The Gibb Says Uncle Affair
by Gale Force
Part 1.
Gregori Kuchenko let his field glasses drop to his chest and raised his arms over his head. "Da! Da!" In moments of joy he was apt to revert to his native tongue. He was not feeling particularly joyful at the moment, but his grand-daughters would expect him to be feeling that emotion, and he must not be seen to be acting strangely.
LaToya Brown, one of the Old Dominion Lady Monarchs, had just sunk a three-pointer which had given her team a last-second win over the Tennessee Lady Vols - a feat that had not happened since 1996.
Although Kuchenko was a wealthy man he still knew the value of a dollar in this, his adopted land, and his season tickets at the Ted Constant Convocation Center were in the nosebleed seats. He liked it up there, as he was able to watch all the players run the floor and see the various defensive and offensive sets they ran. However, he was never without his field glasses so that he might get a close-up look of one of the players. Kuchenko had been happily married for thirty years and had grand-daughters the same age as these players, but one was never too old to enjoy the sight of a beautiful woman.
"We want to go get her autograph," Mia, one of his grand-daughters said, in her perfect and unaccented English. She'd been born and raised in Norfolk, as had her sister, Sandra.
"Run along," said Kuchenko. "I will see you at the car in half an hour, eh?"
"Okay, granddad."
The two girls hurried down the stairs, clutching their programs in their hands. They were not intent on getting the autographs of the Lady Monarchs of course, but of the Lady Vols and in particular of the Lady Vols legendary coach, Pat Summitt.
Kuchenko watched them on their way... feeling a tightness in his chest. So young. So innocent. Their entire lives in front of them. Nothing must happen to them.
He rubbed his hand over his eyes. What could he do, what could he do? This was so cruel, to be retired for thirty years and then to be reactivated, by an organization that he had thought had died a long time ago...and its members seemed to be just as brutal now as they were then.
Well...that was to be expected. Mankind as a whole had certainly not changed in thirty years...why should his old comrades?
But he couldn't do what they wanted...he wouldn't....
Kuchenko lowered his hand, his eyes dull. He had to. He had no choice.
The crowd had thinned out now, except for the huddle of people around the table where Coach Pat Summitt sat, signing autographs and exchanging pleasantries with the fans. Kuchenko had never liked to walk through crowds...all too easy for someone behind you to slip a knife between your ribs and then escape scott free.
Kuchenko rose to his feet and headed down the stairs, utilizing his cane to good effect. He had no use for a cane...at least, not one that involved having a weakness in either of his legs or a problem with his balance...
He reached the ground floor and turned toward the exit. Out of the corner of his eye he caught sight of a face... lined, aged...but recognizable... it wasn't possible. It couldn't be... a man he hadn't seen for thirty years...not one of his, but one of theirs.
The face belonged to a man, dressed in a tweed suit and wearing some silly hat, standing beside a rather strange looking woman with her black hair in pigtails and a ... yes, a spider's web tattoo on her throat.
The woman was speaking. "Ducky, Ducky, that was just incredible. The Lady Vols don't get beaten, they just don't! We've witnessed history here today."
Kuchenko was a fast thinker and acted on impulse. He also believed in karma. To have run into this man, after thirty years...while at the same time being thrust into such terrible trouble by his own side...it was meant to be.
"Ducky," Kuchenko cried out (for he dared not use the man's real name). He hugged the man with typical Russian exuberance. With his ears close to the other man's ear he hissed, in Russian, "I must speak with you, Kuryakin. I must!")
Kuryakin stared at him, an expression of shocked surprise on his face. "I...I...it's nice to see you, too."
Brilliant British accent, Kuchenko thought.
"Come, Ducky," he said. "I have my granddaughters with me, so I can't stop. How can I get in touch with you? We must talk about old times."
"Oh, well..."
Kuryakin, looking flustered, patted his hands over the pockets of his jackets, then pulled out a card. "Here. My card."
Kuchenko took it without looking at it and slipped it into his own breast pocket.
"I will call you, Ducky."
He gazed at Kuryakin intently, then turned and limped quickly away.
Abby Sciuto and her colleague and friend, Donald "Ducky" Mallard, were in Norfolk, Virginia attending a conference at the Norfolk Naval Yard. Abby had persuaded Ducky to accompany her to the Lady Vols game, and now they were waiting in line for her to get Pat Summitt's autograph.
"Who was that, Ducky?" Abby asked curiously.
Ducky looked after the limping man and shrugged. "I have no idea."
"Why did you give him your card, then?"
"Well," Ducky took a deep breath. "I don't really know. He just seemed to be in trouble."
"How exciting," Abby said happily. "And he came to you for help? Buy why you? Why here?"
Ducky shrugged again. "I don't know. I suppose I'll find out when he calls me."
"Yeah...anyway...wasn't that a great game...?"
Abby continued to talk about the game, and Ducky looked up at her, after sparing one last glance after the limping man who had now disappeared down the corridor. How...odd.
