there was no sign of any ambush, and the receiver was off the hook, waiting for him.
Still wary, he picked it up. "Hello?"
"Good evening, Napoleon," Illya said. "I see you were not in the mood for seafood."
He relaxed at the sound of his partner's voice, taking careful note of all the little clues of tone and intonation that told him that Illya didn't feel he was in any immediate danger. "I take it you didn't call me up simply to comment on my choice of restaurant?"
Illya paused slightly. "I find myself in need of some backup who can be obtrusively American."
"Really." He smiled slightly. "Weren't you the one who said it must be a disadvantage to be so unmistakably American?"
"We're currently in the one country in the world where it is an advantage," Illya told him.
"There's always something," he said. "So what trouble have you managed to get yourself into this time?"
There was another pause. "I appear to have arrested two members of the NYPD," Illya said at last.
His eyebrows shot up. That was unexpected. Still, he didn't waste time asking for explanations. Illya had specified that they had been arrested, which already told him that his partner felt he was justified in whatever action he had taken. And, since Napoleon trusted Illya's judgement implicitly, that meant he could take the righteousness as read and simply move on from there. "And you think that the small matter of reporting this to the proper authorities in local law enforcement would sound better coming from someone with my accent," he said with understanding.
"I would do the same thing for you, should you ever find it necessary to detain any members of the militsiya," Illya assured him.
"I'll bear that in mind," he said dryly. "Alright, where are you?"
"Holovna," Illya said. "It's - "
" - I know where it is," Napoleon cut in as his smile vanished. A Russian bar with a known KGB presence. No wonder Illya thought this would be better coming from him.
There was silence for a second. "Of course you do," Illya said, his voice carefully neutral.
He winced slightly. UNCLE didn't usually keep precise tabs on what agents did on their off hours, but soon after Illya had arrived in New York the FBI had complained about some of the places he had been going. Mr Waverly had very firmly shut down their call for an investigation, but at the same time he had sent Napoleon to check it out. Oh, he'd found out exactly what he'd expected; Illya was in no way making any kind of suspicious contact; but still, Illya would hardly care for the reminder that he'd been under suspicion. If it came to that, Napoleon wasn't exactly happy with it himself.
"I'll be there soon," he said abruptly and rang off. He stood for a second, staring at the phone, his brow creased.
When he returned to Sandy he was already wearing an apologetic smile. "I'm sorry," he said. "But I'm going to have to cut our evening short."
She sighed. "Don't tell me. You need to run off and save the world again."
"Well, I certainly hope not," he said lightly. "No, a friend of mine is in some trouble and needs a hand. I enjoyed this evening though. I'd like to take you out again sometime...maybe tomorrow night?"
She huffed at him a little but her eyes were smiling. "I don't know...I'm not accustomed to being abandoned like this."
"I'm not accustomed to abandoning such a beautiful woman, "he said with maybe a little more gallantry than truth. This was, after all, hardly the first time he'd had to run out on an evening.
"Alright then," she said, giving in gracefully. "You can pick me up tomorrow night. Same time and place."
He paid the bill and found her a cab before jumping in one himself. At least at this time the traffic shouldn't be too bad. The last thing they wanted was for anyone to come looking for the arrested officers.
He gazed out the window and brooded
The thing was, he didn't like that Illya had gone to Holovna tonight. Oh, he understood why Illya might want to surround himself, however vicariously, with his own language and culture, even for an evening; what he didn't like was the quiet melancholy that seemed to grip his partner for days afterwards. He hadn't quite figured out whether that was the trigger or just a symptom, but it almost didn't matter. He hated to think that Illya might be homesick or even lonely, and he hated even more that there was nothing he could do about it.
And he worried sometimes, a little fear creeping into the back of his mind and taking root – what if Illya asked to be transferred back home?
If the US government tried to deport him, or the USSR demanded he be sent back, there would be action UNCLE could take, if they so chose, and Illya was valuable enough that Napoleon had very little doubt that Mr Waverly would so choose. Of course there was no guarantee of success, but there would be a chance at least. If Illya himself chose to leave, there would be nothing to be done save Napoleon trying to talk him out of it, and he really didn't rate his chances. Talking Illya out of anything once he'd made his mind up was usually close to impossible. After all, he'd once failed to talk Illya out of jumping off a bridge, he doubted he could persuade him out of anything technically less suicidal.
And if Illya did return behind the Iron Curtain Napoleon would likely never see him again. Even if he somehow managed to escape any kind of suspicion for living happily in the US for so long, some distances were too great for friendship to easily cross.
It was painful to consider that Illya might survive so many brushes with death only to be executed as a traitor by his own paranoid government. Of course he knew perfectly well that Illya was hardly naïve. He knew far better than Napoleon what fate could potentially await him if he returned, but that didn't mean he might not consider the risk worth it.
Maybe he was being paranoid here. Just that when he saw that melancholy look on Illya's face, he had to fight down the urge to start listing off everything he knew Illya loved about living here... Was it possible to be jealous of an entire country?
"Here we go," the cab driver announced as they pulled up outside the bar.
Napoleon paid the man and got out, looking up at the sign with a feeling of disquiet. Alright. Let's do this.
He walked in to find Illya perched on the counter, a plate of some kind of deep fried pastries balanced on his knee, a cold compress pressed against his cheek, his injured arm tucked half inside his jacket. Evidently there had been some kind of fight before the arrest.
Napoleon raised an eyebrow, silently asking if Illya was hurt badly, and Illya shook his head .
"Agent Kuryakin," he said in a tone of cool professionalism, letting Illya know exactly how he intended to play this. It would be better if the cops didn't feel like he was inevitably going to be on Illya's side.
Illya acknowledged him with a crisp nod, the effect somewhat spoiled by the fact his mouth was full of pastry.
He let his gaze drift over the bar. "Ma'am," he said in polite acknowledgement to the owner, a lady with gunmetal grey hair and a fierce glint in her eye. He caught sight of the framed picture of Lenin behind the bar, a burnt out candle lying before it, and shot Illya a quick pained look. Really, if there was a worse place in New York for Illya to have decided to pick a fight with the police, Napoleon would like to hear about it.
Finally he turned his attention to the two police officers sat up at a table together, their hands cuffed behind their backs. They were injured – one with an impressive black eye, and one with a cut on his forehead, and both of them were glaring suspiciously at him.
"Gentlemen," he said crisply, taking mental note of their badge numbers. "My name is Napoleon Solo and I'm the Chief Enforcement Agent at UNCLE." He held up his ID badge, giving them plenty of time to study it. "Now, what are your names?"
"Wait, you mean that UNCLE thing is real?" the one with the black eye burst out.
Ah. So Illya had identified himself and they hadn't paid the right sort of attention. There was still the possibility of him being able to write this all off as a misunderstanding of some kind. That would be the best outcome from their point of view.
"So my agent showed you his identification?" he asked, eyebrow raised.
"Of course I showed my identification," Illya cut in. "Why wouldn't I show my identification? They did not recognise it."
"I see." He gazed at them. "The United Network for Command and Law Enforcement maintains a close relationship with local law enforcement in the United States," he said blandly. "I happen to know that our Section VII regularly hold briefings with your department. I'm confident your superiors will be disappointed at your lack of awareness."
"But he sounds just like a Russkie," the other cop pointed out, as though Illya's nationality might just have escaped Napoleon's notice until this very moment.
He narrowly resisted the urge to react with shock and surprise. "Really," he said. "Well, let's get back to my first question, gentlemen. Your names?"
"Officer Gantry, and this is my partner, Officer Webb," the one with the black eye said sullenly.
"And now we're getting somewhere," Napoleon nodded. "Alright now. Why don't you tell me what happened? In your own words?"
He didn't want them saying they hadn't had a chance to speak.
"Well," Gantry said with a quick look at his partner. "We were patrolling here when we stopped into this bar to check everything was alright. The old lady started yelling at us in Russian, and then your guy stepped up and attacked us – he knocked my partner out cold, then started punching on me."
That...wasn't even a good lie. He sighed. "We've already established Agent Kuryakin showed you his ID," he pointed out. "So when was that?"
"Uh, before he attacked," Webb said quickly. "He flashed that badge so quick for us to see and said something in Russian that we didn't understand - "
" - except that you asked me if UNCLE was real," he pointed out. "So he must have identified himself properly for you to know the name of our organisation."
There was a pause, and the two cops glanced at each other. "Look," Webb said at once in a low voice, looking worriedly over towards Illya. "Buddy, we're all on the same side here, right? I guess you're kind of like a cop, right? And we're all American. Just trust me, your guy there is bad news. He attacked us."
"Yes, that really doesn't sound like him," Napoleon said easily. "Not to mention, he has a broken arm. You really want to say that a man with a broken arm attacked you and managed to overpower you?"
They were back to glaring sullenly at him. "You need to let us go," Gantry said.
Probably true. He walked back towards Illya. At his approach, the old lady immediately grabbed Illya's arm and said something fast and angry and frightened, looking between the two of them anxiously. Napoleon had no idea what she'd said, but he did recognise a few of the words as ones that Illya would occasionally use in impolite company. He raised an eyebrow.
"She thinks that you are going to have me disappeared," Illya explained calmly, patting her hand in what was probably a reassuring gesture. It didn't seem to help any; she was looking at him like he was the incarnation of faceless authority in evening dress.
Oh. Perhaps he had overdone the professional attitude some. His back was to the officers, he let the warmth and exasperation show through in his smile. "Would that I had the power," he murmured, and he held his hand out to her. "Napoleon Solo, it's nice to meet you Mrs...?"
"Where are my manners?" Illya asked rhetorically. "Agnia Pavlyuchenko, Napoleon Solo. Napoleon, try not to flirt with her. Agnia - " He switched sharply into...Ukranian? Napoleon thought?...and said something that made Agnia give a low snort of laughter. She didn't seem completely convinced, but she vanished behind the bar and started making a coffee.
"I told her you were an American but a friend," Illya explained, catching his look. "So she knows to make your coffee weak but not spit in it."
"Thanks," he said dryly. "How much English does she understand?"
"Enough," Agnia answered shortly, setting his coffee onto the counter with a bang.
Well, he supposed he'd walked right into that one. "So," he said loudly, taking a sip of coffee. It was good. "Agent Kuryakin. Why don't you tell me your version of what happened here?"
"Should I salute?" Illya asked in a voice too low for the cops to hear.
"You could at least get down from that counter and sit like a normal person," Napoleon suggested equally quietly.
Illya just shrugged. "I was in here enjoying a meal and my book when Officers Gantry and Webb entered," he explained, talking loud enough for them to hear. "They walked up to Agnia and started demanding money for a 'neighbourhood tax', and threatened her when she said she didn't have it. I intervened when they made to hit her, showed my ID and suggested they leave quietly. They decided I needed a lesson in manners and attempted to attack me. I defended myself and, in deference to their uniforms, did so less vigorously than I might have in other circumstances."
Even without his certainty that Illya was telling the truth, that sounded much more likely. "A protection racket?" he asked, with an expression of distaste.
"He's lying!" Webb shouted out desperately. "Don't listen to him, you can't trust commies."
"He put the money in his top pocket," Illya said.
Napoleon nodded and walked back over to the cops, reaching into Webb's jacket and retrieving a tidy handful of bills. "My, my," he said with a low whistle.
"That's not mine, that's...he must have planted that on me," Webb said desperately. "That's right, I remember now. After he knocked me out, he put the cash in my pocket."
"Not the most likely story I've ever heard," he said mildly. No, they were lying and they were dirty, but that really wasn't UNCLE's problem. He'd be better off taking advantage of the fact that they hadn't recognised Illya's ID the way they should. This could all be a misunderstanding, everyone involved would make vague noises about disciplining their people and the problem just went away.
Illya was looking at him like he knew everything Napoleon was thinking. And he didn't like it.
He sighed. "Do you at least have any witnesses?" he asked plaintively.
"Ha! No, he sent them all away," Gantry crowed. "Just said some Russian nonsense and they all ran out. It's our word against his – two against one. And let me tell you, our superiors know to always believe the American."
"They probably do," Illya said in a low voice, just for him to hear. "Technically," he added, "I only sent away Gushchin. However, everyone else decided to take the opportunity to get out while they could."
"Gushchin?" Napoleon repeated with a frown. The name was familiar but he couldn't quite think...
"You remember," Illya told him. "The KGB officer who followed us to the Shea Stadium that time - "
" - and cheered on the Phillies from the bleachers, surrounded by Mets fans," he remembered with a groan. The ensuing fight had been embarrassing to watch.
"You know," Illya said. "I found out that wasn't just cultural ignorance. He has season tickets to the Phillies."
"Really." He contemplated that for a moment. A KGB fan of America's pastime. Would wonders never cease? "Still, I doubt he's going to step up to be your witness," he said.
"I told you what happened," Illya said, his eyes fixed on Napoleon's.
"I know," he agreed, returning the look in equal measure. "You know this isn't even close to being in UNCLE's jurisdiction."
"No," Illya agreed, somehow effortlessly creating an air of expectation.
He sighed. "Agnia, would you be prepared to tell the NYPD exactly what happened?" he asked without much hope.
She looked at Illya and said something quickly, shaking her head.
"She told me that they do this all the time, and before them it was others," Illya remarked casually. "It is the way of things. She is used to thinking of justice as a luxury."
He winced. That pretty much went against everything he stood for. Of course he wanted to prove to Agnia that things were better here, but more than that, he wanted to show that to Illya. And Illya knew that. Napoleon had been highly trained to resist all sorts of torture and coercion, but apparently none of that training was good against that look on his partner's face. "You are one manipulative Russian, you know that?" he said grumpily.
Illya just smiled.
"You know, I'm not even your section head this week," he pointed out. "You should be calling Dr Franklin for this sort of thing."
"Officially speaking, I don't start working for Section VIII until tomorrow," Illya told him. "If this should happen again tomorrow night, I will certainly call Dr Franklin."
"No you won't," he said flatly. He looked at Agnia. "May I borrow your phone? Apparently I need to call the commissioner's office."
He had no doubt that Mr Waverly was going to have a few choice words when he heard about this. But sometimes, all that mattered was doing the right thing.
Watching the police come and take away Webb and Gantry had been immensely satisfying, particularly when he saw the look of stunned delight on Agnia's face. Oh, he was enough of a cynic – or realist – to be certain that there was no way they were going to jail, but as long as the NYPD held some kind of investigation, imposed some kind of discipline, that would be good enough. And, importantly, he had no doubt that he'd managed to convey just how bad an idea it would be for them to come back and try and take any revenge on Agnia.
She had left now, going upstairs to her apartment over the bar for the night, leaving them with a bottle of vodka and a promise that they would lock up after themselves when they left.
A quarter of a bottle later and it seemed they were in no hurry.
He gazed across the table "Thank you," he said simply. It mattered that Napoleon had come here tonight because he'd asked, and had gone further than need be simply because it was important to Illya.
Napoleon looked back at him. "You're welcome," he said, not pretending not to understand everything Illya was thanking him for. "Any time." He nodded at the split cast on Illya's arm. "You know, we really need to stop by medical and get that fixed up."
Illya groaned. He'd been trying not to think of that. "Tomorrow," he said decidedly. "I want to be at my sharpest in case they try and chain me to the bed."
Napoleon turned his laugh into a cough. "I'm fairly certain that new doctor has already bought the chains," he said. "She looked the type. What was her name?"
"Ingrid," Illya told him. "And she is the model of professionalism." At least when she was on duty.
"I hope this doesn't extend the time it takes to heal any," Napoleon said with a frown. "I'm going to get very bored in the field without your sparkling conversation, partner mine."
He decided to ignore that, not least because there was a certain amount of truth hidden amongst the sarcasm. "I hope so too," he said. "Though I suspect Dr Franklin will be delighted if it does. He said this afternoon that if he'd known all he needed to get my aid on the Hades Project was for me to break my arm, he would have broken it himself." He thought for a second, remembering the unholy glint in the scientist's eyes and grimaced. "I am not entirely certain that he was joking."
Napoleon sighed. "I appreciate he's brilliant, but someone really needs to remind him that the point of this organisation is not mad science."
"His science is generally entirely sane and proper," Illya disagreed. "It is just his approach to other people that could use some work."
"And when you're the one saying that, you know it must be bad," Napoleon nodded. "Well, just remember to pick up a new communicator tomorrow morning, tovarisch. And call me if any of the scary scientists start threatening you."
He rolled his eyes. "Bozhe moi."
Napoleon's easy smile flickered and was replaced by one far less easy and far less real.
"What?" Illya asked.
"I..." Napoleon looked round, despite the fact they were the only ones in here, and leaned across the table. "Can I ask you something?"
"Of course," he said with a shrug. "You are fully capable of doing so. Whether or not I answer is always a different matter."
"Do you ever want to go home?" Napoleon asked intently.
Ah. He hesitated. The question was not as simple as it appeared. Here, surrounded by the sights and smells of home, when even now half of his thoughts were in Russian...yes, he felt homesick, and some part of him longed to return. But when he thought back and remembered the reality of the grey faces, the taste of fear always present in the air, the hunger, the screaming he used to hear from the basement... "I am Russian and always will be," he said very carefully. "But I am lonely for a place that never existed. To return to the place that does...it would not be going home." Which meant, he supposed, that he had no home. A painful thought.
Napoleon nodded, saying nothing, but the relief was bright in his eyes. Illya wondered how long he had been worrying about this.
He sighed. "It may not be my choice how long I remain," he warned. After all, he remained a citizen of the USSR and defection was a step too massive to contemplate. "But for the moment, I am happy here, my friend. And I would tell you were that not the case."
"Of that I have no doubt," Napoleon said wryly, but his eyes were warm and understanding. He poured them each another shot. "Budem zdorovy," he said, raising his glass.
"Budem zdorovy," Illya echoed, and they drank.
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