THE BLACK TUESDAY AFFAIR
by ardavenport and tlneill
)(o)(o)(o)(o)( Act 1 : "My partner's started a fashion craze."
Napoleon looked down at his feet. He lifted his head, and squared his shoulders. It had been years... Feeling insecure was perfectly natural, but he didn't have to let it show. His partner glided effortlessly past; Solo imagined a smug smile on the Russian's face and took a step, then hurriedly grabbed the rail. Falling was far worse than admitting that he was a bit rusty. After a few more steps he felt almost steady and let go. Illya sailed by again and this time Napoleon saw the smile. His ankle turned unexpectedly and he clutched the rail again. He fixed his eyes and a charming smile on the blue mini skirt and attractively snug yellow sweater of U.N.C.L.E. receptionist Beverly Torays. A mere twenty paces away, she returned his smile sympathetically. Napoleon pressed on.
He was beginning to feel steady enough to continue on his own. After another half-circuit he was able to make the skating look more natural. As soon as he felt secure he enticed Beverly into a leisurely 'stroll' about the rink.
Illya was skating backwards. He did a quick turn and stopped, his skates digging deeply into the ice. The women watched him appreciatively. They all were experienced skaters, but the power of the demonstration was still impressive. Illya acknowledged his audience with a brief nod and continued on.
How are you going to catch anything, if they can't catch you, old boy?, Napoleon wondered while he chatted with Beverly.
A half hour later they were beneath the ice.
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Drew Jorgenson straightened his blue turtleneck sweater as he sat down at the large circular table in his office. Napoleon smiled privately to himself.
My partner's started a fashion craze.
Ordinarily, suits and ties were the standard of dress for male U.N.C.L.E. agents, but Portland HQ's cool location made that impractical. Huge refrigeration units rumbled overhead, maintaining the ice rink above. The two New York agents had been to U.N.C.L.E. Portland a couple of times before. The last time Illya had worn his black turtleneck sweater on a clandestine outing and apparently the locals had liked the look. Now, at least half of the agents and their chief had replaced their shirts and ties with the ubiquitous turtleneck.
"I'm sorry about the delay, gentlemen. I hope you've had a pleasant afternoon."
"You have a unique exercise program for your agents," Illya replied, deadpan.
"I've never thought of it as an 'exercise program', but I suppose ice skating isn't standard at all our offices. I find it very relaxing, though." He opened a folder on the table and spun its top to the two agents at the other side. "I trust you were briefed about our arrangements in New York?"
"We'll be transporting Elias Ritzen alias Frank Berman to his son's wedding reception tomorrow in Eugene, after which he will disappear from his former life forever via the U.N.C.L.E. Informant Protection Program," Napoleon answered.
Solo and Kuryakin only glanced at the contents of the file. They'd seen it all before in New York. Ritzen had at one time lived the American Dream with his wife and child and status quo home. It was only when his wife had discovered that their middle-class income came from a long association with Thrush that his life came apart. Without warning she left him, taking their teenage son with her and leaving vital clues about Ritzen's connections with Thrush behind with the local authorities.
The information eventually found its way to U.N.C.L.E. and months later it developed into a case that Kuryakin and Solo were assigned to. Surprisingly, they discovered that Ritzen had not tried to find his spouse. Knowing that Thrush involvement might lead to his family's termination, as well as his own, he'd covered the whole affair up with tales of woe and marital strife and childhood illnesses and long visits to the in-laws. Ritzen had willingly aided the U.N.C.L.E. agents in exchange for escape from his imaginary domestic misery.
Now he was a participant in U.N.C.L.E.'s Informant Protection Program. He was scheduled to disappear for parts unknown, but before going he'd demanded one last meeting with his wife and son. Against his better judgement, Alexander Waverly had approved the request; Ritzen would not cooperate until he'd seen his family. So, after U.N.C.L.E. investigators had located the missing family, Illya and Napoleon were once again assigned to work with Elias Ritzen.
"Ritzen, or rather Berman, specifically wanted you two protecting him. He places a great deal of confidence in your abilities," Jorgenson told them with a note of appreciation in his voice.
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Napoleon watched the skaters while he cut his steak. He and Illya had a rink-side table at Mannings restaurant. He took a bite and frowned. The Russian was less picky. He solemnly devoured his meal without comment. Napoleon took another nibble. The meal wasn't up to the standards of his New York palate, but it was edible. Sort of. Beverly had disappointed him by being busy that evening, so he was stuck with his partner's company.
"Well, it's nice to be up where it's warm again," he said conversationally after another bite.
"There's no reason for it to be that cold down there, those refrigeration units produce enough heat to keep it as warm as they like all the time." Illya chomped down a couple fries.
"Pardon me? I thought refrigeration was designed to keep things cold."
"The ice is what's being kept cold, Napoleon. A refrigerator is essentially a heat pump that keeps things cold by pumping the heat somewhere else. They could use some of that heat down there." He pointed down with his fork.
Napoleon had to admit his thermodynamics was a little rusty. "Why don't you ask them?"
"Hmmmm," Illya grunted and stabbed his meal with his fork. Solo smiled and scanned the tables around them.
A fat man in work clothes ate a bowl of chili by himself. Two teenagers wolfed down hamburgers and sodas. A woman with a herd of six children finished her sandwich and instructed her progeny to do the same. A couple of them clamored for desert. The motion was denied. The others joined in, but the mother held firm.
"When can we have desert?" one of them asked.
"1975." It was apparently her stock answer to demands that were not going to be met.
The environment of this new shopping mall was friendly but somehow impersonal. People came to a common place to buy things they may or may not need, but they were all strangers, wandering about in a modern shopping arena to the strains of pre-recorded nondescript instrumental pop music. It had all the appeal of a dentist's waiting room to Napoleon. He hoped that this shopping mall idea would die off with other crazes like hula hoops and skateboards.
)(o)(o)(o)(o)( END Act 1