THE HOLY HOSTAGE AFFAIR
Act 1 My Son Bingo
Illya Kuryakin looked over at his wife with concern. "I am not certain I'm comfortable with you working while I'm away."
Tracy Wyatt Davenport Kuryakin shifted positions on the couch, trying to balance. It was no use. "I'm not comfortable no matter where I am. At least at the flower shop I'll have something to concentrate on. And what better place for the little seedling to be, surrounded by healthy green growing things, new life everywhere."
The pregnancy had made her positively rhapsodic, he thought, and he surrendered the Protective Papa battle for now. His expression drifted, and Tracy's antennae perked up.
"You've seen Madeleine." It was a flat fact, not an accusation; still, he could feel the jealousy rising beneath the clipped syllables.
"Yes." He tried to keep the answer short and confident and honest. But she needed reassurance and elaboration. He sighed. She could have made an excellent interrogation officer at HQS. "Her right reverend husband was in town for an interfaith conference. She came into Bloomberg's for coffee -"
"-and she cornered you."
"It's not like that-" he reminded himself to be patient.
"You had coffee with me at Bloomberg's and look what happened."
"Tracy, it's been over for years. She wishes us well."
"I bet," Tracy muttered darkly.
"She's content in the suburbs with her station wagon, her Sunday school class, and her son. Sasha starts pre-school this fall-" in trying to distract her unwholesome track of mind, Kuryakin had realized too late it was probably the wrong thing to say.
"Sasha?" Tracy jumped on the child's name.
"Madeleine loved the Russian Romantics-" he flailed.
"I bet."
"-composers," he concluded. " Tracy, Dearheart, it's not like you to be so-catty and insecure."
"I'm allowed to have irrational mood swings. I'm pregnant."
"Fine. Indulge yourself in jealous fantasies if it makes you happy." He shook off his mounting temper and took her hands instead. "If anyone has cause for jealousy, it's me. You loved that mad scientist enough to marry him."
"Jonathan was not mad," she leapt to the defense of her first husband.
"He had to be, to neglect you." The Russian planted a little trail of kisses up her arm and she shivered.
"Keep that up and Pavel will not be an only child."
"Is that a threat?" he murmured into the curve of her neck.
"A promise."
He segued into an area of remaining curiosity. "You and Davenport never had any children..." he began delicately.
"No, Jon was so wrapped up in his work..."
"Tracy, we've discussed the nature of my work."
She shook her head. "It's not the same. Jon might have been physically present, but it's the emotional absence that hurts. You're always here, even when you're not. "You are in the stars and streets and sea, and every shadow that I see is you," she quoted dreamily.
Rhapsodizing again, he smiled fondly. Suddenly he felt a stab of guilt and the expression was not lost on her.
"Nicky, what is it?"
He averted his eyes. "When we-when Madeleine left, she said she had to find someone whose occupation wasn't dependent on deception and violence."
"She didn't know you very well," Tracy defended loyally.
"There was hardly time," he shook his head ruefully. "You do understand that I don't always fight on the side of the angels...?"
She turned his face toward her, so he could see the unwavering trust in her eyes.
"Pavel, eh?" he broke the mood.
"Or Bingo. I can' t decide."
Bingo. Bingo Kuryakin. He shuddered. Mr. Waverly, I'd like you to meet my son, Bingo. "Keep thinking, Darling. How about a bowl of borscht?"
Tracy nearly gagged. "Not unless you want to wear it. "
"No cravings?"
"None beet-related."
"How about bubbles?"
He had helped lower her into the frothy bath and was gently sponging her shoulders when the communicator summoned him. "Kuryakin. Oh, just helping Tubby in the tub."
Tracy splashed him, hoping the bubbles settling on the hand-held electronic device would give him a shock-a little one. Illya put his hand over the transmitter. "It's just Napoleon-he knows what you look like."
"Tracy, Tracy, " Solo's voice cackled over the air. "Leave the Balkan Beast and come to me. "Come live with me and be my love, and we will all the pleasures prove-" oops, I guess I'm too late for that..." and she splashed at the silver pen again, this time aiming to send some bubbles through the transmitter to sting Solo's eyes-just a little.
"You realize, Napoleon, that you have made it easier for me to attack a nest of THRUSH with a nail file than to remain under my own roof for the next three months. You may have created yourself an unwelcome roommate."
Act 2 Coffee Caper
But the truth of his rendezvous with his former romantic interest was anything but simple and innocent. Her surprise invitation to coffee was a little too insistent, a little too forced to be genuine. Intrigued beyond his better judgment, Kuryakin agreed to meet Madeleine out of the public eye, at a small cafe they used to frequent outside the city. They exchanged perfunctory greetings and both tried to ignore the evidence that Madeleine had obviously been crying.
Villain, Illya thought, and began ticking off in his head the sins that Steven Sonnet, Super Saint, might be guilty of committing: he's beating her, he's neglecting her, he's abandoned her...and plotting a suitably fiendish punishment for every tear.
"Things are not fine. Things are about as awful as possible-" she choked and leaned against the wall instead of him. She handed him a crumpled piece of paper from her pocket.
"Steven went to help establish a mission at San Esteban. That came three weeks later. I've been to the church council. They won't jeopardize the opportunity to minister there, and said that congregates do not give their tithes to be spent on ransom demands. I've been to the capital; they've got no jurisdiction over a sovereign nation. I've been to Washington; they refuse to negotiate with terrorists."
Madeleine turned her desperate face to his. "Steven has helped people all his life-" her voice quavered. " Remember that Christmas, when I said I'd found a man completely different from you?"
He was not likely to forget.
"It's not quite true. Steven is stubborn. And honorable. He's passionate about his work. Sometimes his courage, his sense of justice, outweighs his common sense. He sacrifices for others without hesitation." Madeleine looked at him, pleadingly. " I think you'd like him. You told me once that network agents are all considered expendable. Well, Steven is not expendable. Not to Sasha, and not to me. I've been praying, Illya, and the only answer I get back is you."
"The network cannot get involved in personal problems," he recited hollowly.
"Then it's hopeless."
She was more helpless and alone than he had ever seen her. Illya wondered what other qualities the man had to inspire such devotion and despair. He wrestled with the dilemma dropped in his lap. He could not get involved professionally; he should not get involved personally. But hell, hadn't everyone used the vast resources of his employer at some time or other for personal needs?
Kuryakin was not surprised to discover there was still tenderness between them, but he admitted that only to himself. He wanted to reach out and hold her, comfort her, but it would be inappropriate on so many levels.
"I have some contacts there...I'll find out what I can."
"Thank you, " she whispered.
Act 3 Playing Postman
"You'd lie for him, wouldn't you?"
Is everybody in this city having coffee with someone else's wife? Napoleon Solo pondered as he framed his next response. "I've never found it necessary to lie for Illya." Tracy's eyes entrapped him and he could not look away. She would have made a fine interrogation officer, he thought.
"It's just peculiar...he's had assignments out in the field since we've been married. But there's something...different about this time. I can't pinpoint why, exactly, it just feels... I can't shake this anxiety. Wifely intuition," Tracy smiled uneasily. "I don't suppose you could give me a hint...?"
"Pink or blue for the nursery?" Solo retreated from the subject.
Tracy raised her chin and batted her eyelashes. "I can keep secrets, too."
# # # # #
Just a little game of Postman, Illya had explained to his wife. A package had been misdirected, and now there was postage due. He planned to collect it and deliver it to the correct address. So simple. Just routine. Back in a few days. Take your vitamins.
Solo was the only one who knew the details of his partner's little expedition, and since it was ex-officio, best to keep it that way. Illya had enlisted a local confederate, Marco Paradisio, who was familiar with the dreaded Melagos gang. Heavily armed thugs, they made a living by kidnapping and extortion. They occasionally espoused political slogans, but Marco assured him that was to satisfy the media. Clumsy army units were dispatched every few months to track the gang, but without luck. Illya had to believe that an experienced agent and a cagey local could play a successful game of snatch.
The jungle steamed and Kuryakin just added that to the list of things Steven Sonnet had done to annoy him. If the man had any consideration at all, Illya fumed, he could've gotten himself kidnapped somewhere else: Switzerland came to mind.
As Marco described, the Melagos, though cunning and brutal, were not professional or well-organized. The complications of the rescue were courtesy of the victim himself. Sonnet refused to be saved unless his fellow hostages were also set free. Sharing his captivity were an elderly missionary couple, a native nurse, and a French tourist.
Illya gritted his teeth. There was no choice but to bring the others along. The unexpected change in plans would increase the danger and require some quick and creative adjustments.
But to Sonnet, adding four more bodies and souls to the group was not an inconvenience but an act of charity. Weak, weary, unshaven, he helped shepherd the others along; encouraging, cajoling, sharing his reduced rations, and leading them in thanksgiving.
Of course, Steven had prayed and anticipated rescue all along, so when Kuryakin crawled from under the brush, he merely raised his eyebrow at the Lord's mysterious choice for his angel of deliverance.
Act 4 My Hero
It had been a week since Illya witnessed the tearful reunion of the Sonnets, accepted their thanks and admiration, and closed the door on their lives.
Currently he was engrossed in an electronics project that kept him assigned to the research and development section. He was appreciative of the more predictable scheduling and enjoyed his adventure among the electrons.
He usually got home around six, and often found Tracy overcome with napping on the sofa, illuminated by the flickering television. The soft multi-colored afghan pulled over her, she looked like a plump rainbow dumpling, although he would never dare express that fanciful description aloud.
Tonight he quietly closed the door, shrugged off his coat, and set the frosty carton on an end table. He lifted the lid, skating his forefinger along the surface. Then he gently traced her lips with the sticky sweetness.
"Tra-cy.." he called softly, "Wake up, Sleepyhead. I've brought ice cream…" he tempted.
"Mmhhh…ah.." she stirred, half-loopy with sleep and roped her arms around his neck. "Triple-Ripple? Oh, my hero."
"Not so fast, Dear Wife. You've been mumbling in your sleep all week. Who is Daniel?" Illya demanded.
"Daniel?"
"And Trevor and Max and—"
"Oh," Tracy shook her head to wake up. "Baby names. Boy list," she yawned.
"Hmmm..." he narrowed his eyes and rubbed his chin, as if debating whether to accept her innocent explanation.
She sat upright with inspiration. "You know, if we had twins they could be Boris and Natasha."
"Silly Squirrel," he scowled. "I think not." Illya settled into the sofa to watch the local news, one arm spooning Triple-Ripple ice cream, the other wrapped around his perfect world.
Finis