CHAPTER TWO
Illya never thought he would get home. The streets had been crowded, people milling about as if they hadn't noticed the rain, people in cars coming home from work. He'd had to drive cautiously, although what he really wanted to do was to put his foot on the accelerator and floor the small car.
Why had he purchased it?
He'd been perfectly happy to avail himself of public transportation which afforded him the ability to relax or catch up on his reading.
But his determined partner had other ideas, sighting the convenience of not having to rely on trains or busses to get around. So now, instead of sleeping on the subway, he found himself driving in rush hour traffic. Not fun.
He imagined his partner sitting on the porch of the Victorian house, an icy glass of lemonade in his hand. The man seemed to attract luck. He was certainly lucky to have avoided the layer cake affair.
Illya figured he would complete the mission tomorrow night because the exhibit would follow a day later. This would prevent him from encountering museum staff who had been staying late to prepare the cake exhibit.
Of course, that wouldn't take care of the guards.
He would need to be careful. It wasn't like he could shoot them or even administer a sleep dart. Waverly had been clear that he wanted no indication of their involvement.
Illya needed to put a lot of thought into planning. He had a copy of the blueprints to the museum which he hoped would provide the saftest mode of entry. Any indication of his entry would be repaired by an UNCLE team a day later.
There was THRUSH to consider. They knew the microdot was in the area. The little birdies had also recently formed an attachment to putting cameras in various street locations, which meant they may have seen their agent entering the museum. Since most areas of the building were secure, it wouldn't take a rocket scientist to figure out where a microdot could be hidden in short notice.
Illya wouldn't be surprised to find himself with company when he retrieved it.
The brownstone came into view. It had stopped raining and now the clouds had parted way for the sun. The building looked otherworldly, the orange glow of the sun, giving the building and the rain-soaked streets an almost orange-gold glow.
He'd moved there only two months ago, also at the encouragement of Napoleon. His partner had pointed out that his one bedroom in Greenwich Village was too small. His new apartment had two bedrooms and a full-sized kitchen. It seemed large, but Illya had to admit that it felt good to stretch out. Plus, having a spare bedroom was convenient when his partner stayed over.
He parked the car—another perk, plenty of parking—and got out, the heat of the day making his shirt stick to his chest almost immediately. He rushed up the steps, waving a hasty hello to Mrs. Hammerstein who sat in her customary place at the window with a tiny spider monkey on her lap. He dragged himself up the four flights of stairs to the top floor, convinced that additional steps had to have been added, because he was just that tired.
"Home at last," he said as he opened the door to his apartment.
Illya thought he felt something brush against his leg, but when he looked down, he saw nothing. He figured his exhaustion was triggering his imagination. If only Waverly had selected another agent, but Illya lived closest to the museum. He could walk there if he liked. In fact, he did so on many occasions. He was sure that was a deciding factor in his selection.
Now, he needed to formulate a plan and he needed rest to do so. Nothing could go wrong.
He sat down on his sofa, not even bothering to remove the holster under his jacket. He closed his eyes against the sunlight that streamed through the curtained window.
The apartment was what Napoleon called utilitarian. It had all the basics for life—a sofa, a chair, a table, a place to put his extensive record collection—but nothing matched, and it was far from the poshly decorated penthouse his partner called home.
Still, it suited him. His background had been austere. To most Westerners his current apartment would seem lacking, but to him, it was luxurious. It offered more than he would ever need.
He decided he would stay on the sofa and soon dozed off, awakening to the sound of a soft purr.
He opened his eyes slowly, his hand already inching towards his gun. It was a typical agent tactic, pretend to be asleep while accessing the situation, body coiled and ready for action.
He was alone, the soft moonlight illuminating the room.
Must have been a dream, he figured, but just to make certain, he took a circuit of the apartment, checking for anything unusual. Finding nothing, he returned to the living room and sat down.
Moments later he closed his eyes, easily slipping into restful slumber.
Illya was dreaming of sitting on the veranda of the Victorian House as he sipped iced vodka when the purring sound awakened him again. This time the sound was closer to a roar and more insistent. He thought back to his arrival home when he thought something had touched his leg.
Perhaps a cat? It sounded like a cat. A big cat!
He kept his eyes closed. Then his hyper-aware instincts told him something was moving in his direction. It was subtle, a shifting of the air, something only a trained agent would notice. It was time to make his move.
He opened his eyes, his hand effortlessly pulling the gun from his holster as the sofa vibrated next to him.
And there it stood.
Large brown eyes, huge paws. The creature had to weigh at least thirty pounds. A cat.
Illya rolled to the floor, expecting to feel sharp teeth puncturing his neck, claws ripping him open as he breathed his last. But nothing happened. The cat merely licked its paws and lay on its back.
How had he missed it? But it could easily have been hiding under the bed. He hadn't looked there because his bed was too low to the ground for anyone to fit. But maybe THRUSH had sent this creature. They'd used animals before.
Of course, it could be someone's pet.
Illya was living in a zoo. Mrs. Hammerstein had the spider monkey. He'd seen a boy playing with a snake in the hallway of the second floor. And who could forget the miniature pig his next-door neighbor walked each morning.
And now this cat.
The cat stood, jumping from the sofa and heading to the door as if it expected Illya to open it for him.
Illya was trapped. He couldn't simply open the door and let him out. What if the animal was dangerous and attacked someone? No, he needed to trap it in a room. But how? He needed to be careful. True, the creature had had plenty of time to attack him while he slept, but there was no guarantee that would continue.
Illya could almost see tomorrow's headlines: Man killed by large cat in his own home.
It was too embarrassing to even consider. An agent should go out in a hail of bullets, dying to save the world. Not in a hail of spotted fur.
He needed to trap the cat in his bedroom.
Illya moved in that direction, but the cat didn't move. Just stared at him with huge brown eyes.
He'd never seen a cat that looked like it. It reminded him of a small leopard, but its markings made it something else. It was no house cat.
The cat stretched its body and started towards him. He thought of shooting it, but the cat had a gentle nature about it. He didn't want to kill the creature if it presented no danger to him.
He moved back. It moved forward.
A sudden knock on his door and both turned towards it. Illya hoped it was the cat owner. There was no other explanation of why anyone would be knocking on his door at this hour. He was not friendly with any of his neighbors. He just wasn't the can-I- borrow-a-cup-of-sugar type of person.
The cat sat down, looking at him expectantly. He cautiously walked around it, pausing for a second to see if the creature made a move. But it curled into a ball and closed its eyes.
Illya went to the door. He kept the gun in his hand because you never knew when THRUSH would come knocking, even though their M.O tended to lean towards waiting in dark alleys and kidnapping you.
He lowered his gun, hiding it from view, as he opened the door and found a woman standing there. Blond hair, curvaceous, with blue eyes the color of the sky. She was wearing slacks and a short top. She was gorgeous.
"I'm sorry," she purred. "But have you seen a cat," she raised her hands, pulling them apart. "About this big." The woman looked vaguely familiar, but he couldn't place her.
She smiled, her eyes sparkling. It made his pulse race, and Illya realized he was thinking like Napoleon when he should be concentrating on getting the cat out of his apartment.
He opened the door further, indicating the cat. "Please come in," he said. "Your pet invaded my apartment earlier."
She ran inside. Illya managed to slip the gun into a drawer near the door.
"Poor baby, you shouldn't run away from your mama like that."
The cat purred and lay on its back as the woman rubbed his belly.
Illya closed the door.
"I'm so sorry," she said, looking up at him. "I don't know what got into dear Bruce."
"Bruce?"
"Yes, my cat. I named him after my favorite teacher."
"He is a beautiful creature," he said as the animal stood and headed towards him as if to thank him for the compliment. Illya instinctively backed away. He still didn't know what the cat was capable of doing.
The woman stood up. "No need to worry. He won't attack. He's usually gentle as a lamb."
Illya didn't like the usually part. It implied the cat may occasionally consider mimicking a less gentle creature. Perhaps a lion.
"Now, Bruce, behave," she said. Then she held out her hand. "Hi, I'm Violet Westfield, your new neighbor."
TBC