Early Summer 1966
Illya put on his tinted glasses, both to dampen the room's opulence and to veil his stupefied reaction. From floor to ceiling, motifs from China, Japan, and India mingled with abandon. Gilded dragons ran riot about the space, shouldering the tables, undulating over the chairs, and pursuing each other across the papered walls. The décor was obtrusive, decadent, and audacious; yet, like the office's occupant, it was surprisingly successful.
Harry Beldon tossed his coat onto a fretwork rack and took up a voluminous crimson choga edged in gold embroidery. As he slipped on the robe, he looked over his office like a maharajah surveying his state. "Well, Illya, what do you think of my changes?"
"They suit you."
Beldon gave a bark of laughter. "The first thing I did upon becoming UNCLE Northeast was to have each of my offices redecorated. A man should be surrounded by beauty, particularly in our line of work."
He crossed to an imposing sideboard. An empty wine bottle stood there, the contents airing in a crystal decanter. Beldon looked at the claret and thrust his jaw forward until his lower lip protruded. His narrow eyes darted briefly to the rear of the office.
Illya observed his former station chief and pondered the expressions reflected in the sideboard's mirror. Harry Beldon, head of Policy and Operations for the entire Northeast sector. The mind boggled. Yet there was a feeling of inevitability about it as well. Beldon had always been as ambitious as he was audacious, and he had higher peaks still to climb. A vision arose in his mind of Waverly's office transformed into the hunting lodge of an American robber baron. He suppressed a shudder.
"Wine?" Beldon asked as he poured a glass. "Or perhaps vodka?"
"Neither, thank you."
To his right, a bay of windows surrounded a black lacquered desk. Illya stepped aside to clear the path, then watched as Beldon moved instead to a low wooden daybed, broad and deep, at the center of the room. He lay across it on his side, the crimson choga filling the space around him.
"Take a seat."
Illya considered the options with a dubious eye and chose a chair of upholstered rosewood. Carved chi dragons snarled beneath his arms.
Beldon performed a complicated ritual with the wine, swirling and sniffing, then drank half the glass in one swallow. "Speaking of beauty, I am informed that Waverly has promoted a woman to Section II. I was surprised that this was not discussed at the last Conference." He peered at Illya over the gilded rim. "Why is she not with you for this affair?"
"Miss Dancer is on another assignment."
"Too bad. I looked forward to meeting her."
"And I would like to meet your agent," Illya said in mounting impatience, "as soon as possible."
"You will, you will. She can update us both on her progress."
"Progress? I have not yet briefed her."
"I took care of that. 'Girl meets boy, girl steals boy.' A mere trifle. Hardly necessary for you to travel all this way."
"Convincing Dr. Latner to come into UNCLE's protective custody is more than a trifle. His daughter's engagement to this boy is the only thing preventing it."
"If I know my agent, it will not be an impediment for much longer." A tray that once held opium paraphernalia sat at his elbow, now inset with a familiar panel. He pressed a button and said, "The Pemberley profile, please."
Within moments, a secretary entered with a folder. At Beldon's nod, she handed it to Illya.
He found a single sheet of cardstock inside. The young woman in the small personnel photo had an agreeable face with no claims to great beauty. "She looks…competent," Illya said.
"That picture does not do her justice. A gorgeous creature. And a woman of the world."
Illya was familiar with Beldon's appetites. One took him with his pets and peccadillos or did not take him at all. Illya wondered which he was being saddled with. He skimmed Miss Pemberley's profile, noting several languages, meager compared to April's twelve, and a list of postings around the globe. New Delhi, Hong Kong, Rio, Paris, London. "She does not remain in one office for very long."
"A gypsy." Beldon raised his glass as if in toast.
"Or a hot potato."
"Not at all. I understand wanderlust. I simply could not function like Alexander Waverly, always in the same office. Without variety, the spirit stagnates."
Illya flipped the page over. "Few commendations. And one official reprimand."
"Only one? Filed by whom?"
"Gerald Strothers."
"Oh, yes, I remember. Farenti was a fool to assign them to the same affair, but nil nisi bonum. I advised Strothers against the complaint at the time."
"Which was?"
"Striking a senior agent."
"And had she?"
"Most assuredly. I was present. Strothers was dissatisfied with the outcome of their mission and intimated that Miss Pemberley had been aiding Thrush. She felled him with a single blow."
"What about his accusations?"
"Sheer nonsense. Strothers is burdened with a suspicious mind and a glass jaw." Beldon wagged a finger. "But he's a good agent. He is now my station chief in Berlin."
Illya closed the file on Beldon's pet or peccadillo—he was not yet sure which—and took off his glasses. "I do not believe Miss Pemberley and I will suit any better than she and Strothers."
"You're wrong, Illya. I have the utmost confidence in Miss Pemberley, and I assure you, you will too."
Frustration propelled him to his feet. "This mission requires finesse and a delicate touch." He slapped the file onto the desk and frowned at the antique katana on prominent display. "I see no evidence of that here."
"Still inclined to view the glass as half empty, I see. Stress and negativity will ruin your health. My personal physician insists that I rid myself of tension as much as possible, and I've had each of my offices thus equipped. In Helsinki, a sauna. In Berlin, a steam room. Here in London, an ofuro tub. You are welcome to make use of it."
The rear wall held two painted fusama. Beldon flicked a switch, and the right-hand wooden panel slid open. Candlelight flickered in the shadowy space beyond. Water splashed.
"Harry, is that you?" a woman called. "I thought you were arriving tonight."
The accent was indefinite. If pressed, Illya would say an American whose life was largely spent among foreigners. His eyes swept over the discarded profile to rest on Beldon.
"I took an earlier flight," Beldon replied over his shoulder. "Mr. Kuryakin is here as well. Come update us on your mission."
"Now?"
"Yes. He is anxious to hear your progress."
There was a long pause, then another splash. "It will take me a few minutes to dress. I assume you've been at my Mouton Rothschild. Have another glass, but don't gulp it down this time."
Beldon looked at Illya significantly and tapped the side of his hooked nose. "We prefer not to wait. I do not insist you appear in only a towel. There is another robe here at your disposal."
"How convenient."
The splashing resumed, followed by the dripping of water onto tile. A drain gurgled. Beneath his colorless brows, Beldon's dark eyes shone with expectancy. He fixed his gaze on Illya, inviting him to partake of the anticipation.
Illya frowned in distaste. "Surely we can give Miss Pemberley time to change."
"Do not be fooled. There isn't a shy bone in her body. Une allumeuse. But by all means, bring her the robe, if you wish." He gestured to the rack and called, "Mohammed is coming to the mountain, my dear."
Illya took the yellow silk robe to the rear of the office and knocked on the panel. In the dim light, he caught a fleeting glimpse of wide eyes in a ghostly pale face. "Thank you," she said in her elusory accent. He felt a stab of pity as the garment was whisked from his hand.
Beldon held up an empty glass at his passing. Illya took it to the sideboard to refill. "I can see you disapprove," Beldon said. "You are thinking that Alexander Waverly would not do this. But I ensure that all my agents, no matter the section, are prepared to operate at maximum efficiency under any conditions."
A velvety chuckle came from behind the panel. "You're so good to us, Harry."
"I am. And if you hope to serve in Section II, you will be thankful for it."
"You are planning a promotion, then?" Illya asked, handing Beldon his glass.
"In due time. I have several excellent candidates to consider. But UNCLE Northeast will not be left behind."
Illya turned at the acrid smell of extinguished candles. Miss Pemberley stood in the doorway of the bathing room. Above the golden shimmer of silk, he could just make out the pale oval face crowned with a towering mass of dark hair.
Beldon twisted around to look over the low back rail of the daybed. "We are suitably primed for your entrance, my dear. Come show Mr. Kuryakin how admirably you will suit him."
Miss Pemberley stepped out into the light. Illya's brows shot upward, then settled over narrowed eyes. She crossed the room at a leisurely pace, embroidered ocean waves swirling about her bare feet. A green towel formed a turban around her head. The face beneath was obscured by a white beauty mask that left only the eyes and lips exposed.
Beldon laughed. "Playing geisha today?"
A smile stretched across her face. "Isn't that the idea?" she replied sweetly.
The impossibly wide grin turned to Illya. The hand she extended was well-shaped, the nails varnished in pastel, the skin flushed red from the heat of the bath. Large eyes twinkled at him; oddly-colored, translucent eyes, like a sea gone green beneath an approaching storm.
A memory stirred as his hand fell away from her firm clasp. Black clouds racing over glowing emerald waters. An eerie calm. The thrill of anticipation. A thunderbolt and pelting raindrops. The recollections flickered rapidly though his mind, leaving a vague sense of disquiet to mark their passing.
The wry twist of her lips brought him up short. He had been staring. He could feel Beldon's gaze and his vicarious pleasure, that of a collector when a treasured piece is admired. Anger and embarrassment colored his face. He gave a curt nod and stepped back.
As he resumed his seat, Miss Pemberley walked to the sideboard. She picked up the decanter, sniffed its mouth, then sighed in pleasure. She poured some claret into a glass, a few purple drops splashing onto the polished wood.
"A libation to Bacchus," Beldon said.
She looked at the partly depleted decanter and over to Beldon. "I think that's already been made." She dabbed some of the claret behind her ears before wiping up the rest with a towel.
"Drink, drink, my dear," Beldon urged as she turned to face them, swirling her glass gently.
"Some things are worth waiting for."
Beldon's lower jaw thrust forward. "Very true." He looked at Illya. "Wine is one of the few things for which she shows patience. I recall Strothers insisting to her that reds need nothing more than a vigorous shake."
"And I said so did he." She stood with one elbow resting on the sideboard as if it were the Oak Bar of the Plaza and sniffed the wine deeply. Illya drummed his fingers against the arm of his chair. Finally she took a sip. Her eyes closed as she savored it. "Divine," she murmured.
She reached for the decanter and filled her glass. An emerald dragon coiled around her like a stole, its head resting on her breast. Illya saw Beldon adjust the fall of his long, colonel tie. He was irked to find his own hand tugging at one of his cuffs.
Beldon said, "Even in that getup, my dear, you manage to make us feel underdressed. How do you do it?"
"Trade secret." She moved to the chair beside Illya's and curled up on the seat. The robe pooled around her, and the carved chi armrests seemed to leap from a blue embroidered ocean. The wry smile returned. "Do I pass muster?"
"I hardly know yet," he said. He regretted the maroon jacket. In his gray suit and blue tie, his cool gaze would be even more effectual.
Her eyes flashed. "Oh, that's right. Solo is the decisive one," she said and sipped her wine.
He leaned closer, his voice taking on a rough edge. "So far I have heard only wine and nonsense. I did not come for those."
"That's too bad." She made a sweeping motion with her empty hand. "You're in the right place for them."
His eyes darted to Beldon before he registered that she had spoken in Russian. Her accent was precise and formal, even a bit old-fashioned; trained by an elderly expatriate, no doubt, on recitations extolling the glories of old St. Petersburg and the villainy of the Bolsheviks.
Beldon, his bald head resting on a hard leather pillow, registered no sign of offense. "Excellent, my dear. Show Mr. Kuryakin what talents you're made of."
"Nonsense and wine and everything nice. That's what this little girl is made of." She shifted in her chair, bringing her face closer to Illya's. "What are you made of, Mr. Kuryakin?"
His mouth felt dry. Beneath drooping lids, her opalescent eyes glowed like hearth fires, threatening to thaw his icy armor. He dropped his gaze. The emerald dragon across her breast gently heaved with each inhalation. Her fingers balanced her wine glass on a silk-draped knee, twisting it meditatively. A fold of the robe exposed one bare foot, the nails varnished in pastel to match her fingers.
Finding no safe haven below, he reinforced his arctic defenses and raised his eyes. Napoleon was better suited for these scenarios, perennially prepared to exchange quip for quip and smolder for smolder. As for himself, such responses did not come readily, and he found the effort of fashioning them to be exhausting.
He met her sultry gaze, and words formed on his lips. He listened in astonishment as he said in Russian, "I am Arkhangelsk in the spring, the Northern Dvina flowing beneath its blanket of ice, and the polar lights dancing across the starlit sky."
Her lids flew up, and her eyes widened with childlike delight. The mouth stretched into a grin worthy of the Cheshire Cat. Illya's lips began to curve in response.
"Brava," Beldon called, clapping. "You see, Illya, why I chose Miss Pemberley. We are putty in her hands."
Illya's smile died half-formed. Indignation burned like gall in his throat. His lips compressed into a thin line. He regarded her with the cool disdain normally reserved for Angelique. "Une allumeuse," he hissed.
If her eyes had once held hearth fires, they now blazed into infernos. He drew back. The nonchalant curl of her limbs became a caricature of repose as every muscle stiffened. Her fingers tightened around the wine glass until the knuckles turned white. He thought she might throw it, but in which direction he was unsure. He prepared to duck.
A sheen of sweat appeared along the line of skin where her beauty cream met the edge of the towel. He sensed a wrestling of spirit against flesh, and the imposing of a preternatural control over her native temper. He knew the malicious and exhilarating desire for her flesh to win the day. He wondered how many of the furnishings would survive.
The wine glass made a slow climb to her mouth, then tipped its contents down her throat. When the last drop had passed her lips, she sprang from the chair in a flurry of silk and bared legs. She crossed to the sideboard and poured another serving of claret.
Illya found his breathing heavy and his heart beating rapidly. "Your report, Miss Pemberley."
She had returned to her cocktail lounge pose, the menacing pulse of the emerald dragon the only sign of agitation. "In two days' time, three at the outermost, Donald Marsden will have broken off his engagement, and Miss Latner and her father will no longer have a reason to refuse protective custody."
He watched her drink her wine and waited for further explanation. Apparently none was forthcoming. "You are very sure of yourself," he said, his tone edged with contempt.
The dragon leapt up, then settled. "Would you prefer it otherwise?"
"You yourself have seen that she has every reason to be," Beldon said. "And I know her methods. Restaurants, discotheques, the theater. The last few days will have been a whirlwind for this young man. By now, his head is quite thoroughly turned."
"So I should defer to her…expertise."
"Precisely," Beldon said.
"A plum assignment, this stealing of fiancés," he said to her. "You must enjoy your work."
Her answering smile was more Red Queen than Cheshire Cat. His could feel the axe at his neck.
"We become UNCLE agents to be on the side of the angels, not because we are angels."
Something that was decidedly not his better nature prompted his reply. "Speak for yourself."
A spark of delight flashed in her eyes. He suspected something similar shone in his own.
Beldon worked himself upright and brandished his empty glass. She took it with a sigh.
"It seems you have a most fortuitous opportunity before you, Illya." Beldon looked on in amusement as the glass returned only half full. "A few days relaxation await you while your mission rests in Miss Pemberley's very capable hands."
"Please, Harry, my blushes," she said dryly.
Harry laughed, the bark falling harshly on Illya's ears. "As if you did, my dear. I have never known you to be coy."
She faced Beldon's hungry, possessive gaze with equanimity. "I may be many things, but not that."
Beldon licked the wine from his lips and turned to Illya, who barely had time to hide his revulsion.
"What do you say, Illya? My amenities are at your disposal." Beldon gestured to the bathing room, but Illya had the uneasy feeling that he was offering more than the tub.
"I will think about it," he said.
Beldon stood up from the opium bed. "In that case, I will have a soak. I always build up tension when I travel. For me, it is the destination, not the journey, that matters."
Miss Pemberley put down her glass. "You forget I need to change first. I'm meeting Donald for drinks this afternoon."
She strolled across the office and stopped in the threshold of the open fusama. Her hand reached behind the wall, presumably to press a switch. As the panel began to close, she turned around and said, "Who knows? With a little overtime, I might break that engagement by morning." Her wide smile was the last thing Illya saw as the panel slid shut.
"I have seen a cat without a grin," he murmured, "but never a grin without a cat."
Beldon stood at the rack removing his choga. He nodded as Illya said, "I am due to report in to New York."
"Certainly. You remember where Communications is, of course. And no word to Waverly yet about any promotions. When the time comes, I wish to surprise him as he surprised me."
"Perish the thought," Illya said and made his exit.
Once through the smaller office of Beldon's secretary, he was back in corridors lined in soothing, unadorned chrome. His feet guided him easily to Communications, allowing his thoughts to freely churn.
The young woman manning Communications was new since his transfer from London. It seemed, however, that he was no stranger to her. She met his request with a nervous giggle and flustered hands. "Overseas relay to Headquarters New York. Right away, Mr. Kuryakin."
"Thank you. And after you have the channel open, I need a telephone number."
"Yes?" she squeaked hopefully.
"Yes." He steeled himself against her coming disappointment. "The number for a Mr. Donald Marsden, please."
~~ o ~~ o ~~ o ~~ o ~~ o ~~
Faustina Pemberley waited until the panel slid completely closed, then rested her head against it. "Down, girl," she whispered.
Her hand groped for the light switch and flipped it on. Beldon's voice penetrated the wood, muffled but discernible. She engaged the locks quietly.
The bathing room was a small space of white tile and cedar, almost clinical in its simplicity. A few steps brought her to the sink. She gripped the sides of the basin and stared hard at her reflection. "I hope you're happy. That was quite a show you put on in there."
After a moment, she pulled the towel from her hair. Without it, the green fled her eyes, leaving them an indistictive grey. As she wiped the cream from her face, the wry smile returned. "Staring like a schoolgirl too." She shook her head. "And what's worse, he knew it."
She continued to clean her face. Soon she was humming. Her eyes ceased to focus on the mirror. Her smile widened. "Illya," she purred.
At the sound of her voice, her thoughts snapped back from their pleasant wanderings. She slammed a fist onto the basin and followed it with a string of exotic oaths, several from languages not listed in her profile.
"Don't you dare." She eyed herself sternly and pointed an admonishing finger. "No distractions."
She turned from the mirror, threw off the robe, and proceeded to take a very cold shower.