Chapter 7: George Dennell by ssclassof56

His eyes peered through the gloom at unfamiliar furnishings. His head throbbed. His stomach churned. His mouth smiled. His date last night must have gone better than he dared to imagine.

Bedroom eyes. That's what he'd thought the moment he saw Anna. Bedroom eyes that batted their long, black lashes at him. At him, George Dennell. He had looked around to make sure. The last thing he wanted was to smile at her and discover Napoleon Solo was actually behind him. No, sirree, he would not have wanted that.

But she had been looking at him, all right. And when he smiled, she smiled back. If there was such a thing as a bedroom smile, she had that too. He was used to friendly smiles. He got plenty of those at HQ. He was a likable fellow, after all. Even Carla's smiles, which he had placed such hopes in, had been friendly, with a hint of patient determination. He pushed that memory aside. Since she was a Thrush spy, her smiles really didn't count.

Anna's smile held admiration and invitation. Her crimson lips beckoned him from across the display of Christmas candy at the grocery store. He dodged three shopping carts to reach her side. He would have dodged a thousand.

One gloved hand grasped his arm, while the other indicated the packages of candy. "I'm paralyzed with indecision," she said. "If you don't help me, we could be here all night."

There was something about the phrase 'all night,' spoken in her exotic accent, which sent a thrill up his spine. He picked up a plastic stocking of hard candy.

"Enough to share," she said. She turned toward the registers, her hand still resting on his arm, and he fell into step beside her.

As the cashier rang up the candy, he removed some bills from his wallet. "Here, let me. Sort of a Christmas present. 'Tis the Season, after all."

"Thank you. You must allow me to return the gesture."

When she invited him to dinner on Christmas Eve, he accepted readily. He ambled home in a happy daze, his own grocery list completely forgotten. He was still in the daze when the maître d' led him across the dining room on the big night.

The first part of the evening was engrained in his memory. He had often seen lovely women in restaurants, waiting for their dinner dates to arrive. For the first time, the beautiful blonde was waiting for him. As her admiring gaze ran over him, he was glad that he came in to work early each day to go a few rounds with the punching bag in the gymnasium. His tuxedo might be off the rack, but it fit like a glove.

He remembered ordering drinks. They toasted the holiday. Her bedroom eyes flashed at him over the rim of her cocktail glass. After that, things got fuzzy. He hoped he hadn't drunk too much and made a fool of himself. Yet he couldn't have behaved that badly, for here he was in her hotel room.

Pale light escaped around the edges of the heavy drapes. It must be morning. Christmas morning. Jolly Ol' St. Nick had been very good to him this year. He rolled carefully onto his back. His stomach did not protest, and his head responded with only a dull ache. He felt ready to unwrap another present. The night before Christmas might be lost in an alcoholic fog, but he'd make the day itself a holiday to remember.

He rolled again, but his reaching arm embraced only air. Dust tickled his nose. He sat up and looked around. He was alone. He threw the covers back. Alone and fully dressed in his tuxedo.

His glasses lay on the nightstand. He put them on, then crossed to the window and pulled open the curtains. Instead of a city street, the frosted panes framed snow-covered fields. He made a quick tour of the room, which looked to have been decorated when McKinley was president. Judging from the dust, that may have been the last time it was occupied.

A stupendous thought occurred to him. He tried the door. It was locked. His heart beat faster. He returned to the window and tugged at the sash. It was sealed shut.

He let out a whoop, then clapped his hand over his mouth. Kidnapped. Him, George Dennell. A gorgeous, mysterious woman had found him, seduced him, drugged him, and locked him away in this defunct hotel. This truly was the most wonderful time of the year.

The doorknob rattled. Was it Anna come to question him? Just let her try to get any UNCLE secrets out of him. Those bedroom eyes wouldn't work anymore. He carefully slid the curtains closed, then ran back to the doorway, his stockinged feet making no noise on the thick carpet. He flattened himself against the wall as a series of clicks came from the lock. The handle turned, and the door slowly creaked open. A tall figure stepped into the room, his face shadowed. This was not Anna.

George struck out with a judo chop. The man grunted in surprise and stumbled forward. George dove at his back, knocking him to the floor.

"All right, fella." George kneeled across the man's legs and held one arm twisted against his back. "Just who are you, and what do you want with me?"

"George?"

Even muffled by the carpet, the soft, British voice was recognizable. "Mark?"

"Yes. Would you mind getting off now?"

George released Mark's wrist. "Oh, sure. Sorry about that."

As George got to his feet, Mark sat up and rubbed his shoulder. "I see you've been practicing."

George plucked at his fingertip. "Well, after everything with Carla, I figured I'd better be prepared. You know, in case you fellas needed me again."

Mark stuck out his hand. "You're needed."

George reached down and pulled him to his feet. "So, how'd they get you?" he asked.

"Truthfully, I'm not quite sure. One minute I was in the Del Floria, the next I woke up here." Mark turned on the nearby table lamp and frowned at the décor. "How about you?"

"Kinda the same, I guess. The last thing I remember I was having dinner with a pretty girl." George wrinkled his brow and said guilelessly, "I should've known something was up when she asked me."

"Welcome to the club, mate." Mark clapped him on the shoulder. "If I had a dime for every time a lovely bird made eyes at me and then stuck a gun in my side…"

"You'd be rich?"

"Easy now," Mark protested. "Let's say rather that my pocket would have a healthy jingle."

"Mr. Slate, report please." The familiar hail came from somewhere outside the door. "Have you found anything useful?"

"Yes, sir, I believe I have," Mark called back, then began to search the room.

"Mr. Waverly's here?" George asked as he slipped into his shoes.

"Yes. And April, Miss Rogers, Del, and who knows who else." He pulled the drawers from the dresser and peered behind them. "We are the guests of some vengeful madman named Zark."

George searched his own pockets and discovered them empty. "Count Ladislaus Zark? Talk about a Ghost of Christmas Past."

"Actually, that was a spring Affair, but I take your meaning." After peering under the bed, Mark stood and brushed off his knees. "Did they clean you out as well?"

"Yeah, they sure did. All except for these." George pulled up his pant legs.

"Sock garters?" Mark asked incredulously.

"They're slingshots. Really good ones too. I was field testing them, you know, to make sure they actually held socks up."

"Perfect. Now all we need is a pop-gun and a bow and arrow."

"I'm telling ya, these babies could hurl one of my shirt studs fast enough to knock a man out. With careful aim, that is." He bent down and unhooked one. "Wanna see?"

Mark held up a forestalling hand. "No, thanks. I believe you."

"Mr. Slate, are you quite finished in there?" Mr. Waverly called impatiently.

"Yes, sir." Mark headed for the door. "Come on, George. There's plenty more rooms to search."

"Sure thing, Mark. Just give me a second to arm this." He squeezed the metal clip, and just as it had in the lab, the elastic stiffened to form a small handle. He twisted out one of his shirt studs. "Now I can cover you."

Mark's cough sounded almost like a chuckle. "Thank you, George. 'And God bless us, everyone.'"