CHAPTER FIVE
The phone was ringing as she pushed open the door, the noise of its bell reverberating ominously round the small apartment. Yvonne threw her handbag onto the pristine sofa before picking up the receiver, knowing whose voice she would hear the other end.
'I presume you attended the concert tonight?'
'You know I did. Can we be brief, I think they'll be calling for me any minute; there's been an emergency. But you know that too, don't you?'
There was a brief silence the other end of the line, followed by an almost imperceptible sigh.
'That is no concern of yours, my dear. Listen carefully. You will need to administer the dose I specified earlier to your patient. You can pick them up in the usual place. Don't forget, Fern's future depends on it.' Before she could reply, she heard a sharp click as the conversation came to an abrupt end. A feeling of utter weakness swept through her suddenly, and she clutched at the edge of the table as she dropped the receiver heavily back into its cradle.
Almost instantly, it began to ring again, the bell sounding even harsher, as if the world had stilled to emphasise its tone.
'Miss Shumway? Can you report to Medical immediately? Code Three.' For the second time in as many minutes, the caller cut her off, assuming obedience in much the same way as her first caller had. Only this time, there was no implied threat, merely a call to duty, her obligation to the organisation she worked for.
Yvonne leaned over the sofa and picked up her bag. Unclasping it, she drew out a small photograph, preserved between the plastic layers of a tiny frame. A toddler stared out at her, the girl's soft pink face framed by straight hair of an intense blond colour. She touched the image, before turning over the frame. On the back, carefully written was a date and the name 'Fern' printed underneath.
'This is for you' she breathed, before sliding the picture back into its hiding place, and walking quickly from the room.
xxxxxxx
They were sat, a huddle of four, three adults and one child all wanting to know what was happening to the adult and child in the two rooms facing them across the corridor. Napoleon saw Illya jump to his feet and accost a nurse coming out of one room, the strain on his face evident in his lowered brow and penetrating gaze. He realised then that she was the same woman he had seen at the hotel, her white UNCLE Nurse's uniform momentarily confusing him as to her identity. As he approached, he saw her touch his partner's hand lightly, eliciting a faint glimmer of a smile from the Russian, before he pushed open the door and let it close silently behind him.
'What's the situation?' he said, as he sat down by Jo, Pascale, her face smeared by recent tears, coming over and clinging silently to him as they talked.
'Tessy is conscious but groggy; Pablo is still unconscious but they think he'll come round, his vitals are good now. He lost quite a lot of blood, but he wasn't assaulted' Jo said rather calmly, stroking Pascale's hair as she talked. 'Tess seems to have more injuries; her arm is possibly broken and she had what looks like a blow to her head too, although the doctor thinks that might have happened when she fell down the stairs.' Napoleon saw that a doctor had come over to Gabriel and was explaining something, before walking further along the corridor to the Nurses' station to use the phone.
'I'm going in to anoint Pablo' Gabriel said, coming over to them. 'Pascale, do you want to help me?' Pascale turned round and slid to the ground, nodding her head. He held out his hand, glancing at his sister before he took Pascale into the adjacent room.
'Do you think that's a good idea?' Napoleon asked, as his communicator suddenly pierced the hushed tones of the corridor.
'Yes. She needs to do something to help her brother, and she'll see this as important. Go on, answer it before it wakes up the whole department.' Napoleon pulled out the pen and twisted round the cap, getting up and walking away from the chairs and the nurses gathered round their station further along the corridor.
'Napoleon, it's Connie. You wanted a heads-up when the old man arrived. More importantly, how are they? Jeez, I can't believe it' she said, whistling slightly under her breath.
'Thanks' he replied, 'um, they both seem to be holding their own; Illya's in with Tess at the moment and Fr Gabriel's attending to Pablo, if you take my drift. I'll be down in a minute; tell that new assistant of his if she's there.'
'She's there. You'd better hurry.' The line went dead, Napoleon smiling into it before twisting the cap back and replacing it in his suit pocket.
'I have to go downstairs. Page Waverly's office if you need me' he said, kissing Jo before walking over to the small square window of Tess's room.
He could see his partner had moved the chair as close to the bed as he could, and had hold of his wife's hand, rather gingerly as an IV line was attached, the other arm now encased in a cast from her wrist to her elbow. Her head was wrapped in a large bandage, her dark curly hair springing out of it into a loose ponytail down her back. She looked almost translucent to Napoleon, her thick dark lashes emphasising the paleness of her skin. He sighed and turned away, before hurrying back along the corridor to the lifts.
Lisa Rogers looked up as the door slid back, her dark eyes betraying nothing as she looked down at her desk again.
'He's waiting for you' she said rather obviously, before handing him several files she had been glancing through as he had come into the anteroom she now occupied. She had been in post for about four months, and Napoleon suddenly realised that the Russian had not met her yet. The humanity of Waverly's last assistant had been removed, along with the potted plants and the rather friendly looking hand-made cushions she had dotted around the place, to be replaced by an increasing number of rather less cosy machines and plain, steel furniture. But even worse than that, she had persuaded the powers that be to replace what Napoleon considered was the rather attractive attire of the female clerical staff with a less fitted and certainly less revealing combination of yellow roll neck top and black skirt. Solo had grimaced on the first day of its appearance, but since nobody had asked his opinion, he decided to err on the side of caution and say nothing.
'Ah, Mr Solo' Waverly said, uncharacteristically rising to his feet and coming over to Napoleon, 'how are they? What on earth happened? I thought we had the security situation under control.'
'So did I, sir. Apparently, Pablo saw something or somebody at the back of the school hall which kind of spooked him. Tess took him over to church to talk to him as it was so noisy in school, but when I'd seen you off, I noticed the lights were all off, so I followed them in. I guess they must have been in there about ten to fifteen minutes before I came in; I saw someone slip out as I got to the stairs at the east end, but I decided to help Tess and Pablo, rather than go after them.'
'Quite right; your chances of catching them would have been virtually nil, and those two young people needed your help' Waverly said, to Napoleon's relief.
'I have to say, sir, that Illya is convinced that Bolt was behind it' Napoleon continued, and the more I think about it, the more likely that seems.' Waverly frowned, and wandered over to the black leather settees in the corner of the room. A pot of coffee and two cups stood there waiting for them, the plain style of the china reflecting the efficient assistant sitting in the room beyond.
'Is Mr Kuryakin bearing up?' Waverly asked rather kindly, as they sipped the coffee and sank into the leather chairs.
'He's coping' Napoleon replied, putting down his cup. 'I believe Tess is conscious, but the boy is still out for the moment.' Waverly frowned, before motioning towards the files Napoleon had placed on the large table in the centre of the room before he sat down.
'Actually,' Waverly began again after a few moments, 'they rang through from Medical a few moments ago, when you were on your way down. It appears that there could be a few complications with Therese Kuryakin . . .' He seemed curiously vague, and Napoleon imagined that he was reluctant to discuss another person's medical details even with him. 'At any rate' Waverly continued, as if Napoleon understood, 'it appears that we may have to assist Mr Kuryakin with his domestic arrangements in the near future, which, if you'll look in the folder, you'll see could neatly dovetail with our continuing investigation of Miss Bolt. I've asked Mr Kuryakin to join us when he's finished talking to the medical staff, and then we can make some more detailed plans.'
Napoleon frowned. He had no idea what Waverly was going on about, and hoped that Illya could somehow explain when he arrived eventually. He stood up and went over to the round table, opening the file marked 'Genea', and noting the sub-heading 'Siberia' underneath. Inside, something altogether more surprising awaited him.
'Er, isn't this the emblem of the . . .'
'GRU. Exactly Mr Solo. Since the affair over that computer, The GRU has made pains to indicated its willingness, to a limited extent, to cooperate over certain projects which are deemed mutually beneficial, particularly if it is to detriment of their rivals over in the KGB' Waverly said rather mysteriously. Read on, Mr Solo.'
Napoleon turned the cover of the document and smiled sardonically.
'Yes, it seems that old friends are coming to Mr Kuryakin's aid once again' Waverly said finally.
xxxxxxxxx
'Tess, Thérèse, cherie', Illya murmured, his face now as close as he could get it to hers. He had put down the cot sides of the bed, laying his head beside hers, grateful to feel her gentle breath on his cheek as he gazed at her eyes, a slight fluttering of her lashes alerting him to her returning consciousness.
'Hmmm' she murmured, eventually, after a few false starts, opening her eyes and staring rather cloudily in his direction.
'Viens, Thérèse, réveille-toi.' He could see that she was trying, shaking her head slightly, the bandage giving her a slightly jaunty look that made him smile in spite of everything. She lay there for a few more moments, before her eyes began to clear a little more and, poking out her tongue slightly, she began moistening her lips. Illya jumped up and fumbled with some ice in a small container, which he gently held for her to suck.
'Careful, just in case you may need . . .' His words faded away as he looked at her, a lump in his throat the physical expression of his unformed prayer that she would not need any further medical intervention. He put the container with the ice down on the bedside table and stroked the hair back away from her face.
'Illyusha . . . . Pablo, he's . .' her eyes closed with the effort, pain flooding across her face.
'He's alive' he breathed into her ear, 'he'll recover, I'm sure he will.' His head bent slightly, only to jerk back up as the door opened.
Illya frowned as he saw who was following Lawrence Goepel, the neurologist who was attending both Tess and Pablo, into the room.
'Illya, Mr Shearer needs to speak to you now, if you're up to it' Goepel began rather quietly, 'then I think you're required downstairs'. Illya pursed his lips, wandering what on earth Shearer could possibly want, except to give him another lecture on family planning which would hardly be appropriate at the moment. Despite endless effort on Tess' part to make him behave more graciously towards the man, Illya could feel his hackles rising as the Gynaecologist came towards him. However, Shearer seemed oblivious of Illya's glowering stare in his direction and proceeded to shake his hand reasonably warmly before motioning him to sit down on the chair by Tess' bed, Shearer perching on the end and laying down a file between them marked with her name.
He flicked open the folder and drew out something, before looking over at Tess and then at him.
'Mr Kuryakin. When your twins were born, I did make it clear to you that any further pregnancies might be both extremely unlikely and possibly dangerous for Therese?' Illya's brows contracted. He was finding it increasingly difficult to concentrate on what the man was saying. He looked up, suddenly realising that Goepel had disappeared and been replaced by Napoleon, who was smiling encouragingly at him, making him feel even more bad-tempered.
'You did. Pardon me for saying, but what is that to do with her present condition?' As soon as he had said it, he realised, and he felt a slight flush rise in his throat and cover his face as he stared with increasing horror at the men opposite.
'You . . um, you're not saying that . .'
'Yes, I am saying that it appears your wife is, er, at least five months into her pregnancy, that is, if the foetus is still alive.'
Napoleon blurted out 'what do you mean?' in some sort of attempt to help his partner, who had now turned dumbfounded towards the figure on the bed and seemed unable to speak. Shearer appeared not to mind including Napoleon in the conversation, and continued, 'the fall on the stairs started a haemorrhage which we were able to stop finally. Although there is still a heartbeat, there is a high chance that the baby will miscarry, particularly given Mrs Kuryakin's history.'
Illya stood up suddenly, leaning against the wall behind Tess' bed, Napoleon detecting the signs of self-control the Russian was capable of exercising even in the most desperate of circumstances.
'Doctor, what do you advise?' he said slowly, his eyes fixed on the Gynaecologist. Shearer glanced over at him, frowned, and then looked back at the notes.
'You may not like this, Mr Kuryakin, and your wife will like it even less, but . . . .' Napoleon could see Illya's hands clenched together, the knuckles white with the effort, as Shearer continued, 'but if the baby survives the next few days, Therese will need to stay here, with complete bed rest until . . well for several weeks at the very least.'
Whatever Illya had been thinking Shearer was going to say, Napoleon could see that it wasn't this. His hands splayed out immediately, and his face cleared into the slightly confused expression he had seen many times mirrored on the Russian's twin boys' faces. Shearer continued, 'you will have to give thought to the domestic problems this might give you, and you do understand that she cannot under any circumstances be delivered naturally. And, of course, we need to look at her diet.'
Illya rose to his feet, stared at Therese, then stepped forward towards Shearer.
'I'll, I mean we'll follow your advice, whatever it takes' he said seriously.
Napoleon came over, a slight grin lighting up his features.
'Um, there's no problem about the domestic arrangements; Mr Waverly and I have a plan.' he said confidently, ignoring Kuryakin's astonished stare.
'You do?' Illya said incredulously.
'Yes, so let's go downstairs and discuss it, and we'll leave your girl in the capable hands of these good folks in Medical, eh, comrade?' Napoleon replied, tugging at Illya's sleeve.
'Um, er, alright' Illya said, allowing himself to be dragged out of the room.
When they had gone, Bernard Shearer sat down in the chair near Tess' head. He saw her eyes move under the abundant lashes, and his suspicions of her level of alertness were confirmed when she said, slowly,
'I'm sorry I didn't come earlier. I . . found it so difficult . . . without him . .' He smiled slightly, laying the file down again between them.
'My dear' he began, 'as Mother Julian of Norwich said, 'All will be well; All manner of things will be well.'
CHAPTER SIX
The humming of the lift provided a soothing background noise to their conversation. Illya flattened himself against the back wall, shaking his head a little and running his hand through his hair.
'Should I offer my congratulations or commiserations?' Napoleon offered after a few moments. Illya looked up.
'I feel so . . . ashamed' he said, glancing at Napoleon. 'Do you remember that party, the one just before I went away, you know, where I wore . .
'The purple pants. How could I forget.'
'We were, well, careless that night.' He slammed his fist against the lift wall, his lips a thin line of frustration on his face. 'How could I have been so . . so stupid, Napoleon!'
'Don't beat yourself up about it. Your reputation for fecundity is about to reach legendary proportions. It could be worse.' Kuryakin stared at him.
'Really. I can't imagine how much worse it could be. My wife is nearly killed, then I find that she is pregnant, seriously underweight, and could lose the baby at any time. My son is also unconscious, and God knows what psychological trauma he has suffered. Explain to me just how it could be worse.'
'I'm sorry, that was insensitive of me. I apologise, Illya.' Illya sighed, as the lift slowed.
'No, don't. I deserve to be pilloried for what I have done. Shearer warned me about it after the boys were born and I chose to ignore him. Now I must take responsibility for the mess we find ourselves in.'
'Well, as they say round here, your mess is UNCLE's mess' Napoleon replied. 'I'm sure we can work something out, in fact Waverly has something organised with one of your former . . , well, let's wait until he explains' he continued, almost under his breath, aware that his partner was barely listening.
As the lift gently came to a halt, Illya looked up in desperation.
'Pascale!' he exclaimed, 'where, I mean, what . . '
'Jo is taking her back to your house, where Frankie and Fernando will be keeping watch over the brood until Papa returns' Napoleon said calmly, signalling for Illya to go forward out of the lift. Illya sighed, then took a deep breath in and began to walk along the corridor towards Waverly's office. Napoleon realised as the door hissed open, that he hadn't had time to tell him about Miss Rogers.
She was standing in the machine room, as Napoleon now termed it, flicking through a set of cards which the computer was churning out. Her gaze took in the Russian, her expression telling Napoleon everything about how wrong pre-conceived notions could be.
'This is Miss Rogers, Illya; she moved in when you were otherwise engaged.' He saw Illya glance up at Lisa Rogers, then shift his stare towards Waverly's office, where they could see the old man looking out of the window into the night sky.
'How are your wife and son?' she said suddenly, 'I'm so sorry, that was a horrible thing that happened to them.' Napoleon stared at her, and then looked at his partner. He looked very tired, bedraggled even, his hair untidy and on end in places, and the sweat shirt and pants giving him the look of someone who'd just arrived from a hard session at the gym. Napoleon put it down to the mothering instinct and moved on.
As they entered, Waverly turned, unfazed it seemed by Illya's appearance. He came up to him and patted his shoulder, before indicating their usual places round the table. The files which Napoleon had been perusing earlier were laid out in order before them.
'Now, time is of the essence, gentlemen. Mr Solo has told me that you think the attack on your family was orchestrated by Miss Bolt, Mr Kuryakin, and, after thinking about it, I must admit I am inclined to agree with you' Waverly said. There was a short pause before Illya spoke.
'I think whoever it was intended to silence Pablo, and Therese was injured stopping that happening' he began. 'I know it sounds ridiculous, sir, but my daughter Anastasiya told me that while I was away they met a couple outside our local shoe shop. One of those two scared Pablo in some way, and it must have been the same person who caused him to run out at the end of the concert. Tasiya said he had 'scary eyes' apparently. Pascale wasn't affected but Pablo was, which leads me to believe that this person was not known to her previously, but only to him.'
Waverly frowned, and then sat back in his chair.
'Any idea who you think that person could have been?' he said quietly.
'Well, not Bolt I suppose' Napoleon said, 'on account of the fact that he was a man.' Illya had been looking somewhat vacantly across the room while Napoleon was talking. He looked across at Napoleon, his eyes focusing suddenly.
'Why not Bolt?' he said suddenly. 'Look what they did with Misha; he was an almost perfect double of me . .'
'Apart from your special feature' Napoleon smiled, touching the crown of his head.
'Exactly. What features can't be changed by plastic surgery, Napoleon?' Solo pursed his lips, thinking of the 'almost perfect' double THRUSH had created of his friend.
'Er, well double crowns on hair; hands are quite difficult, then there's . . .
'Eyes. You can change the shape a little, but the colour . . .'
'is difficult' Napoleon concluded. 'You have to use contacts really, so perhaps he, or she, didn't have them on that day. And as we know from having had the pleasure of meeting her, Miss Bolt's eyes are a particularly vicious shade of green.'
There was another brief interlude in the conversation, as the three men took in the import of the last few sentences.
'If your hypothesis is true, gentlemen, then this investigation is beginning to take a rather serious and sinister turn. We may have to face the fact that Miss Bolt is in New York and that we have no clear idea yet what she may now look like. It appears that only your family, Mr Kuryakin, may be able to identify her. We need to pursue this enquiry on two fronts; to investigate the evidence from these islands and try to find where this operation is being run from, and also to find out where Miss Bolt is, and if she is here in New York what on earth she is doing.'
Waverly picked up the folder in front of him, motioning to the two agents to do the same.
'This may give us at least a start in both directions' he said. As he began to talk, Napoleon kept Illya in his sight as the Russian opened the document. Illya frowned deeply when he saw the GRU insignia, but it was the next page which evoked the more extreme reaction on the Russian's already harried face. He stared at what Napoleon knew was a photograph, a whole series of minute expressions crowding his face, expressions which Napoleon could read from years closely studying his inscrutable partner. When control was established, he put down the folder.
'And how will a member of the GRU be able to both solve my imminent domestic disaster and help us to find Bolt's enterprise?' he asked calmly, glaring a little at Napoleon's attempt to suppress a smile.
'I would have thought that was obvious' Waverly replied, seemingly unaware of Kuryakin's discomfort. 'Madame Arshavina will act as your 'au pair' to begin with, where she will have access to UNCLE and you through the crèche, therefore being able to liaise with us during the day. If the situation demands it, she can also join you in the field, and we will make arrangements for the care of the children in that case. As you can see, she is coming with valuable information that could make a huge difference in this case.'
'And what is the trade-off, sir' Napoleon said, glancing at his partner, who was now rifling through the file.
'The trade-off has already happened, Mr Solo. Mr Kuryakin's work in Gorky provided the Russian government with a considerable amount of information in the field of information technology, and they were also able, as I said to you before, to
achieve what do you call it? Ah yes, 'pay-back' on their friends at the KGB.'
Illya looked up from the file, a pensive expression settling on his face.
'I didn't know she'd married' he mumbled, looking down at the sheet again.
'Ah yes, her husband is Sergei Arshavin, an external attaché at the Russian Embassy in New York, Mr Kuryakin.'
'So they're both GRU' Illya replied, shutting the file. How cosy.'
'I don't think you have anything to fear from that organisation at the moment' Waverly said. Although one can never know exactly what is in these people's minds.' He stood up and looked at his watch, raising his eyebrows.
'Goodness, look at the time. I must go and pay my respects to your wife and son, Mr Kuryakin, and you need to go home to your families, gentlemen. I believe Lieutenant Colonel Arshavina will be contacting you directly, Mr Kuryakin, and after we know what she has to say, orders will be issued accordingly.'
'Lieutenant Colonel' Napoleon whispered, as they followed Waverly out of the room. 'Well let's hope she's not waiting for you in the same place she was last time.'
xxxxxxxx
The pharmacy was dark, apart from a light in the little office where the duty pharmacist worked. A number of metal containers lay on tables in one part of the larger room leading from it, each one clearly marked as to destination and contents. Miranda Jones stifled a yawn and finished her coffee, before going out into the large dispensing room and turning on the lights. She blinked at their harshness, whilst throwing a cursory glance along the open containers.
For some reason, the one at the end caught her attention. She walked over to it, noting the neatly arranged bottles of drugs usually kept in the Medical department, as well as those which had been prescribed for particular patients. Amongst the IV bags and phials she saw an unusual capsule nestling, almost hidden by the boxes and bottles around it. She drew it out, reading the label pasted on it, with the usual UNCLE insignia and the name 'Kuryakin' followed by the initials and date of birth of the recipient. Slipping the phial in her lab coat pocket she walked back to the office and typed in the name on the pharmacy computer.
'Interesting' she muttered under her breath. The first listing, under the name 'Illya Nikovetch , comprised many pages of prescription drugs going back some years, together with a note of allergies, including, she noted, penicillin. But this drug was not prescribed for him. She remembered who he was now, or rather who people had told her he was, because he hadn't been around when she had joined UNCLE three months ago. Miranda peered at the list again. There were other Kuryakins it seemed, a wife and several children including two sets of twins. Miranda exhaled deeply at this, thinking the woman must be a saint or a fool, and wondering just what sort of man could persuade someone to have that many children.
She glanced back at the phial, and then returned to the screen. Oddly, despite the label on the drug, nothing extra had been prescribed for this particular Kuryakin that evening.
'Now what on earth is this, and why would you be prescribed it?' she said to herself, fishing around for the phial again. For a few moments she stood looking at the small glass container, its contents swishing gently as she revolved it between her fingers, before dropping it back in her pocket, turning on her heel and walking towards a large set of shelves in the dispensing room. Reaching up, she pulled down a box of almost identical phials, clearly marked 'Vitamin Supplement'. Pulling off the label, she sat at the machine and typed out an identical label to the one on the container inside her coat and attached it to the vitamin phial, replacing it in the same pharmacy box. Glancing round finally, she turned off the light, went into her room and picked up the telephone.
'Put me through to Section 2 please. I need to speak to Mr Solo. Oh, and then, could you put me through to Medical?'
xxxxxxx
The taxi screeched to a halt outside Solo's house, the driver's voice matching his driving technique. Napoleon squirmed slightly as the car roared off in the direction of mid-town, before turning gratefully towards his front door. The house had been theirs for only a short time; still as elegant as the apartment, but somehow more welcoming than its predecessor.
He thought about the events of the evening as he pressed his fingers into the panel at the side of the door, wondering about why Lee-Hua Bolt should want to risk exposure by appearing in New York; picturing Therese's ghostly face on the pillow in medical, and, worst of all, reliving his own feelings of horror and loss as he gazed at Pablo in the darkness of the church. He could see the shadow of the large lamp on the landing upstairs, and began to climb the stairs gratefully, stopping first outside his son's room and slowly pushing the door open. Fabian lay sprawled across his bed, his dark curly hair and long, thick eyelashes instantly reminding his father of Therese's face as he looked down at him. Napoleon kissed him, gently pulled the sheet over the sleeping child and retreated out of the room with silent footsteps.
Jo was lying propped up in bed, her customary yellow pad on her knees, thoughtfully sucking the end of a long silver pencil as she stared at the paper in front of her.
'Did Illya get back before you left?'
'Yes, just.' She lay the pencil down on the bed beside her and looked at Napoleon as he threw his shirt and underwear into a basket at the end of the room. 'He looked terrible.' Napoleon nodded slightly and then slid into bed beside her. He could see that she had been making a long list of names, all of them women, none of whom Napoleon recognised.
'Well, we have a plan, as they say, to give him a little helping hand, now that Tess is going to be in medical until the baby's OK' he said, lying back on the pillows and putting his arm round her shoulders. She jerked round, the pencil and pad sliding into the space between them.
'What baby? Please tell me you are joking, Napoleon.'
''Fraid not. Shearer gave him the good news tonight. Apparently your sister kept it to herself for whatever reason.'
'I will kill him. No, I will kill them both.' She flung herself back on the pillows and then turned towards him, laying her head on his chest.
'What is it?' She lay silently for a while; Napoleon felt her shudder slightly as he held her, her breathing audible against the traffic's distant hum.
'I'm sorry.'
'About what?'
'I'm sorry that while those two seem to be re-populating New York, I'm unable to give you more than one offspring, however charming and beautiful he has turned out to be.'
Jo pulled away from him a little and then sat up, scrabbling for the pencil and pad. Napoleon sighed and pulled the pillows up behind him, before yanking his body back against them.
'For the thousandth time, Jo, it's fine. He's one more than we expected, so we need to be thankful for small mercies, eh?' He rarely saw his wife look as she did now, a kind of sad regret filling her lovely face as she stared back at him. If he was honest, under the joking exterior he had felt more than a twinge of black jealousy when he stood next to Kuryakin in the elevator going down to Waverly's office. He had forced it down then, and now he felt nothing but a profound sadness for Jo and a deep sympathy for his partner's pain. He kissed her, and then, reaching out to turn off the light, gently pulled her closer to him and began to explore the woman that he loved, the pain and shock of the evening forgotten, if only for a while.
The phone's piercing ring jarred him out of a dream which he was reluctant to leave. He carefully unwound himself from Jo's embrace, and lifted the handset, a slight ripple of fear spreading through the back of his mind as he did so.
'Solo'
'Mr Solo. I don't suppose you remember me; my name is Miranda Jones, I work in Pharmacy. I tried to get you earlier, but you'd already left the building.' Napoleon shook his head slightly and gazed rather unsteadily at the clock on the bedside table.
'Miss Jones, um, I presume this is urgent otherwise you wouldn't be ringing me at five o'clock in the morning.' There was a slight pause before the voice which he only vaguely remembered hearing before continued.
'Yes, I'm sorry, and it is urgent. I found something you may be interested in when checking the pharmacy boxes this evening.' Napoleon's brain finally made the connection between her department and her voice. She was the girl with the Chinese ancestry who came from Virginia. The girl who was talking to the nurse at the UNCLE tea party. Napoleon sat up and swung his legs over on the side of the bed.
'Er, Miss Jones, what exactly did you find and why might it concern me?'
'I'd prefer to meet outside UNCLE, Mr Solo. There's a coffee shop open in the Village, at the end of Christopher Street. You know it? I'll meet you there in half an hour. All I can say is that the drugs are directly related to a member of Mr Kuryakin's family.'
Before he could reply she had put the phone down. He glanced across at Jo, then got up quickly, dressed, and went out as the dawn slid across the tops of the houses opposite.
xxxxxxx
Illya peered out of the window and then turned away, glad to be out of the sheets that he had wrestled with for what felt like long hours during the night. He could see light beginning to break through in soft shards across the sky, illuminating the room enough for him to be able to find and pull on his running gear and then walk silently past sleeping children's rooms to the front door.
He had finally consented to Frankie and Fernando staying, too exhausted to argue about whether they kept to their own beds in Pablo's room. Frankie had insisted on feeding him some soup she had made, the sheer warmth and nourishment of it making him feel even more sleepy and emotional than before. He had nevertheless dragged himself round to check on the other children, their sleeping forms making him want to weep at their beauty and innocence before his exhausted eyes. Finally he had thrown himself into bed, trying not to think too much about what had happened or dwell on what lay ahead.
He slid open a small draw inside an innocuous looking French armoire which stood in their hallway, removing a small knife and a few other things which he rammed into the pockets of his shorts. Opening the door, he glanced up towards St Clare's, his eyes narrowing at the memory of his last visit, before gently pulling the door closed and running away towards Christopher Street.
xxxxxx
She was sitting in the corner, the position giving her a direct view of the door and Napoleon as he entered. The place was a dive, usually frequented by students or other people who didn't seem to have a home to go to. The purple walls were studded with a ramshackle assortment of badly hung posters advertising various events in the neighbourhood, together with an assorted range of the usual photos of rock groups with names someone who must have been high on drugs had come up with in a relatively lucid moment.
Napoleon ignored the stares of a couple of young men whose hair hadn't seen a comb in the last year, and advanced over to Miranda's table. She was looking down, but he had the strong impression that she had known he was there from the moment he entered the place. Without speaking, he drew up a chair and motioned to the man behind the bar, whom he noticed was having difficulty in forcing himself out from his place owing to the size of his stomach, which hung over his jeans spectacularly, and was in danger of sweeping most of his customers' china onto the floor as he squeezed past them.
He ordered a coffee for himself, Miranda shaking her head, and beginning to look round the room rather furtively. After it had arrived, she looked round again and began.
'I hope this hasn't been a wasted journey'.
'Well, I'll let you know when you've told me why we're here' Napoleon replied, taking a sip of the coffee, which turned out to be better than he had imagined it would be.
'I was checking the pharmacy boxes this evening, and I came upon something rather irregular' she said. 'I don't know if you realise, Mr Solo, but there is a box for each bay on Medical with standard items, and then those drugs specially prescribed for patients there.' Napoleon nodded. The girl appeared calm, cool even, but he put that down to her cultural background. 'I checked on the computer' she continued, 'no new drugs had been prescribed. What I can't understand is . . .'
Before she could speak, Napoleon saw her grip the table, her face twisted into a grimace of pain that eventually became a low gurgling scream as she dropped to the floor. Blood began to ooze from her nose, a soapy green froth beginning to fill her open mouth and seep onto her neck as she began to writhe in front of him. Napoleon leapt to his feet, shouting to the barman as the rest of the clientele made a simultaneous stampede for the door. He knelt down by her head, trying to understand the series of unintelligible noises issuing from the dying woman's lips.
He felt a hand touch his shoulder as her body stilled, her eyes staring, fixed and sightless.
Is she dead?'
Napoleon looked up into the face of his partner. He was wearing his usual early morning running outfit, his t-shirt and hair stuck down with sweat, and his breathing slowly returning to normal as he bent over in front of the American. 'I saw you in here with her when I ran by, but I thought . . you had a meeting . . . so I came back . . . this way.' he said rather breathlessly.
'I did. Unfortunately, someone seems to have given my date a little something to bring the meeting to a rather sudden conclusion' Napoleon said, standing up and waiting until Kuryakin straightened. Glancing at the body, Napoleon leaned over the table and retrieved her handbag, which was looped on the back of the chair behind her. He tipped the contents onto the table, sorting through the usual melange of makeup and writing material found in most women's bags. Illya picked up her purse, an efficient looking black leather wallet, and began to rifle through the contents, drawing out some dollar bills and an assortment of cards.
'Nothing really interesting here, but the boys in Section Three can go through it all later' he said, looking up as Napoleon removed the top of his communicator. Illya followed him out of the café; the barman was now talking to a police officer, gesticulating in Napoleon's direction, before pointing towards the body lying amongst the tables.
'You deal with him while I call this one in' Illya said, taking the communicator from him.
Afterwards, Napoleon couldn't quite decide why he had glanced backwards, but he had. As he turned away from Illya, his view of the café tables took in something he hadn't seen before; a small box discretely placed underneath a round table in the middle of the room, upon which sprawled a variety of plastic bottles containing what he imagined were sauces to accompany the fast food which the barman obviously ate at too regular intervals during the day. In the blast he could still hear the echo of his shout ringing in his ears as he hurled himself against the Russian, the shattering sound of the glass window followed almost instantly by a deep roar as flames shot out from the black hole where the café window had previously stood.
Shaking his head, Napoleon looked up. The barman had been catapulted over the police officer by the blast, his back a bloody mess of wood, metal and glass, the officer pinned to the ground, by his vast bulk . A small sea of witnesses was building to oceanic proportions, before they were swept back by the arrival of both police and fire vehicles. Napoleon glanced at Illya, who was face down on the pavement, not moving. There was no sign of injury from the blast, so Napoleon risked turning him over.
'Yes, I am alive, but next time try to propel me towards something a little less hard.'
Illya rolled back and crouched up onto his knees, brushing an assortment of gravel and dirt off his face, which was now starting to bleed rather profusely from a rather unpleasant looking graze covering one of his cheeks, extending to his nose and forehead, as well as from a deeper cut just below his hairline. Napoleon could see a rather swarthy looking paramedic heading in their direction who immediately stopped and crouched down in front of them, picking up the communicator between her fingers as if it were likely to explode as well.
'What the . .'
'Ah, my pen. I was beginning to worry that Aunt Sibyl's present had been lost. I think you'll find that my friend here could use a little attention.'
He turned away and edged round the side of the ambulance parked near what had been the café, keeping Illya and the paramedic in his sight. Kuryakin had sustained a number of other fairly minor injuries to his legs from Napoleon's flying shove, mainly due to the fact that he was wearing shorts, but Napoleon reasoned that it could have been very much worse for both of them. He opened the communicator and waited, hoping that it hadn't been damaged in the catastrophe outside the café.
'Open Channel M. Emergency medical pick-up required code six, outside the Purple Haze café in the Village. Yeah, that's the one, or it was.'
'Napoleon?' It's Nicole. Are you OK?' There was a very slight pause before she said, 'that code six; it's not . . .'
'No, he's more or less in one piece; a few cuts and grazes and a dent to his dignity, that's all.' Illya now seemed to be in a polite altercation with the paramedic, who had returned from the ambulance brandishing a very large, very sticky roll of bandage and was gesticulating to her tight-lipped patient to submit to her attentions.
'Illya' he shouted, 'let her do her job'.
'Have you ever had this wrapped round your head? It cannot be removed without extreme suffering, Napoleon.' Napoleon groaned, as Nicole's voice continued, drowning out Illya's protests.
'Nicole, listen. Get through to Brian Machin in Section Three and tell him to close down Pharmacy and erect a security barrier. No-one, I repeat no-one is to go in there, touch or remove anything at all. Understand? I'll be in shortly with the walking wounded, so he can meet me there, after I've delivered Mr Kuryakin to Medical. Understand?'
'Absolutely. And tell Illya, I'll come up and help him with the bandage.'
Napoleon grimaced into the communicator and snapped it closed. He remembered now. Nicole, a seriously pretty redhead with seriously kissable lips, had been in typing when Kuryakin married, and was still in mourning. He remembered her as part of a disturbingly large group of girls huddled at the back of church, handkerchiefs very much in evidence. Luckily Tess had always seen the funny side of her husband's attractiveness to other UNCLE employees. He counted himself fortunate that his own wedding had taken place in England, minus a similar group of female admirers. He felt sure that Josefina, unlike her sister, wouldn't have been so amused.
He wandered back to Illya, now sporting a very large bandage and a matching scowl.
'Thank you for your support, Napoleon. That absurd woman masquerading as a paramedic seems to have mistaken me for an Egyptian mummy' he moaned.
'You can't see it. The cut on your forehead was quite bad.' Napoleon patted the miserable looking Russian on the shoulder. 'Don't worry, Medical will cut it all off when you get there.'
'Exactly, and they'll take half my hair with it.'
'Ah, vanity, thy name is Kuryakin.' Illya looked up at him incredulously before being dragged away towards the waiting ambulance.
CHAPTER SEVEN
'Madame Kuryakina?' Therese opened her eyes slowly, knowing immediately that only someone from Eastern Europe would address her in that way. She had been dozing midway between being woken and washed like a child at some absurd hour and her breakfast arriving, which she had already been warned by a nurse looking exactly like her PE teacher at school, had to be consumed in its entirety or dire consequences would follow.
'Who wants to know?' she said laconically, taking in her visitor through half-closed eyes, an extremely athletic looking woman with darkish blonde hair, vivid grey-blue eyes and a light grey suit that emphasised her large breasts to perfection. Perhaps this woman was going to be meting out the 'dire consequences' the nurse had hinted at, although Therese couldn't think what form these might take.
'May I introduce myself; my name is Anya Arshavina. I'm a former colleague of your husband.'
Therese swivelled her head very slightly. Anya. She opened her eyes fully, giving the blonde a prolonged stare before she continued,
'From what I heard, you were more than just a colleague, comrade.' She held the other woman's barely suppressed stare for as long as she could before her mouth twitched and she began to smile.
'Well, I did try to remind him of his duty as a Soviet citizen, but his head was filled with lewd thoughts of another woman' Anya replied, her eyes sparkling. There was a brief pause before they both began to laugh, quietly at first, and then more loudly until Therese had to bury her face into the pillow to stop herself snorting.
Afterwards, Therese couldn't really explain why they had felt so comfortable with each other. She couldn't think that Anya was like any friend she had had in the past, with the exception of Sabi, whose memory brought a stab of pain to Therese's chest as soon as she thought of her. She knew nothing about Anya from Illya; it was Pascale who had been her informant, who had shared her memories of the woman who had cared for the little girl who had lost her mother and only just found her father. Therese was used to unexplained happenings in her life since she had first heard the word UNCLE, so she waited, knowing that at some point it would be explained to her why Anya was now lying next to her on her bed giggling like a schoolgirl about the man whose life they had both shared, to a greater or lesser degree.
Their conversation was interrupted by a loud noise in the corridor outside. The door to Therese's room had been left ajar by the last nurse who had exited rapidly after finding the two women lying together on the bed talking in Russian, and so they were witnesses to the scene outside as another Russian, leaning on the counter of the Nurses' reception area, engaged in a head to head argument with one of the nurses on duty.
'Oh God, look at him' Therese sighed, pushing herself upright, 'he looks like the invisible man.'
'But I can see him clearly'. Therese sighed again, then put two fingers in her mouth and whistled, the sound bringing the argument to an immediate halt as the two protagonists turned simultaneously towards her.
'If you bring him in here, we'll distract him while you work.' Therese could see the nurse begin to grin behind the Russian's back as he limped towards them, entered the room, and threw himself backwards onto the empty bed. There were a few moments silence before he said, his eyes closed,
'Good morning, Anya. I see you have already met my wife.'
'Good morning Illya Nikovetch. And I can see that nothing has changed since we last met. You are still as reckless as ever.'
Illya sighed.
'Illya, you've only been home a day and you are already covered in bandages. What is going on?' Illya opened his eyes and turned towards his wife. Considering what had happened to her, she looked remarkably cheerful, the bandage round her head, which he noted was obviously not the sticky variety, had been replaced by a much smaller one on her forehead, and she looked a little more robust than she had appeared only hours before.
'I'm sorry, there was an explosion at the Purple Haze and Napoleon decided to practise his push and save technique on me.'
'The Purple Haze? Is fat Joe alright?' Illya sighed again and sat up slowly.
'Fat Joe and Napoleon fortunately had something soft to land on. The Police officer and I were less lucky. He had a few bits of the café in his back, but I think he'll survive. I wouldn't like to say how well the police officer is doing.' Therese started to laugh as the nurse came in with a trolley, Anya getting off the bed and retreating to the chair beyond it. Illya glanced at the trolley, his face beneath the bandages fixed into a sullen stare as the nurse picked up a pair of scissors from the top shelf.
'Now, Mr Kuryakin, where shall we start, legs or head?'
xxxxxx
'Can anyone come to the party, or are only comrades invited?' Napoleon lounged against the doorway, taking in the scene. Kuryakin, now sans sticky bandages, looked relatively human, although Napoleon could see that the graze was now framing a nicely developing black eye, set off by a narrow bandage covering his forehead above it. He was sitting up rubbing his head, as Anya jumped up from her chair and came across towards Napoleon.
'Napoleon. You are looking so well! I hardly recognised you. But what have you been doing to my Illyusha? Look at him!' She embraced Napoleon in the Russian fashion and then sat on Illya's bed.
'We have a meeting with Waverly at eleven if you remember' Napoleon said. 'Fernando is bringing in some clothes for you, Illya.'
'Fernando!' Anya burst in, 'I would love to see him again. So handsome, so strong!' Illya's face had a pained expression on it as he swung his legs off the bed and stood up. He walked over to Therese's bed and crouched down beside her with a little difficulty.
'I think we need to talk before the meeting. I'm sure Napoleon and Fernando can entertain Anya in the meantime.'
'Alright.' She pulled his head towards her a little, wincing at the damage to his face as he came close. 'Illya, go in and make sure Pablo is alright' she murmured, before kissing him and lying back on the pillow. He could see that something had entered her mind, something that disturbed her.
'Of course. I'll be back shortly. . .' He staggered to his feet, in time to see Fernando McCaffery appear at the door, a large carrier bag in his hand.
'Fernando, there's someone here who's just dying to meet you.' Napoleon took charge of the bag as Fernando, glancing at the occupant of the bed with concern, advanced into the room.
'Sis, what's . . . Anya?' Anya leapt from her chair and embraced him, running her hand through his short curly hair before standing back from him slightly.
'Fernando! Still so handsome and not married yet like these two' she said dramatically, indicating Illya and Napoleon with a flourish of her hand.
'Er no, though we are . . I mean when Frankie's . .'
'When Frankie's what?' came a rather cold voice from behind him, as he stared at his brother in law's rather severe expression.
'Illya, you're not Frankie's father, so let him alone' Tess intervened, patting the bed for her brother to come and sit next to her. 'Now, Nurse PE Instructor says you can clean yourself up in the bathroom next door, but you're not to get that bandage on your head wet, so go.' Illya sighed, grabbing the bag and ignoring Napoleon's smirking face, before pushing past him out of the room.
'OK children, I think the bandaged ones need to commune together, so you can introduce the Lieutenant Colonel here to the delights of the Commissary, which should give the office gossips plenty to talk about for the next few weeks, while I pay a little visit down to the Pharmacy' Napoleon said, taking Anya's arm.
'By the way, sis, Daisy on the switchboard told me that Fat Joe is out of danger.'
'Gee, this guy is getting more sympathy than a widow at the average wake' Napoleon muttered, waving faintly at Therese before escorting Anya out of the room, Fernando ambling along behind them as they headed for the lifts.
Therese lay back onto the pillows, her face assuming a wholly more serious expression. She could hear water running into a bath in the adjacent room, followed by the sloshing sound of someone getting in and obviously enjoying being there. It was hard not to smile, but even Illya's proximity was not enough to lift the darkness of her mood. A cold shudder embraced her. She could hear her grandmother's voice when she was a child, when she had shuddered at something now long forgotten, saying 'Somebody walked on your grave, Tessy?' She turned on her side, examining the arm where the IV drip had been inserted.
It had been pitch dark in the room, only the small square window in the door emitting a kind of dull light from the Nurses' station beyond. She had been lying on her side then too, her mind filled with a gradual dawning of what had happened at the top of that dark staircase.
They had been lighting a candle, the face of the statue lit up by its gentle light, her arm round the boy's shoulder as his breathing returned to normal. She had sent him up the stairs for music that was kept in large cupboards along the barely used balcony, the spaces either side a favourite hiding place for bored children on school visits. He didn't appear to be scared of the dark, said that he wasn't, until she had heard his strangled scream, and had rushed up, suddenly aware of her own body, of what she had tried to ignore for too long. She had turned instinctively towards him, had seen him standing there, his face and body transfixed into a silent, rigid image of terror before her eyes. It was only then that she had turned; knowing that she had to understand what it was that had petrified her child.
She recognised what it was immediately, but not before she had been gripped by a familiar hand, the power of the grasp immobilising her as she forced herself to gaze into familiar eyes, to control the scream which was forcing itself out of her mouth.
'You may think you have eluded me, but for you there is no escape, not now.'
She felt herself pulled violently forwards, lips forcing themselves onto hers, until she had wrenched herself away, as the boy screamed again and she fell, her hands flailing for something to stop her body from careering down. She felt the warmth between her legs as she lost balance, the darkness of the stairway replaced by a greater, longer darkness.
Much later, when light had returned, it was only when they had all left she realised what had happened, and it was then she knew that someone was in the room with her again. For some reason she remained still, a feeling of inevitability robbing her of any reaction to the grasping of her arm and the coldness within it. She waited for a few moments, imagining the moment when her life would be over, when all independent thought would be over. As she heard a click and the voice begin, she realised that she had thoughts, and they were her own.
'Therese, when you hear my voice again, you will come to me. Do you understand?'
'I understand' she said.
She jumped when he touched her, unable to adjust her expression before he had read it.
'Qu'est-ce c'est que ca, cherie?
'Rien, c'est rien.'
Illya stared at her, his damaged face examining hers for an explanation of the fear that he saw filling it. He threw down the towel he was holding and clambered onto the bed beside her, pulling down the pillows so that they lay together closely, face to face. He had left his suit jacket and holster on the chair, and Tess smelt a kind of antiseptic cleanness about him as he lay there.
'Pablo . . .'
'is expected to regain consciousness anytime.' Therese closed her eyes, knowing what he would say next. 'Tess, I need to know . . .'
'What happened last night?' Her eyes flickered open again, held by the intense gaze of blue eyes next to her.
'It's as I said, Illya. Nothing. I can't remember anything.'
xxxxxxx
Napoleon waited as the Section Three agent overrode the security control on the door and it slid back to allow him entry. Brian Machin followed him through, the door clunking shut behind them as they stared at the series of connecting rooms making up the Pharmacy.
'Have you looked round yet?' Napoleon asked. Machin, a tall rangy American with a flat top haircut which always elicited a particularly gruesome scowl from his partner, shook his head.
'Nope. I just shut the place off and waited for you to show up' he said, leaning against a desk upon which stood a large computer terminal and two empty china cups and saucers.
Machin turned round and clicked something at the back of the terminal, the screen flickering into life immediately.
'This drug she talked about, it wasn't listed on here, you say?'
'Apparently not, but we'd better check. Try Kuryakin, Therese, then Kuryakin, Pablo' he said. Machin typed rapidly on the keyboard, both men staring at the screen as the names appeared.
'Nope, nada. The boy's entry is totally blank, and look, the gorgeous Mrs K has only had a . . . ' Machin leaned forward, his thick framed glasses nearly touching the screen . He glanced at Napoleon, before returning his gaze to the screen.
'Er, is that test what I think it is?' Napoleon sighed, and spun Machin round towards him.
'If I were you, I'd keep that information to yourself, until you hear from me that he wants it public, OK?' Machin gave a low whistle under his breath and began to grin.
'Son of a gun' he said, switching off the computer.
As he walked off towards the larger room, Napoleon noticed the cups.
'Brian, do you have the rota?' Machin came back into the office and pointed to a notice board on the wall of the wall opposite, behind a table with a coffee machine and assorted containers, a few cups piled up beside them. He ran his finger down the list for the previous day. It was obvious that only one pharmacist was on duty at night. The coffee machine still contained about half its contents. Napoleon looked at it, and then glanced back at the two cups.
'Brian, can you check the communication records for last night from here' he said. Machin immediately picked up the phone on the wall in the corner, whilst Napoleon systematically searched the contents of the desk, and then walked through into the larger room. He ran his hand through his hair at the sight of it. A seemingly endless set of shelves and cupboards contained a vast array of drugs, in all forms; powders, phials, tablets, bottles, sachets, every possible way of containing solids, liquids and gases. He cringed slightly at the packets of needles and syringes, before glancing into the pharmacy boxes, their contents an equally confusing array of boxes and bottles.
'Napoleon.' Solo walked back into the office, as Machin straightened after finishing writing something on a piece of paper. He handed it to Napoleon, his neat handwriting listing two entries with the times written by them. At the bottom of the list his own name, and above that only one other call.
'It appears that whoever she shared a coffee with last night came from Medical' he said. He turned towards the door. 'Get me the off-duty for all staff in Medical, Brian, and I don't want anybody there to know, right?'
'Right. And I'll keep that other news under my hat too, OK?' Napoleon sighed.
'Right. Otherwise both our lives might not be worth living anytime soon' he said.
xxxxxxxx
By the time he'd reached Waverly's office, it was nearly ten past eleven, his watch telling him that he would need a good excuse to explain his lateness. Luckily, he had the off-duty rota for Medical now in his inside pocket. However, his mind was still far from understanding how Miranda Jones' death connected to the incident in the church, and the plans for worldwide domination in the mind of Lee-Hua Bolt.
Fernando had disappeared, leaving Anya chatting companionably to Waverly at the table while Kuryakin stared out of the window, a worryingly haunted expression on his face. Napoleon sidled over to him, amazed to provoke a small start of surprise as he put his hand on the Russian's shoulder.
'Something else wrong?' Illya sighed. The damage to his face was causing his eye to partially close, and he looked tired.
'Hm. Possibly.' A rather obvious clearing of the throat alerted them of Waverly's intention to start the meeting. Illya moved away, heading towards his normal seat near Waverly, Napoleon following him, noticing the anxiety in the set of his shoulders under the dark grey suit.
The wall opposite the window had been re-fitted with a larger screen as part of the improvements to the office instigated by Lisa Rogers, the hemispherical globe that had covered the round table superceded by a larger, more interactive world map on the wall. A number of islands scattered throughout the continents were lit up, as well as other places which appeared to be well away from any major centres of population. Napoleon swung into the chair next to Illya's, Anya sitting the other side of Waverly. She smiled confidently at Napoleon, before indicating with a subtle expression that she was concerned about the man next to him. Unlike his usual self, Kuryakin had not even bothered to open the file in front of him, never mind put on his glasses. He continued to stare vacantly in front of him, seemingly oblivious to anyone or anything else in the room.
Napoleon leaned slightly towards Illya and dug him in the ribs, evoking another slightly startled reaction.
'Mr Kuryakin, if you are not feeling well, we can postpone the meeting, at least for a short while' Waverly said suddenly, evoking an immediate response from the Russian.
'No. I am fine, er, thank you, sir' Illya replied, colouring slightly, before rapidly producing his glasses and grabbing the file. Waverly stared at him, before shrugging his shoulders and turning towards the map on the wall.
'Well, gentlemen, it seems hardly necessary to introduce Lieutenant Colonel Arshavina to you, but I am hoping that the information her superiors have allowed her to share with us may help us to untangle this mess' Waverly began, vaguely gesticulating towards the map.
'Oh please, call me Anya' Anya replied, reaching down into her briefcase and drawing out three small folders with the GRU insignia on the front. She rose from her seat and placed a copy in front of each of the men, imperceptibly touching Illya as she leaned forward. Walking away from the table towards the map, she waited for them to open the folders before beginning to talk.
'As you know, one of the experimental areas used to try out this virus was in a remote area of Siberia' she began, assuming a rather more formal demeanour than the rather relaxed one she had previously adopted round the table. 'The agent bringing the virus to Siberia travelled on the Trans-Siberian Express from Riga, in fact we know he was Estonian from his passport and from the evidence of the men he had played with on the train returning from Siberia.'
'Played with?' Illya interrupted, frowning.
'Played cards with, Illya Nikovetch', Anya replied, smiling. 'He was a poker player, and, as you know Illya, gambling on trains is not permitted in the Soviet Union. However, as you also know, it goes on, and we wouldn't have discovered it, had not the train stopped at Gorky. There, it seemed, a large amount of vodka was brought on board. The gambling party became noisy and disruptive, and the police became involved. Unfortunately, our man eluded us and managed to leave the train, but not before he had left a number of important pieces of evidence behind.'
She reached over for the remote control operating the screen, flicking a switch to show a number of items laid out on a table.
'The gambling party used roubles to play with of course, but our man, being both unsuccessful and desperate, used other currency as well, including Estonian of course, but also these Norwegian Kroner.' Napoleon and Illya exchanged glances.
'So you think he could have come from Norway?'
'Yes, Napoleon, I think it's worth looking at' Anya replied.
'Norway would certainly offer no end of fairly remote places to build a factory' Illya said, 'and there are numerous inlets from the sea.'
'Exactly.' Anya switched to another set of images, this time showing what appeared to be the contents of the agent's wallet. 'The currency is interesting, but this may turn out to be equally important' she said.
The papers blown up large on the screen showed the inside of a passport, and also airline tickets, the European carrier familiar to both agents.
'So, he was coming from Norway possibly, via Riga, to Siberia, and then eventually to New York.' Napoleon said, screwing up his eyes to read the ticket.
'So what's your plan?' Napoleon murmured almost to himself, wondering why Kuryakin looked as distraught as he did. There was a brief silence in the room, before Illya spoke.
'I think this plan of hers is designed to impress; she's not interested in holding the world to ransom at the moment; she already has vast wealth at her disposal. No, she is obsessed with control; I think she's trying to impress someone to give her that control.'
The others stared at him, their faces taking in the import of his words.
'And I presume you are thinking that the 'someone' is an organisation well known to us? Waverly said quietly.
'Er, yes, I am, sir. Her ambitions were thwarted by us before, but I would imagine that THRUSH central is now sitting up and taking notice. These so called experiments she's carried out are only the beginning, I would guess. No doubt she will soon try to demonstrate her power to create chaos on a considerably larger scale, one where control of the virus would be much more difficult, and the capacity for panic will be far greater.'
Waverly turned towards the console behind him and yanked the receiver towards him.
'I want all the information you can find on new industrial complexes in Norway. Straightaway, thank you.' Napoleon waited until he had finished before speaking again.
'Sir, the reason I was late was because I was down in Pharmacy investigating the death of Miss Jones, as I told you earlier.' He pulled out the off-duty list from his inside pocket and laid it on the table, noticing his partner's frown. 'I did think after that party we had, that Miss Jones might be a possible suspect in my investigation of a possible Bolt mole, but I'm coming to the conclusion that if there is a mole, she's in Medical, and that last night she was in Pharmacy having a coffee with Miss Jones.'
'Well, have you worked out who she is, Mr Solo? I imagine that Mr Kuryakin here would be very relieved if you did so' Waverly said.
'Er, Josefina has compiled a list of the girls at the party and she's sure one of their names if familiar to her from somewhere. I thought perhaps that we could compare the lists . . .' Waverly leaned back to the intercom.
'Can you get hold of Mrs Solo and tell her to come down here, please' he barked, pushing it back and grabbing his pipe.
He sat back in his chair and looked at the three people round the table. It seemed almost laughable that a GRU agent was helping them with this mission, but needs must. He frowned as he surveyed Illya Kuryakin, now studying the folder in front of him. There was something worrying the boy, something more than the trauma of having his family in Medical.
'Mr Kuryakin', he began quietly, 'did you manage to speak to your wife this morning? The reaction of the Russian was palpable.
'Yes I did' he said, almost monosyllabically. 'She says that she remembers nothing, but I don't believe her.'
'Are you sure, Illyusha?' Anya said, the diminutive coming to her lips naturally as she leaned towards him.
'Quite sure. She wants to tell me but for some reason she feels she cannot, and that is what is worrying me.'
'What about Pablo? D'you think he'll be able to remember?'
'He may, Napoleon, but, contrary to what was first hoped, he's showing no signs of waking up, and no-one knows how traumatised he will be when he does so. I thought at first that Tess might be drugged again, but it's not like last time. She was definitely deliberately hiding something from me.'
Waverly stood up, and stuffed some tobacco in his pipe, the two agents knowing the routine well enough to wait for the few moments it took to start the thing into action and produce clouds of voluminous smoke in the room.
'Mr Kuryakin, it would be asking a great deal of you I know, but is there any way you feel you could obtain this information from your wife, providing she is withholding something as you say?' Napoleon frowned, glancing at the now emotionless face of his partner.
'Are you asking him to interrogate his own wife?'
'I'm afraid I am, Mr Solo, and I do not ask it lightly. What happened on that staircase seems to be a part of the puzzle and we have to know who it was who attacked Mr Kuryakin's wife and son, and why Mrs Kuryakin is refusing to reveal that information.'
The discussion was brought to a sudden halt by the door opening. Jo came in, a folder in her hand, a quizzical look directed at her husband to ascertain who the mystery guest at the table was.
'Ah Josefina' Waverly said, eliciting a smile from Napoleon, who was always amused by the old man's rather personal relationship with his wife.
'Alexander' she said, glancing round the room, and then taking a seat next to Napoleon.
'Er, Jo, this is Anya Arshavina, one of Illya's, er, colleagues from home' he said rather awkwardly.
'You mean this is the Anya, the one Pascale talks about?' she said, smirking slightly. 'It's alright, keep your hair on lover, no state secrets have been revealed, just a few amusing stories about Goldilocks here.' Seemingly oblivious to the expressions round the table, she drew out the list Napoleon saw her making the other evening, now a neatly typed column of names grouped into categories.
'I presume you wanted to know about these women' she said, passing a copy of the list to Waverly. 'I've narrowed it down to the people I think would be worth looking at again, but to be honest, I can't say that any of them jumps off the page at you.' She hesitated, unconsciously chewing the end of her pencil before continuing, 'however, there's one name on that list that for some reason I feel I know from the past.'
Napoleon picked up his list from Medical.
'Sir, as I said, I wonder if we could narrow down the list by just correlating those women who came to the party and who also work in Medical.' Waverly tugged on his pipe for a few moments.
'You could, Mr Solo; that might be worth exploring.'
'I've already looked up these girls before, and nothing came up, but I'd sure like to know who was drinking coffee with Miss Jones.'
The intercom bleep interrupted the discussion. Waverly answered, resting his pipe on the rack by his seat. He listened impassively for a few moments before switching off the microphone.
'Apparently there has been a development under construction in recent months at a place called Lysebotn. I believe it's near Stavanger' Waverly said. 'Calls itself the Vanir Corporation. The chief executive is a woman, name of Freyja Pedersen. Rather a coincidence, don't you think?'
'Interesting names', Illya interrupted. 'Vanir is the collective name for the Norse fertility gods. Freyja is a warrior goddess, and the patron saint of childbirth.'
Illya looked at Napoleon and Jo, aware of a rather uncomfortable look on their faces, and suddenly wondering how he could have been so utterly self-absorbed the night before, never considering his partner's feelings, just blundering on lamenting his inability to control his own fertility. He looked sideways at Napoleon and smiled a little wistfully .
'Gentlemen, it's obvious we need to send someone to Norway soon to see if we can find a connection with Miss Bolt' Waverly said. If she is attempting something on a grand scale, then we need to know where the virus is being stored and destroy it as soon as possible before she causes a major incident. I'll get in touch with our office in Oslo and get them to send someone out there in the first place. Mr Solo, try to wrap up this business with the woman in Pharmacy and see if we can ensure Mr Kuryakin's family are safe in our care. And Mr Kuryakin, if you could persuade your wife to tell you what she knows, that might help us an awful lot.'
'And what is my assignment?' Illya said, as the others began to get up.
'I would have thought that was obvious, Mr Kuryakin' Waverly replied. 'Until Medical section assures me that you are certified for the field again, you need to concentrate on the security of your family, and establishing the cover we have created for Madame Arshavina here. If you have any spare time, I'm sure that you can find something to occupy yourself with in your laboratory.'
CHAPTER EIGHT
The apartment block was rather traditional in appearance, smaller and less modern looking than those surrounding it, yet still exuding an air of affluence that denoted its position on West 62nd Street, just a stone's throw from Central Park.
Walter Kennedy, the concierge at the desk, subconsciously stiffened as he saw the occupier of the penthouse apartment approaching down the wide steps that lead to the entrance hall and lifts.
'Good afternoon, Mr Hoang' he said, trying to sound more cheerful than he felt, handing him his post from the lockers behind the desk. Taking the letters, Hoang swept past, barely acknowledging the man. As the lift doors closed, Walter breathed again, unable to explain even to himself why the guy made him feel as if there were roaches creeping all over him.
He had glanced through the letters, noting the different countries they had come from, seeing a pattern emerging of this man's business connections. Letters from Bermuda were pretty regular, sometimes daily, the name of some fancy clinic printed on the envelope. Then there were other, plainer envelopes, containing bulkier items from major cities all round the world. And finally the parcels and packages he'd had to sign for, all coming from some unpronounceable place in Norway. Walter had written down its name and looked it up in a large gazetteer he often consulted in his local library on his day off. On the map it seemed a tiny, insignificant place, stuck away amongst the jagged inlets which made up the Norwegian coast.
Walter shrugged as the doors slid together silently behind Clark Hoang. He looked at his watch, estimating that it wouldn't be long before the blonde he seemed to be hooked up with would appear, giving Walter her usual sweet smile before taking the lift up to the penthouse apartment. For the life of him, he couldn't understand what she saw in the guy, except of course his money, which Walter was pretty sure he had in spades. Without thinking, he shoved a letter, which seemed to have come adrift from the others, into his jacket pocket, and went through to fetch his coat, as the familiar feet of the relief porter appeared at the top of the steps.
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Yvonne took the martini and watched Clark Hoang's assistant disappear out of the room, closing the door behind him with a heavy clunk. She looked round, finding the lack of personal effects in the room disturbing. It was largely monochrome, the white walls and black leather sofas relieved only by a series of photographs on the wall, architectural compositions of New York buildings, the black and white film perfectly capturing the contrast of light and shadow in their forms. She got up and studied the first one in the group, a picture of the Chrysler Building. For some reason, she had never noticed the initials carefully inscribed in the corner of each photograph; TMK.
'She is a gifted photographer. It's a pity she wastes her time on less stimulating activities.'
Yvonne tried not to flinch as she felt Hoang's presence by her side. For a moment, she failed to connect the comment to the initials until suddenly the image of the name written on a medical chart flashed into her memory. She put her hand to her mouth, suppressing a gasp.
'I . . I didn't know she did that. I guess I just thought she was a housewife.' Hoang sniffed slightly, and moved away.
'Oh she's a lot more than that, Yvonne. Or she could be. The trouble with Therese McCaffery is that she is living with the delusion that love conquers all.'
'Oh but she does love her husband' she blurted out, 'you should see them. . .'
Yvonne was suddenly aware of Hoang's face as he turned towards her. The contrasting light of the photographs seemed reflected in the glittering eyes, almost black against the sallow skin in the lengthening shadows of the room.
'Illya Kuryakin took her from me' he said slowly, turning away again and staring out of the window, 'but I will take back what is mine, and it will be mine permanently. And this time I will take everything that he holds precious as well. '
He put his glass down on the table by the window, picking up a file which had been left there.
'It's a pity that woman in your Pharmacy department decided to poke her nose in to matters which didn't concern her' he continued. 'I presume that you followed my directions?'
'Yes' Yvonne said flatly. 'Miranda called me about it, but she said she'd not touched it, and it was there when the boxes came up. I administered it, as you said.'
'And the tape? Tell me exactly what happened.'
'I played the tape. She was definitely asleep, but when she heard your voice she sort of stiffened, and then replied 'I understand'. I heard it clearly, Clark.' Hoang smiled imperceptibly.
'Well, that is that. There is only one more instruction for you to carry out, my dear Yvonne.' Yvonne groaned inwardly, trying to push the thought of her connection with Miranda Jones' death from her mind. Hoang seemed to know everything that was going on in Medical without her telling him, leading her to the obvious conclusion that she was not the only employee in that department with a connection to the person in front of her. She tried to conjure up the image of her daughter, making the picture of the smiling little girl efface the memory of Miranda and of Therese Kuryakin. But at once Fern's face disappeared, and all she could think of was the image she had seen as she looked through the tiny window of Therese Kuryakin's room in Medical; two people on the bed, his blond head pressed against her dark abundant curls. She had seen his lips moving, whispering something into her ear, and Yvonne hadn't needed to hear what he was saying. The language of their bodies had been enough to tell her. She bit her lip and looked up, forcing them out of her mind.
'What is it?'.
'I want you to take good care of Therese, Yvonne. She needs to recover from her unfortunate slip on the stairs. Make an effort to get close to her while she's in Medical, won't you? Let me know when she's ready to be discharged and I'll inform you of your task.'
Hoang opened the file, his face frowning at its contents. He pressed a small button underneath the table, instantly summoning Alan Page, who appeared at the door, giving Yvonne a brittle smile.
'It appears that the invitation I was expecting hasn't materialised yet' he said, closing the file and glancing at the figure in the doorway. 'Perhaps you could look into it?' He sniffed again, throwing the file down on the sofa. 'Now, I have a lot of work to do. Page will see you out.'
As the doors of the lift closed, Yvonne was aware of a figure walking past, coming from the stairs, but her desire to escape the place overrode her interest in whoever Hoang's next victim might be.
Hoang heard the door open behind him and turned.
'Ah, Captain Arshavin. Drink?
