THE CLASS REUNION AFFAIR
Act 1 THE INCONSTANT MOON
His midnight visitor had not needed to pound so frantically at his door. At the first foreign footfall Illya Kuryakin had crossed the floor and unholstered his UNCLE special. But the pounding persisted. "Oh, God, let me in!" the voice pleaded. " 'Swear not by the moon'- "
Shakespeare. His sleep-soaked brain snapped to attention.
" -'the inconstant moon' " came unbidden, automatically to his lips. Without thinking or hesitation he flung open the apartment door and yanked her inside.
She was breathless and bedraggled and the most beautiful sight he had seen in nearly six years. "No lights, Illya, please," she covered his hand on the switchplate. When she whispered his name, his head caught up with his heart.
"Eleanore? " he breathed wondrously. "How-Why-?" and she promptly fainted into his arms.
Stout tea and candlelight later, she had revived sufficiently to confirm her identity, although not satisfy his curiosity. Still, he took her by the hand and led her into his bedroom.
"Come along, Nell, I'll tuck you in and we can talk in the morning."
"I didn't come here to kick you out of your bed," she struggled to regain her dignity.
"And you didn't come here to join me in it, either. I'll be right outside. You're safe now." He gave her a tender kiss on the brow and closed the door.
Kuryakin pulled his sofa in front of the door and punched a pillow. Why was the duchess of Eaton Place in his bed?
######################
Eleanore Elizabeth Bellamy was so fresh, so sweetly tousled in the mornings, and she still had the power to make his heart throb. After all these years. That disturbed him. Illya busied himself brewing a pot of tea and split a bagel for her, thick with apricot preserves.
"It is still apricot?"
She smiled and nodded. "Yes, that would be lovely. Thank you."
"Eleanore-"
"I've left you alone for six years, because it was your choice. You owe me a lifetime, Illya. At least grant me three days."
So the old pain lingered.
"Nell, be sensible. I was a penniless Russian peasant-"
"A passionate, penniless Russian peasant," she amended.
"And you were-are- a duchess of Eaton Place."
"You were always the one to bring up the class struggle. It never mattered to me. Do you know how long I waited on the chapel steps that night? The registrar finally got the message that your uncle had paid your final school fees, snatched up your degree, and whisked you out of the country."
"I'd been recruited for some very dangerous work. I couldn't involve you."
"You didn't even give me a choice. You didn't trust me to join you in the danger, nor have the faith to ask me to wait," she accused.
"I didn't believe I had the right to ask," he explained quietly.
"Love doesn't have rights, it has needs. Did you know how many nights I cried myself to sleep? Did you care?" Then she could not resist asking, "Was I just some title you bagged, a trophy for your Commie pals?"
He shuddered at the characterization. "If you believed that, you wouldn't be here now." He reached across the table for her hands. "Which leads us to the inevitable question, why are you here now?"
"Because you're the only one we can trust." She took a deep breath. "After you left, I joined the family firm, discovered I had a flair for political research and organization. Have you ever heard of Maxim de Gregorsky Andrevitch?"
He scanned his memory quickly. "The Sedition Circle?"
"We prefer to call it the Eastern European Underground. Max is doing important work in his country, reestablishing schools, hospitals, factories. He has courage and eloquence and vision-"
"And you, obviously."
She did not meet his eyes. "But to secure his new government, he needs political connections, financial stability-"
"Which is also you."
She flushed. "We've been working together quite closely. And now Max's enemies believe that he could be persuaded to make concessions to them, to insure my safety."
"And would he?"
She licked her lips thoughtfully. "I hope not. He's sacrificed so much for what he believes in. But-"
"But for the work to be meaningful, he needs to share it with you. " Kuryakin understood.
"I am important to Max. I share his work and he wants me to share his life. He's tall," she gazed over his head, "and dark, and he has a scar, here," she traced a finger down Kuryakin's cheek. "I always kiss that first, so he understands, that I know it is his badge of honor and commitment..."
"And yet still you run to me?"
"I've been running on my own for a week. I need to meet him in Prague Friday."
"To summarize: you want me to risk my life, to escort you half-way around the world in 72 hours, into the arms of another man."
"You were always bright."
Act II CONFLICT OF INTEREST
Illya recognized his partner's rap at the door. "Stay here," he pushed her back into the kitchen. He welcomed Solo, casually steering him past the kitchenette into the living room. But Solo had caught a glimpse of Illya's robe worn by a more appealing figure. "Good morning," he greeted the shadow.
She retreated behind a wall.
"Eh, Napoleon, I know this is a cliche, but this is not what it looks like."
"No, of course not. It looks like the young lady spent the night."
Illya was flustered. "Well, technically, perhaps, it is what it looks like. But appearances can be deceiving."
"Yeah, yeah, and seeing is believing. Meanwhile, here is the dossier on our next assignment. Hand delivered. Quite politically sensitive. Requires great discretion." He parodied their chief.
Illya glanced at the folder and Napoleon began to recite the highlights. "Eleanore Bellamy...duchess of..."he flipped to the photo. "Hmm.. bears a remarkable resemblance to your houseguest."
Solo continued, "Family wants her back home. Seems her politics embarrasses a long line of Tories... Government wants her back in the country...to keep amateurs from mucking about in their international relations...deposed officials of Chezgovia want her as a hostage...Boyfriend wants her...well, just look at the photo..."
"And the U.N.C.L.E. wants my autograph," she added, coming into the room wearing Illya's old jeans and a black turtleneck.
"Ah, somehow, you give that old standard look an entirely new dimension," Solo appraised her.
"I came into town quite unexpectedly. Dr. Kuryakin and I were classmates at Cambridge. He kindly offered me lodging, tea and memories..."
"So, class reunion, eh, DR. Kuryakin?"
She looked quizzically from one man to another.
"I don't use the title," Illya explained.
"No, of course not. Not very proletarian, is it?" she bit into every syllable.
"How unfair of you to bring up the class struggle."
Solo could see Kuryakin was baiting her, but he didn't know why.
She reddened, then turned her back to Kuryakin and began stuffing things into a deep pouchy canvas bag. "Thank you for the hospitality," her voice was tight, "but I have a schedule to keep."
Illya grabbed roughly for her arm and pulled her back from the door. "And where do you think you're going?"
"To Prague," she hissed, and twisted in his grip.
"To Max."
"Who is Max?" Napoleon asked, intrigued by the undercurrent.
"Max is not the issue," she insisted.
"Who's Max?" Napoleon repeated.
"Max is precisely the issue. He's putting you in danger-"
"Max who?" Napoleon tried again.
Eleanore sighed. "Try paragraph 3 on your little report there." The two agents shot a look across the room. "Yes, I know what it reads. I get copies of all the reports on me. I told you, Illya, I'm very good at what I do." She turned to include Solo. "My degree is in political science, but I dabble in revolutionary intelligence."
"I can't let you go, Nell."
"You mean you can't let me go, again. But this time, the choice is mine. I've gotten this far on my own. If you won't help me, I will still get to Prague. It will just be more difficult." She swung the bag around and a parcel fell out.
Kuryakin stooped to retrieve it. It appeared to be his passport, and hers. She snatched at it, but he was quicker, and fascinated. "Nice work," he appraised it professionally. "Nick and Nora?"
"Well, we're not Illy and Elly any more, are we, Illya Nickovetch?" she reminded him wistfully.
Napoleon cleared his throat. "Uh, Illya Nickovetch, this could be a conflict of interest."
Kuryakin shook his head. "It's a conflict of conscience."
"You seriously intend to refuse an assignment?"
"I'm not refusing. I'm taking some sick days. I feel a cold coming on. Cough-cough."
"All right. You call off. But I'm still bound to get her back to England."
The Russian flashed him a wicked grin. "Not if I can get her to Prague first. Of course, it would hardly be sporting; you know what we look like; you know where we're headed; you've seen our fake ID's..."
Napoleon was intrigued. "So what are you proposing?"
Kuryakin shrugged. "A simple balance against your foreknowledge; 24 hours head start."
"You'll need an entire day's notice?"
"Remember, Napoleon, you will not be the only interested party trying to divert us."
Kuryakin's partner drew out his gun and for a split second, Illya thought Solo might attempt to detain them. But now Solo returned his mischievous grin. "OK. On your mark, get set…GO!"
Act III "YOU HAVE NO IMAGINATION."
They were tired. Their nerves were frayed by intense and constant suspicion of everyone and every circumstance. And they had been sniping at each other for seven hours.
"I assume this is why we never travelled together," she observed.
The Russian grunted and swiveled his eyes around again, half-expecting Solo to pop up and say Boo. "Actually," he confessed, "I had hoped to spirit you across the Channel after mid-terms, but I didn't think I could outrun your grandfather's hounds."
"Well, so far we've evaded half the Chezgovian secret police, not to mention two British agents from MI-6, and Beecham, my grandfather's trusted butler."
"I've had a lot of practice since Cambridge."
She sniffed. "You're not the only with field experience. I've been dashing across the border for several years now. Smuggling documents, food, medical supplies."
"And weapons?"
She narrowed her eyes and answered cautiously. "Perhaps. And that title of mine, which you so disdain, has insured my safety past many a checkpoint."
"This meeting in Prague-"
She shook her head. "Prague is personal. Although there will be political implications."
"We're half way there. You could trust me with the rendezvous point."
"Just get me across the border and past the city securitat. "
"Not good enough. I'll forfeit my wager with Solo if I do not deliver you to the finish line."
She stared out the train window at the bleak winter countryside for nearly a mile. "St. Lillian's" she whispered.
"There used to be a chapel called St. Lillian's, near Zenobia. 16th century, quite charming... Oh. " That one syllable seemed to deflate him utterly. "Oh. Of course. It's not a meeting-it's a marriage."
"We-the government will be more stable. We'll get international recognition, have access to resources-"
"I understand."
"You're welcome to the ceremony..."
"I seem to be giving the bride away."
#######################
Napoleon Solo was facing his own conflict of conscience. At first, Illya's challenge sounded like a friendly game of keep away, or spy tag. But upon analysis, Solo recognized it as a test of loyalty, and he was pulled in two.
His duty to UNCLE had never been in doubt. Yes, sometimes he "re-interpreted" orders on the field, but enforcement agents were trained to make the difficult assessments and proceed on their wits and instinct.
But Illya was his partner. They had shared life and death and triumph and disappointment together on every case. If this escort was so important to his friend, couldn't Solo-shouldn't he- trust him? Obviously there was more to this than he knew.
But he had his assignment.
He and Illya knew each other's minds and moves so well. Would Illya follow his standard pattern, or try to figure out Solo's moves and circumvent them? Or would he know that Solo would try to discern his moves, and try something new? Or would he invert the whole schmegeggie and-
Solo had a headache. And still no answer. This was not keep-away. It was chess. He only knew that his plane to Prague would certainly arrive before Illya's train. And what would he do when they met?
#######################
Nell spotted them first, and elbowed him awake. Subtlety was not a specialty of Chezgovian agents: they flanked the rotund conductor in their scarlet uniforms and full sidearms. advancing down the aisle, checking tickets and passports.
"It's showtime," Kuryakin whispered, and pushed her out of her seat, nearly sending her sprawling into the aisle.
"Come on, Darling, you'll be fine-" he shoved her along, directly into the path of the trio who effectively blocked their way. "Excuse me," he said apologetically, "Excusez-moi-my wife-it's our first-" he nudged her past them, and Nell made convincing gagging noises, putting one hand to her mouth, and one protectively across her stomach.
"It's all right, Darling, this way-" he kept babbling reassurances and pushing her to the front of the car. They ducked into an empty coach.
"What now?' she turned to him, breathless.
"We're still all right," he said calmly. "They expect you to be travelling alone. Not with a man, not married, not pregnant. Good acting."
"Maybe I'm not acting."
He looked at her sharply.
"Between the tension and this buggy ride you arranged over and under and around and through the mountains, are you surprised I'd be nau-" she stopped suddenly, catching his expression. "You thought-"
"No, no, of course not," he quickly denied. "How could you-"
She stared at him a long, hard time, and finally deadpanned, "I was wrong about you. You have absolutely no imagination."
"We get off at the next stop and take a car the last few miles."
"With no witnesses to discourage them?"
"And no authorities to distract us. I assume you know some alternate routes. We'll be in the shadow of St. Lillian's before you can whistle a chorus of 'Get Me to the Church on Time' "
They were lost in their thoughts for a while, bathed in moonlight and melancholy.
"I know why I came to you, Illya. But why have you come with me?" she asked softly.
"Damned if I know."
ACT IV SOMETHING BORROWED...
They stopped outside the city, registered separately at two inns, and together at another, a ramshackle place off the tourist track. The electricity was out (again) according to the tidy, tiny owner, and they were shown upstairs by flashlight.
Each retired to a twin bed, incredibly aware of the three feet of physical space separating them.
"Nell," his back was to her, but his voice carried gently across the darkness. "Is there any way I can persuade you not to complete this hare-brained, idiotic scheme?"
"Yes."
Her unexpected answer disconcerted him.
"But you can't, or you won't, so please just try to understand. We're a good match, Max and I. We've grown quite extraordinarily fond of each other. And there's our work, of course."
"Of course." Ironic that he had left her behind to keep her safe from danger, and now he was the instrument leading her into more turmoil that he cared to imagine. She had been wrong about that: he had too much imagination, especially where she was concerned. The politics of Eastern Europe were still brutal and chaotic. Yet this gallant soul was accepting the challenge with determination, courage, and high hope-just as she had offered herself to him years ago.
"To think that "Casablanca" was once my favorite film," he murmured. "Everyone acting so bloody noble."
"You must remember this..." Nell began to sing softly. "At least we'll always have Cambridge. We each do our duty, Illy. You taught me that." She yawned. "Good night, Sweet Prince."
"And if I was wrong," he thought to himself. "What if I was wrong?"
#######################
Kuryakin almost shot his partner as Solo clambered in the third story window. "I took a chance that you were too sleepy to shoot straight," he grinned.
"Napoleon, you make a lousy cat burglar." Illya was relieved to recognize his friend.
"I'd say this was Check."
"But not checkmate-not yet."
"Your queen is in danger, my friend," Solo warned.
He sighed. "How well I know. I suppose you remembered this place from that Lubvitch assignment."
"And so did you. And furthermore, you knew I would remember."
The Russian smiled guiltily. "Well, perhaps unconsciously, I was hoping you'd show up for back-up."
"For which mission?" Solo asked meaningfully. "Do you want to get her to Max or to England?"
Illya shook his head. "I wish I knew. I'm afraid I've forfeited my right to make that decision. I thought you remained duty-bound to fulfill UNCLE's mission."
It was Solo's turn to shrug. "I did some research on the way over. I don't think one little wedding will upset the balance of world peace. It might even help. Besides, I think I caught your cold. Cough-cough. I'll keep watch, Tovarisch. Get some sleep. You look like you need it."
##########################
It dawned a crisp, sunny morning and the trio made the rendezvous with twenty minutes to spare. Security was tightly regarded by several of Andrevitch's cabinet members, who looked more like revolutionaries than politicians, but, after all, it was a young government, Napoleon reasoned.
Solo nudged his companion. "You suppose Waverly will send a wedding gift, Yknow, get on the good side of a new world leader?"
"More likely flowers for our funeral," Illya replied morosely. "We deliberately skipped out on an assignment."
"Nah, I've always suspected the Old Man is a romantic at heart."
The groom awaited his bride at the ancient altar. He isn't That tall, the blond sniped. The music of flute and guitar echoed within the stone walls. Eleanore Elizabeth (never to be Nell again) floated gracefully down the aisle in a long ivory satin dress, adorned simply by native wildflowers.
News representatives had been invited to film the intimate ceremony. She had reasoned that the more public their joining, the less likely disgruntled deposees would be to disrupt the new couple and their new government. Plus, the fairy-tale wedding angle might shake loose some U.N. funding to help rebuild the country.
"Bright gal," Solo observed.
"Yes."
"Pretty, too."
"Hhmm."
"Something borrowed, someone blue..."
"She borrowed my heart. It would be gracious if she returned it when she's finished using it."
"What was that note she slipped you?" Solo asked.
"Oh, just part of an old Byron poem. He was her hero: aristocrat, politician, poet, lover, and died a freedom fighter in Greece. Who can live up to that?"
"You spose Max writes her poetry?"
"I knew I should have paid attention in that lit class." Kuryakin scowled, uncrumpled her stationery and handed it to Napoleon.
"To do good to mankind is the chivalrous plan
And is always as nobly requited,
Then battle for freedom whenever you can,
And if not shot or hanged, you'll be knighted, " Solo read silently.
"Well, since our wager is moot now-"
"I got her to Prague, Napoleon. Don't try to weasel out. I won. Sort of."
"Yes, but I did find you, and I did help. So, what say we skip the punch and cookies, kiss the bride, and take off to the New Hebrides for a couple days, before we trek back home and face the wrath of Waverly?"
"Yknow, Napoleon, this could be the proof of a beautiful friendship..."
finis