THE LADY-KILLER AFFAIR
ACT 1 How porcupines date...
Illya Kuryakin, the somber, reliable Russian agent, had been strangely unavailable lately, reflected Napoleon Solo. He had observed Kuryakin ducking out early (unusual) and coming in late (unprecedented). Paperwork had piled up on his historically pristine desk.
As his friend, Solo would prefer to wait for his partner to confide in him; as CEA, it was his duty to investigate significant behavioral changes in his field agents. Solo sighed. He had made the decision to confront his partner, now it was just a matter of selecting the approach: direct or convoluted? He decided to catch the wary agent off-guard, and settled himself behind Kuryakin's desk, and waited.
"Oh-Good morning, Napoleon." The blond's expression did not change, but Solo knew he had succeeded in surprising him. Illya motioned to the desk. "Come to lend a hand with your perpetual paperwork?"
Solo cleared his throat. "Things do appear to be a bit behind..."
"All reports should be on Waverly's desk by Wednesday-IF I am not providentially hindered, " he warned darkly.
"Uh-huh. Look, Illya, it's come to my attention..." Solo sounded pompous even to himself.
"Napoleon, could you join us tonight-7:30-Baba Yaga's?"
"Yeah, sure. See ya then. " Relieved to be off the lecture circuit, Solo returned to his office. He was not averse to exercising his authority, but Illya had saved his skin countless times. It made a tad of tardiness seem like a picayune issue. Tonight, relaxed, away from the hallowed halls, he could inquire casually.
Suddenly, Napoleon stopped short of his door. Us. Join Us. He shook his head.
# # # # #
It was early, and Baba Yaga's was still quiet, uncrowded, with the low hum of conversation and the melancholy strumming of a balalaika. The cafe was named for the witch in Russian fairy tales, and had been discovered by Kuryakin during one of his nocturnal haunts of the neighborhood.
Solo spotted his partner, and his companion, and quickly understood the reason for Illya's recent disdain for clocks. She was stunning. Even from across the room, she shone like a candle at midnight, and Illya was obviously basking in her glow. Napoleon could not catch his eye so he simply strolled over to their corner and waited to be noticed.
"Ah, Napoleon, good," welcomed his partner. " Rosemary, this is my associate, Napoleon Solo. Napoleon, Miss Rosemary Livingston." It seemed a casual introduction, but with such a pride and flourish in Kuryakin's voice, it could have been a royal proclamation accompanied by long trumpets and unfurling flags.
Solo bowed to kiss her hand; it did seem his only option. "Miss Livingston, I'm enchanted. And I guess that makes it unanimous," he stole a glance at Illya. " So where did you two kids meet?"
"That delegation party a few weeks ago," Illya responded. "I was doing routine security, and Rosemary was working with the caterer."
"Ah, that explains it all. Love at first bite."
"It was like that old song," Rosemary explained. " 'Some enchanted evening, you may meet a stranger, across a crowded room...'"
"Uh..." Napoleon did not intend to break up an enchanted evening. but …"didn't that Shah you were guarding turn up dead?"
"Yes, after I was off-duty," Kuryakin said defensively. "His personal security detail had taken over by then. You'll appreciate this, Napoleon: word is, he was dispatched..eh..in flagrante delicto..."
"Gossip, gossip," Rosemary scolded.
"No, my dear, when I gossip, it's called briefing," Kuryakin corrected her, smiling. In fact, Napoleon had noticed the taciturn agent had not ceased smiling in her presence, like a cave dweller who had discovered sunshine.
"When the hostess introduced us, " she steered the conversation back, " he took my hand, looked directly into my eyes and said, "here's Rosemary, that's for remembrance.'"
"To which she replied, with the correct quote, 'pray, Love, remember.'" Illya smiled at the memory.
Rosemary sighed happily and reached for Illya's hand. "I'm just a sucker for obscure Shakespearean quotes."
The waiter appeared at the table and whispered to Kuryakin. "If you'll excuse me, I need to speak to Yevgeny," he explained his summons and followed the young man to the back room.
Solo erased his pleasant expression. "Chameleon, isn't it?" he challenged.
"Why, Mr. Solo-you think I'm a lizard lady?" she asked innocently.
"You're half-right. I do not think you're a lady. I don't know who hired you, or why, but hands off my partner," he threatened flatly.
Rosemary dropped her guise also, leaning closer to Solo. "Your partner is in no danger from me," she assured him in a low voice. "Not professionally. He 's not my target. In fact, I am off-duty, and Illya is-a pleasant interlude. Even assassins need affection occasionally, you know."
"And the Shah?"
She shrugged. "Even Shahs need-"
"Was he your target?" Solo inquired pointedly.
"Obviously I am not going to answer that. It's been ages since our paths crossed, Solo. How did you recognize me?" He had piqued her professional curiosity.
Solo ignored her direct question, and gazed up and down at her. "So this is what the well-dressed hitman is wearing this season?"
"I think you're just still miffed about Kelso." She dismissed his disapproval.
"Kelso was mine. I had orders to interrogate him."
"And I had orders to eradicate him. You never did thank me for all that paperwork I saved you. Hitman?" she mused. "I prefer to think of myself as an aggressive environmentalist. Rid your pests and vermin, clean up and protect the environment for everyone."
"He's heading back..." Solo warned.
"Please-" her assurance suddenly fled her. "Keep my secret?"
"And how do you propose to conduct ..uh..,social interaction, considering your mutual profession?"
"The same way porcupines date, Mr. Solo...very, very carefully."
Napoleon considered the situation. There was no potential for a serious commitment. As soon as "Rosemary" no longer needed Illya for an alibi, or got a new assignment, she would be gone. In the mean time, Solo had always thought the tightly-wound Russian could use a fling. If the situation changed, he could revise his silence.
"Sorry to desert you," Illya slid back into his chair, "and speaking of dessert, Yevgeny serves a sinfully rich creation. May I order you some? "
"Just scotch for me, thanks," Solo replied.
Rosemary turned her dazzle back toward Kuryakin. "If you order that sinfully sweet stuff, I'll share it with you…"
ACT 2 Supermarket Seduction
Excerpt from Rosemary's Journal
Dear Ash, I don't know why I bother to write, when I have to burn everything immediately. But this life I've committed to is, by necessity, isolated. There is no other confidante for me, and once I've spilled out my most intimate anguish and exhilaration, my only advisor is the ashes left behind.
I have met a man. Even though I was on duty; even though mere hours after we were introduced, I was required to lure another man to bed and plug a hole in his miserable heart. I confess, to the ashes alone, that I broke protocol. That I engineered an introduction. That suddenly I wanted to unravel his mystery, kiss his scars, tease out his smile, be the object of his tenderness. And suddenly I yearned to be clean, clean again, and free.
Maybe I have grown reckless. Maybe it's hormones. Maybe I have gotten careless because I want to get caught, to end the endless disguised chase. Of course, to be caught by the wrong side means summary execution. These folks I play with are not due-process types. And to be caught by the "right" side...well, my own employer has guaranteed to disavow any knowledge of my actions.
So young and idealistic and easily seduced into this secret service, far too young to be concerned about retirement benefits. Now I have played the game long enough to know that retirement plans for T3 are irrelevant. I have already doubled the standard for operations. And voluntary retirement? Well, the security risk is too high to allow agents the option of a graceful exit.
I remember my first time. Fully trained and fully trembling, I was awkward enough to sustain a cracked rib and a ripped bodice before I managed to stop his squirming. He leaked blood on me, and horrified, I threw up on him. Hardly a clean kill. But I survived; I learned, and six years later, I barely feel anything at all.
And I am weary of not feeling anything at all. When I recognized him across the ballroom (it does pay to keep attention during those tedious briefings) my heart started to beat again. Not the dull, life-sustaining thud, but like a wild bird caged in my ribs beating its wings for freedom. And so yes, I broke protocol, I disregarded all jeopardy, and I met him.
# # # # #
It was somewhere east of midnight when her cheerful banging woke Illya and several of his neighbors. He gave the clock a one-eyed glare and lurched out of bed toward the door.
"Good morning, Mr. Kuryakin. Ready?"
"Ready for what? And who are you?" The glitterata was gone. At his peephole stood a pleasant woman with a French braid and mocha eyes. A soft fleece and corduroy slacks replaced the elegant gown.
"I promised you a unique dining experience, and that begins early, selecting the best ingredients... Oh, dear. Don't you ever get up to watch the sunrise?" Rosemary teased.
"Not unless I'm scheduled to be executed." He saw her shiver. "You're chilled. Please, come in."
"I brought coffee," she offered, balancing two styrofoam cups. "Will that help?
"Administered intravenously, perhaps." He vaguely recalled that last night-or earlier this morning-he had consented to be her lab rat to test some new recipes.
"Not lab rat," she protested, "Guinea pig."
"What's the difference?" He growled.
"Well...guinea pigs are cuter. C'mon, I'll give you a tour of the green grocer that you'll never forget."
She led him down every aisle of savory displays. "Look at these colors! Rich, deep, jewel-like veggies. And the textures: crunchy, creamy...take a deep breath," she coached him beside the fruits, " the heavenly fragrance, so fresh, so sweet, so intensely alive-it's a very sensual experience," Rosemary confided.
Kuryakin agreed that he would never regard this chore the same way again.
ACT 3 A Grim Fairy Tale
"Rose-mary..." he brushed the hair gently from her face. "Ro," his lips grazed her ear, "Bloom, Rose, it's time to wake up." He spoke softly, reluctant to wake her. Where are you, Rosemary? he wondered. Even here in my arms, some essential part of you is missing. She was a mystery that eluded his embrace.
She nestled deeper into Illya's shoulder, but he stirred. "If that patrolman comes round a third time and we're still occupying the city's bench, he's going to issue a rent-warrant," he warned. "Whatever you bribed our hostess to arrange our introduction, you ought to demand your money back. I'm not exciting enough to keep you awake."
She yawned. "I promised her my recipe for creme solange and our first-born."
"Assuming we produce a first-born?"
"Which is not likely, since I keep falling asleep on your shoulder in public parks."
It had begun as more of a mutual rescue mission than a romance. Both of them wary of involvement, and both aching to be known and cherished. They were very perceptive people, or they would not have survived long in their careers. But they were both too proud, too private, too protective, to admit that deep well of loneliness dug into their souls; the nibbling of trepidation and intellectual doubts. They recognized that yearning in each other, the need to belong, to rest safe and still and silent.
Unlike his partner who considered love an appetizer, Kuryakin was more discriminating, his affairs infrequent and intense. And Rosemary was half-afraid that if she surrendered to intimacy, she might shoot him, just out of habit.
"Oh, my dear," she yawned again, " do you know how wonderful it is, to feel so safe, so free, so totally vulnerable with someone...?" It had been one of their wordless evenings, a stroll holding hands beside the river, settling on a bench to watch the sunset glisten gold on the water.
He studied her intently.
"What?"
"I cannot decide if you are Cinderella or Sleeping Beauty."
"Or Baba Yaga?" she teased.
" Well, you can cast a good spell, and work well with herbs," he conceded. " But we met at a ball, and when the clock struck 12 you bolted away, without leaving me a glass slipper, or your phone number."
"And Sleeping Beauty, I suppose, because of nights like this?"
He cleared his throat. "I warn you, I may be forced to employ the traditional fairy-tale wake-up call..."
Rosemary's eyes closed obediently.
ACT 4 "A Rosemary by any other name..."
Kuryakin had discovered long ago that Truth was stranger than fiction, and usually a whole lot less pleasant. He had solved the Rosemary puzzle, but its conclusion brought him no satisfaction, and he anticipated the confrontation would leave him hollow.
Rosemary tried to conceal her surprise at finding him settled in an armchair inside her safe house.
"Sorry to startle you, but I couldn't find your phone number," he said dryly.
"It's unlisted." The simple explanation came quickly off her lips.
"You also have no birth certificate, no diploma, no social security number, no credit rating-" he enumerated.
"You investigated me!" Rosemary feigned indignation.
"You're with T3." His pronouncement was heavy with regret.
"The Termination Team? Don't be silly. There is no T3. That would be illegal. And unconstitutional," she parroted.
"-no fingerprints-"
"You know about 2% of the population are born with flat fingers. See-" she thrust her palms under his nose, "all smooth. I missed my calling. I should have been a cat burglar."
"Instead, you became a dangerous, high-priced courtesan."
Rosemary slapped his face smartly, to avert his cold, steady gaze from her.
"I am a lieutenant colonel serving my country," she said flatly. "I follow orders. I can save hundreds of innocent lives by eliminating one despicable one. In all the years of your employment, you never had to do anything-personally distasteful? Never had to 'close your eyes and think of England'? Or UNCLE?" she accused, seeking his understanding.
"You don't need to rationalize to me."
"At least I have a specified target. I do not carry a license to kill. Your gang just plows down anyone who gets in your way!"
"You investigated me?" he asked quietly, unable to summon up any indignation at all. "We're a pretty pair." He held her face tenderly. "Who are you, really?"
"Who remembers?" she shrugged sadly. "I'm Rosemary Livingston. And Claudia Griffin. And Maude Rainey, and Liz Cartier and-Well, I 'm top gun. Literally."
"That's not enough."
"Then you give me meaning," she pleaded. "Name me. Invent me. Write the part you want me to play-"
"Dammit, I don't want you to pretend with me-!"
"Considering our occupations, honesty is...over-rated, and improbable. Don't you think?"
Frustrated, Kuryakin grabbed her arms and pinned her against the wall with a kiss so intense it sealed their bodies together and left them melted and breathless. "Wow..." Rosemary gasped, when she could breathe again.
"Wow, indeed," he panted. "I propose we quarrel more often."
"I cannot disagree with that."
"Where is your next assignment?"
Rosenmary closed her eyes in disappointment. "You know I can't-"
"Not a professional inquiry. Purely personal."
"Not too pure, I hope," she whispered. "I've been ordered back to DC tomorrow."
"After that?"
She averted her eyes. "We'll probably run into each other…here and there..." she said, vaguely.
"If I need to find you-"
She shook her head. "You can't."
Kuryakin raised an eyebrow. "Is that a challenge?"
"No, it's just...safer...if I contact you."
"And will you?" His whispered question tickled in her ear. "What is your name?"
"Rosemary," she whispered back, and clung to him. "I'll always be Rosemary for you. For remembrance."
Part 1 of 3