PS: I assume you do remember 'Get Smart'
The Man from Yesterday
A Man from U.N.C.L.E. Story
by Darklady
Chapter Seventeen - (Everybody Talks About A )New World in the Morning
Rated: PG (language)
Dedicated: To T.J. - For making the world better one steppe at a time. And to TvH. - Who knows all the Ships that pass in the night.
******
Tallin does have a yacht club. The club does have a restaurant. An expensive one with the requisite water view.
The maitre-de is female. Napoleon is charming. We get a good table by the window. There is a beautiful view of the Baltic Sea, and not enough serious traffic to tell me anything. No submarines. No coast guard patrols. No Finnish sonar sweepers pretending to be fishing boats. Plenty of pleasure craft. Nothing large enough to be commercial. Motor yachts and dozens of those pretty sailboats Napasha lusts after. His enjoyment makes up for the lack of information.
The buffet is excellent if unexciting. The usual mix of American breakfast and French lunch that these things universally tend to. Even if food is not our primary purpose in coming here, I still have the good sense to fill my plate. Who ever knows what is for dinner? Napoleon nibbles a bit of mine until I go and get a plate for him. He is too thin. I smile a bit. That is his line, I know, but the difference is in this case I am right.
We chat through breakfast about nothing. The well-dresses diners. The occasional 'pony-boat' zooming like an aquatic motorcycle between the more conventional craft. The net-decked fishing boats in the distance, apparently back from actually catching fish. That is rather a change. Unlike the masked radar-boats I had expected, these wooden craft are riding low, weighed down by their catch. It must be a good season for fish. It makes for a pleasant morning, if none too productive.
The waitress is handing me our change when I catch the eyes of an older man coming through the door. I give Napoleon the signal to vanish.
"Demitri Ivanovich Kronsteen?" I ask, incredulous.
"Illya Nickovetch Kuryakin?" He stops dead, then waves his party on. "There have been rumors, but...." His look is openly assessing. "My god, you look so good - it must have been bad." He clasps my back, welcoming. "How many surgeries.. no - do not tell me. It is none of my business."
Returning to our table, he takes Napoleon's chair. "You are back. And that Solo fellow. Him as well?"
"He was with me." I admit, cautious.
The waitress brings over coffee and another cup. Demitri takes a deep drink before continuing. "I always knew you two were alive - probably. The men from the company, they would come in, and tap their ice cubes, and say Tsarivich - and I knew they were toasting you."
He makes the gesture as he speaks. If true... I smile inside. At least somewhere I was remembered. And if remembered.....? This was my chance.
I sip my coffee, slow and casual. "You are still in the Air?"
"Hell, yes." He smiles. "Base commander at Baykonur. They even made me a General."
Excellent news. "They made me one too. Or so I'm told."
He lifts his cup. "Congratulations."
"It was a retirement promotion."
"Ouch." His face falls. "If it's medical..."
Which it might be. I had not considered that, but... "Not important. Demitri Ivanovich, I need some hard information. What has really happened?"
He leans back and raises his hands. "I am long out of that, Illya Nickovetch. I have no real contact.."
I lean forward. " Not that." And for that, a man who would tell I would not trust. "Just background. I have been - out of touch. Until just recently I ... received no news."
"Since?" He relaxes again.
"The time I left. Last of January, 1968."
That stiffens his spine. "Such deep cover? Where ever... no. I do not *want* to know."
"What happened?" I press.
"What?" He looks momentarily confused, then.. "Oh, you mean the..." His wave encompasses the Union, perhaps the world.
I nod.
He takes a deep breath. "Tough, no? It took a lot of our people that way."
"Tough?" That would not be my word. "Our entire country..."
"Not entirely." He makes the gesture for 'keep down your voice'. I am shocked. I did not realize mine had risen.
"Illya Nickovetch..." He considers, then. "Try to think of it as... an ugly victory."
I say nothing.
He shrugs. " Well, when have we had any other? When everything was spinning out of control, what with inflation, and the country bankrupt, and every petty province declaring independence and then declaring war - on us and each other, and all the crime and hatred and madness and genocide - maybe you're lucky you missed it." His shakes his head. "There were times I missed Stalin. Hell, there were times I missed the Tsar. It was crazy."
The Tsar? Someone considered bringing back the Tsar? Crazy is not strong enough!
He pauses, then adds. "But.. in the end... well... What did we want?"
What did we want?! "The Revolution was..."
He stops me. "Illya Nickovetch, the first step in battle is to define victory."
He reaches over to pat my hand. "We have democracy, almost peace, and a standard of living Lenin would not have dared wish for."
"So because you all get rich, that is all you..."
"No." His voice is serious now. "That is *not* all. While you were out playing spy those of us in the working army managed to hold out through insurrections, undeclared wars, and a damn long year without supplies or pay. We sure as hell were not getting rich then." His look is more Siberian then mine. " We did it for *our* Russia. The one we have now. The one with obnoxious television and tacky headlines and borders where I don't have to station troops to watch the civilians."
He stands, dropping a bill beside his cup. "Maybe we don't yet have everything we hoped for, but what we have I can live with. Gratefully."
He takes a step away, then turns back. "Kuryakin? If you truly want to work for the future?" He hands me a business card. "We are doing thirteen launches a a year. I'm planning to double that." He gives me a questioning look, then adds. "Give me a call once you are... more settled."
******
I catch up with Napoleon down at the pier, where he is talking to an American tourist. American tourist? That is a strange enough thought, but after my talk with Demitri? Enough! Napoleon is right. Escape, evade, return. And then...? I will think about that when I have to.
"My partner, Mr. Kuryakin." Napoleon smiles at the tourist.
The thin, rather balding man offers me his hand. "Maxwell Smart." He looks me up and down, and whatever he sees seems to satisfy him. "Yes. My wife and I were sailing to Riga, but... sudden call to Berlin. Business conference." He sighs dramatically. "It's not easy being Chief."
"You have a boat?" I ask to be polite.
"There." He points proudly to a fragile-looking structure of teak and canvas at the end of the dock. Shinny, with an impressive display of brass and bright striped sails. Perhaps forty feet from stem to stern. I suppose it is considered large for its type. "The 99."
"99?" That is odd. I though such craft were supposed to have 'clever' names.
"Yes." He waves at a dark haired woman farther down the dock. "I named it after my wife."
A sad indication of the effect of thirty years of 'flower children' on American culture. And American's had little enough culture to begin with. Still, the name is not as bad as some I have heard.
"Like I said to your friend", he continues, "we were sailing to Riga when we got called in."
Napoleon nods. "Mr. Smart and I just agreed to our renting his boat and finishing that part of the voyage for him."
I consider the craft in question. When I suggested leaving by sea, I had in mind something larger. Like a freighter. Perhaps an aircraft carrier.
Your choice, Napoleon signals.
I make the effort to smile at Mr. Smart. "How kind of him." To Napoleon I signal my assent. Unpleasant or not it is still a wise idea. It will not kill me, and this way we will be completely removed from any 'alphabet' sorts.
I am trying to keep the enthusiasm in my face when a phone rings.
"Sorry," Mr. Smart says, "I need to get that." He steps away and slips off his shoe. In this future people keep phones in the strangest places.
I turn to Napoleon. "We will need deck shoes." And I will need Dramamine, I think but do not say.
"Good idea," he says. "Why don't you pick up some while Mr. Smart and I go over to the harbormasters and sign the contract?"
I say nothing. The suggestion to leave by sea was my own. Of course, Napoleon being Napoleon I had rather expected him to finagle a cruise ship - not a wooden box. Still, the voyage will not kill me. I will only wish it had.
******
I ask the woman at the restaurant, who is delighted to direct me to the local overpriced source of such supplies. I pick out shoes, hats, and sea-sickness pills. Several packs of sea-sickness pills.
By the time I get back Napoleon is waving goodbye to Mr. Smart and his wife, and reassuring them that their precious boat will be well treated by himself and the 'professional yachtsman' he has apparently hired.
I take one look at the young crewman, then *give* a look to Napoleon.
"What?" Napasha tries to appear innocent. "The harbor master recommended him as a navigator - and I do want the boat to reach Riga."
"Napoleon." I mutter, sotto voice . "I *was* in the Navy. I *am* a perfectly competent sailor, even if I do not share your enthusiasm for the process."
"You are a perfectly brilliant *everything*." He gives me his most 'Solo' grin, then drops his voice. "Which does not matter as I have no plans for sailing much beyond the next pier." He whispers in my ear, and I smile. There is a reason he is CEO.
END CHAPTER SEVENTEEN