THE SPRING FEVER AFFAIR
Act I "The Flowers that Bloom in the Spring, Tra-la…"
"Wear your hat—and try to remember to wear it home," Tracy prompted her husband, Dr. Jonathan Davenport. He was the quintessential absent-minded professor, she reflected fondly. That trait had been endearing during their courtship but frustrating after several years of marriage. The man was a genius at theoreticals, but she had learned not to depend on him to bring home the milk.
Enter Tracy, to manage his reality. She steadily pulled Jon toward evening walks along the river, well balanced meals, color co-ordinated socks, and taxes filed on time.
Jon's research grants included a subsistence budget for living expenses, and every penny had to be accounted for every month.
Tracy decided they needed some financial independence, so she found a job at the flower shop down the block from Del Floria's.
There, she had assisted Alexander Waverly in creating a truly unique bouquet for an anniversary. Tracy reminded him of his granddaughter, and Waverly dropped by regularly for garden-coaching to impress his wife. From that association, Dr. Davenport was recruited to UNCLE's science section.
Solo and Kuryakin were waved directly through to Waverly's office. The Section One Head was behind the stylish conference table, looking uncharacteristically agitated. A lanky man in a white lab coat paced the floor.
"Davenport," Illya nodded, recognizing him from the lab.
Solo introduced himself and held out a hand that was ignored.
"Gentlemen, Dr. Davenport has some distressing news: his wife Tracy appears to have been abducted."
Kuryakin's expression remained impassive, but his heart rate spiked.
"THRUSH ?" posited Solo.
Waverly turned to the husband.
"At first she was just a distraction—a delightful one," the distraught Dr. Davenport added hastily. "But Tracy put my life in balance. Got me out of the lab and into life." He babbled as if by invoking her name, her essence, he could summon her safely before them. "Perhaps I've been preoccupied lately, but she understands. And once this project is finished-"
Napoleon cleared his throat. "Eh, Doctor, is it possible that she left voluntarily? It's been my experience that when a wife feels neglected…" he paused delicately.
Waverly had no patience with discretion when this young woman was in danger. "Does she have a lover, man?" he challenged her husband abruptly.
"No!" Dr. Davenport and Illya Kuryakin answered in unison. All three men turned to stare at the Russian.
"Mrs. Davenport is an honorable woman," the blond asserted. "We met for coffee," he added quietly. "For several months."
"That coffee must've been laced with pentathol," Solo muttered under his breath.
"Mr. Waverly," the scientist implored, "my wife is not at home; she never got to work. And these came to Del Floria's…for me." He pulled the crushed petals from his pocket. "Black roses."
"Have you been contacted?" asked Solo.
"No, not yet."
Kuryakin tried to pin down details. "What could they want?"
"I don't know! Tracy knows nothing about my research. It's too boring and difficult to explain to her."
"If they cannot expect a direct contribution from her, we can only assume they will threaten her to gain cooperation from you. What would they be interested in?" Illya repeated impatiently.
"The Westphalia project…" Davenport whispered. " I can't deliver that. I can't. It's too dangerous. Oh, God," he groaned, stricken. "Tracy knows I can't…"
"Hurting her will accomplish nothing on their agenda," Illya put a tentative hand on Davenport's shoulder in reassurance. But all of them knew it was hollow comfort if THRUSH were involved.
The scientist jerked away from Kuryakin. "I'm truly touched by your concern for my wife," he spat snidely.
Kuryakin turned coldly from his colleague. "Doctor, it is very bad science to assume."
ACT II "In Spring, a young man's fancy…"
"I'm afraid you've misallocated your resources kidnapping me, Gentlemen," Tracy fought to keep her voice level. Confusion and fear were their allies; be calm, concentrate, think clearly. "Our money is all in research grants, and I know they don't budget for ransom. You should see all the paperwork I have to wade through just to get a new set of beakers. Besides," she added hopelessly, "it will be days before Dr. Davenport realizes I'm missing."
"You put too low a premium on yourself, my dear," evaluated the pin-striped patriarch.
"I'd just like to go home, start supper, and forget this ever happened," Tracy rose casually and was shoved back into her chair.
"Taggart!" Pin Stripes snapped. " We'll have respect for our guest," he reminded the bully, then turned his attention back to Tracy. "It's not money we require, Mrs. Davenport. It's your husband's cooperation on a little project of ours."
"My husband has very high ethical standards. I doubt you can persuade him to help you by bullying me." She lifted her chin bravely. She had never been so proud of Jon—or so frightened for herself.
# # # # #
Bloomberg's Coffee Shop, two months ago.
"Oh, not more greenery, Tracy, please," Illya Nickovetch remembered begging in earnest. "You know I've killed off the last two…"
"Nicky, you've got to be committed to caring for it. You cannot ignore it and expect it to thrive. Come on," she put his hands gently around the pot. "Try again."
Electricity shot down his spine when their fingers met and he pulled back. "I'm a trained assassin, not a gardener," he grumbled.
Tracy laughed. "I know exactly why we meet for coffee, Nicky, though I don't suppose any one else would understand."
"Explain it to me, then."
"We are safe for each other—and from each other. We can share coffee and conversation and crosswords, without all that awkward 'where -is-this-leading' male/female tension. Our boundaries are predetermined and firm. I am committed to my husband. You are afraid of commitment to any one. It's perfect." Her smile turned serious. "But everyone needs a connection, Nicky. Remember…"
A shiver went through the agent. "You are the only one to call me that ridiculous name—and live."
"Sugar?"
# # # # #
Solo navigated the Manhattan traffic and was stalled on a bridge.
"So, as our resident expert on Tracy Davenport, where do you suggest we begin?"
Illya sighed heavily. "A cup of coffee hardly qualifies me as an expert—"
"But coffee for several months-? Surely you did more than sip together." Solo raised an eyebrow. "Did she mention she was married?"
Kuryakin gave his partner a withering look. "I met Dr. and Mrs. Davenport at a science conference last November. A week later I was in Bloomberg's having coffee. She recognized me and sat down. She wears a ring, Napoleon. She speaks well of him. We had coffee."
"For several months." Solo repeated.
"Not steadily," the Russian was getting testy. "Of course there were times when I was not available."
"But you arranged your schedule around her when you could."
"Yes."
"And she never mentioned these brief encounters to the good Doctor."
"Apparently not."
"And you never mentioned them to me." Solo let the accusation hang in the air. He disliked grilling his friend.
"You are not my confessor, Napoleon. And you're not my interrogator. Tracy is kind and cheerful and bright. She's thoughtful and organized and energized and-"
"And 'brave, thrifty, clean, reverent and always prepared'?" Solo flashed the Scout salute.
Illya scowled. "As a matter of fact. Her husband is blessed to have such a woman devoted to him. Restores one's faith, rather," he said wistfully. "Now, if I am no longer a suspect, I suggest we travel more productive avenues."
"Too bad," Solo relented. " You make such a fine suspect—motive, means, opportunity- you sure you haven't got Mrs. Davenport stashed away in your threadbare little love nest? It would solve things so quickly and neatly." Napoleon tried to restore the old banter between them, but it fell flat. Obviously his partner could not tolerate teasing on this subject. "So, what do you know about Westphalia?"
"Other than the obvious—the treaty that ended the 30 Years War and settled the borders of Germany in 1648—nearly nothing. Don't believe the office gossip, Napoleon. I am not omniscient." Solo's partner was smug. "Still, I've tried all my contacts here and abroad. No one's heard of it. Which is very puzzling…"
And as Solo negotiated traffic, Kuryakin conjured up everything he could remember about Tracy and her husband.
ACT 3 "…lightly turns to thoughts of love."
Bloomberg's Coffee Shop, 6 weeks ago
"We've been having coffee for a while now ," Kuryakin prefaced his inquiry, " and I need to ask you a personal question."
"Hmmm..?"
"Why do you call me that?" Nicky asked.
Tracy answered brightly. "Because no one else does, and it's cute."
"You're half right."
"I think you like to be teased," she cocked her head and smiled at him.
"Then you don't know me very well."
"Are you challenging me, Sir?" Tracy tilted her chin up and closed her eyes, trance-like. "Let me see….You have a rich mental life, too large to be contained in your-ahem-dusty apartment. You have a worn chair, but a good reading lamp. Next to the chair is last Sunday's London Times, the crossword half-finished, in ink. There's a small table, covered in papers and books, used as a desk because there's nothing in your fridge but moldy yogurt. Your bed is perpetually rumpled—perhaps in rebellion against a strict childhood. You curl up on the left side, within arm's reach of a radio set to the jazz station…how am I doing so far?"
Illya was startled. Not merely that she was so uncannily close to reality, but the fact that she had given his living conditions such detailed consideration.
"You watch too many Basil Rathbone movies."
"And how do you picture my life outside of the shop?"
"I…eh, haven't...really…thought about …" he trailed off.
"Oh." Tracy sounded vaguely disappointed, almost hurt.
Kuryakin was dissembling; it was part of his work and his life, but it made him uncomfortable to be less than honest with her. In fact, his mind had wandered to her, in odd, quiet moments.
On a rainy afternoon he had imagined her at home, jungled with greens and working intently, potting soil under her finger nails, and a smudge of dirt on her nose.
One evening, his attention drifted from paperwork to the radio, playing Delius's 'Walk in a Summer Garden.' He pictured them strolling a fragrant sunlit path.
He gave his shaggy blond head a quick, snappy shake, as if to clear the memories. He owed Tracy all his attention, all his focus now. He dare not think of any thing else.
# # # # #
"So which of you called it off?" Solo kept his hands on the wheel, his eyes straight ahead on the road.
Kuryakin sighed heavily. "Are we back to that again? Don't you ever weary of detailed analysis of my personal life? Besides, how do you know it's off?"
The pause lay heavy between the partners for several miles. It was true: it had been called off, and Illya missed her. They had filled each other's blank spaces like the crossword puzzles they worked together. Two lives going in opposite directions that had intersected and completed them both.
"Waverly, actually," Illya admitted finally. "He's quite fond of our little flower girl. He didn't want anyone…compromised. And with her husband posted to HQS, well, it's just gotten so awkward..."
Solo was indignant. "The Old Man can't dictate your private life—"
"Ah, Napoleon, that's your American perspective. I am accustomed to the authorities dictating one's personal life."
The resignation in his tone caught Napoleon by surprise. "Illya-?" He had wanted to ask about the depth of the involvement, then reconsidered. His partner was...smitten, and the woman was out of bounds. And to see Illya permit himself to become vulnerable to this degree was almost painful for his friend.
"Don't fret, Napoleon. Now you can buy me that Mr. Coffee for Christmas."
# # # # #
Dr. Jonathan Davenport entered, flanked by Taggart and her more distinguished captor.
"Jon!" Tracy ran to his side. Was this a rescue, a negotiation, or had he been captured, too? "Jon, whatever they want, don't do it!"
"I'm sorry, Tracy, but I need your participation to make this plan work," he explained matter of factly.
She looked wonderingly at him. "Jon, how can you ask—how can you possibly believe I would—"
"You see, your UNCLE agent is going to be too late to affect your rescue. I'm going to denounce the organization bitterly, and drop out of sight in grief. Then, emerge with a new identity and an upgraded lifestyle."
The enormity of his confession hit her and she began to cry softly, despairingly. "Jon, think what you're doing—you'll never be free again. You've always had your integrity, your independence—"
"And what did it get me?" he growled. "A handful of peanuts every month. No respect for my research—"
"Jon, that's not true—"
"Stop managing me! Stop running my life!" and the sound of the slap echoed across the room.
The unexpected violence wounded Tracy more than the physical blow. She crumbled to her knees, so shocked she did not even cover her head in protection from the next smack.
Davenport turned and walked away from his weeping wife, gesturing to Taggart to take over the action and finish it. As he reached for the door, it slammed open, knocking him flat against the wall.
As Napoleon wrestled with the husband, Illya rushed Taggart, tackling the larger man. Gunfire blasted and Illya flung himself across Tracy. His body convulsed as the bullet cracked through him.
ACT 4 Hope Springs Eternal
Kuryakin was drowsing, gradually aware of the heady scent of fir and nutmeg herbery beside his pillow. And something else—a light, sweet cloud of—powder? Cologne? Her.
He inhaled slowly and deeply, afraid that if he opened his eyes, all the peace and warmth would vanish. Still, the contented smile crept across his face.
Tracy's hand covered his as lightly as a whisper, and her lips moved very close to his ear. "Can you open your eyes, Nicky?"
As injuries go, this was minor, but a good agent always acts on a tactical advantage. "Mmmm…"
The first thing he saw was the planter. "Oh, Tracy..."
"Don't you dare scold. This one's going to flourish because I'll—I'll come over to your dusty old apartment and water it myself!"
Time to be honest. "Uh, Tracy, about the coffee meetings…"
"It's OK, Nicky." She tilted her chin up in that expression of pride he knew so well. "Mr. Waverly explained that meeting me was in the line of duty."
"Noooo...well, yes, at first. But the investigation shifted and I...well, let's just say I could no longer legitimately include you on my expense account."
"You found me," she marveled.
"Of course." He wanted to say aloud, 'I'll always find you, wherever you are'—but of course, he didn't.
"You sacrificed yourself for me."
"I've been working on that fear-of-commitment thing."
Solo and Waverly found them wrapped in tender silence.
"He's usually such a tiger to get out of medical. But you've got him purring like a pussy cat," Solo observed to her.
"Jonathan?" she asked anxiously.
"I'm sorry, M'dear," Waverly took her hand. "But he tried to escape."
Her head dropped into her hands. "I failed him," her voice was muffled. "I was the closest to him. I should have seen his distress. I should have—"
"Nonsense." Waverly cut her off. "The man was deceitful and not as clever as he supposed. Greedy and arrogant, unworthy of your loyalty."
"He was a good man once," she insisted
"Hmf." Waverly remained unconvinced.
"And Westpahlia?" Tracy asked. "Is it secure? Jon never would share with me what it was –I mean, besides the obvious—the treaty of 1648 that ended the 30 Years War and set the boundaries of Germany—"
Solo looked from Tracy to Illya and rolled his eyes. "Good God, they're two of a kind."
"That was the clue," Waverly explained. "There was no Westphalia. He simply used the word to enhance the illusion of his plot."
Tracy shuddered. "It's all so dark and twisted. I wish..."
"Eh, Mr. Kuryakin, you'll be needing some recuperative time. I find a daily walk in a garden good physical therapy, and an excellent antidote to stress."
"I know some lovely places…" Tracy suggested shyly.
Waverly's features crinkled into a smile. "I thought you might, my dear."
finis