A Man from U.N.C.L.E. Story
by Darklady
Chapter Nineteen : Shelter from the Storm
Rated: NC-17
*******
When we reenter the club-car a rather handsome blonde woman is waiting. Sitting with Napoleon, naturally. "Steve, darling." She rises to give Austin a light peck on the cheek.
"Mr. Kuryakin. My wife Jamie." He smiles at her. "I see you've already introduced yourself to Mr. Solo."
"Yes, dear. He's told me all kinds of things about his work in computers." She seems impressed. I am more so. Napoleon does not *know* anything about computers. After a moments thought I add 'that I know of'. Still, that seems a detail Mrs. Austin is willing to overlook. "But I came in here looking for you, dear. Oscar called. Seems a general meeting has been called , so we're getting off in Riga and taking a plane. Your other business will just have to wait."
"You know I hate flying commercial." Austin grumbles. But he also folds up his cards.
"So does Oscar. He says he'll try and have something waiting."
"Sorry, gents." He gives us the 'what can I do' expression. "The wife rules."
Mrs. Austin beams at Napoleon. "Good luck with your business."
"You too." Col. Austin shakes hands with us both. "Good luck in Vilinus."
Hopefully better luck at any rate, I think, but I only say "Thank you." I sit back and sip my vodka until I am quite sure they are gone. Then I give Napoleon the signal for 'we must talk'. Not that he did not know as much before. He, and only he, can read my face. Or perhaps it is my mind he reads. I have never been certain.
He waits until we are back in our cabin with the door and window locked before he speaks. "Are we going to Vilinus?"
"Not any more." I brief him on my little 'adventure'.
He nods when I mention my trick. "Think it will hold?"
"Perhaps." Which truly *is* my best answer. Without knowing the senior police officer's background, or training, or contacts? If the man asked someone? If he even still knew *who* to ask? Would that person still know me? "I would be more comfortable *away* from Latvia before the man can check up on any details."
*************
Thankfully we have little to pack. When the passengers get off in Riga station, we slip out the back door. Simple, and of very little risk. After all, we *have* tickets. First class tickets at that. If the yard bosses finds us, we are merely tourists who somehow got turned around. Napoleon can appear admirably idiotic, and I do not speak the language.
A short hike brings us around the switching house and back to the front of the station. There are several taxis waiting. We take the third in line.
The street boss yells something, but our driver simply peels out of line and returns the one-fingered salute. "Where to?" he grunts.
Napoleon hands him a stack of rubles. "The airport."
******
Even ignoring the speed limits, by the time we arrive we have missed all the suitable flights. There is still one to Moscow, by way of Minsk, but that could be a greater risk then the train.
We purchase three first class tickets to Madrid. Stops in Warsaw and Milan. Not the perfect destination, and Warsaw is questionable, but it is the first morning flight. For once, a purchase is amazingly *inexpensive*. A few smiles get us shifted to the last row of the forward cabin. Excellent. I hate having people sitting behind me.
While Napoleon finishes flirting with the counter clerk I slip the tickets into my pocket and ask. "Where to?"
"Check your guide book." Napoleon shrugs. "Or we could ask a driver." I am still thumbing through the chapter marked Riga when he adds "Or the tourist desk."
Napoleon points to a poster cover kiosk marked 'Welcome to Latvia, Jewel of the Baltic'. A pretty blond sits listening to an older woman. "Have a nice stay in Riga, Mrs. Polifax," she chimes, handing over a stack of bright brochures. Intourist service with a smile? If I were not already convinced we were transported , that surely would do it.
Napoleon waits for his opening. I stand back and watch the master at work. Even from twenty feet I can see her posture change as his charm starts in. If she was congenial before, she is practically affectionate now. And somehow skilled enough to dial a number without looking, as her eyes never leave Napoleon. She listens a bit, then shakes her head sadly. I begin to think the magic has failed, but one pat on her hand has her dialing again. Then again. Three phone calls in as many minutes? That is more then Vladimir could convince Intourist to make all day. And he could shoot them. But I question if even the Solo luck can produce a luxury hotel in Riga.
He returns waving a small slip with a scribbled address. "Town is full, but the Karavella does have one *biznesmyeni* suite left for a pair of computer executives."
"Which we are?" I ask, handing him his case.
He takes it and heads for the door marked with a cartoon car and bus.
"Well. I am." He answers. "According to your major."
"More likely yours." I mutter. It has been a long day, and I am beginning to tire of enamored blondes.
The door leads to a concourse jammed with disorganized traffic. We dodge between luggage carts and passenger cars, making out way to the outer rows of traffic. "Since when?" Napoleon waves for a cab, which appears magically at his side. " Those collar tabs didn't say 'Semper Fi', my friend."
"Touche'." Although if Major Yelena was an example of the the brotherhood's finest, then recruiting standards may be the only thing in this new Russia not to have 'inflated'.
My partner hands over the paper and another wad of rubles. If I cannot read the address, the taxi driver surely can. Within minutes we are at the wide glass doors of a shining new skyscraper. Napasha watches as I survey the thirty stories of stark sable glass. "Not quite Moscow, torivich?"
I watch the red-suited bellman rush up to open the door, while another heads for the trunk for luggage. "Not even New York."
The maitre d'hotel greets us, and after a few sympathetic words about our 'lost' luggage summons another pair of uniformed flunkies to show us to our suite.
"Not to your taste?" Napoleon whispers to me as we follow our guides.
"This place has more staff then the Contessa's." I growl back. "And their livery is gaudier."
******
Napoleon continues in a teasing mood all the way to our rooms. He pretends to fumble for the bellman's tip, then produces it just as I pull out my wallet. Most people find it amusing. I know it for a sign of fraying nerves.
I don't watch what he gives them, but it is enough to convince them to relinquish their hold on our luggage. Good enough. I nod at the last man politely, but close the door quite firmly behind me.
The guest rooms are as stylish as the lobby - and as excessive. If the Kadrioru went for fin de ceil charm, here the designers had preferred modernist discomforts. Glass topped tables and chrome edged chairs with oversized polychrome 'art' hanging unframed on the walls. No matter. The beds look soft enough.
"Restaurant or room service?" Napasha asks, checking the nightstand and telephones. Not that bugs or cameras are likely, but.. caution is an ingrained habit. He finds neither of those, but does come up with a set of menus.
I look over from where I am checking the television and window frames. "You choose." I do not care, although after a long day I am rather hungry. Room service would be comfortable, but if Napoleon wanted to go downstairs? I am not particularly tired.
He says nothing, so I glance over. He is reading the menus with a serious dedication that most probably means we are headed out.
Reaching for my luggage, I pull out my shaving kit. "I have to clean up."
He does not reply.
Living room and bedroom cleared, I open the bathroom door. "Napasha."
"Illya?" Napoleon turns, instantly alert.
"Come here."
He moves up cautiously. "What?"
I point to the wide tiled platform below the mirrored window. "I think that is what they refer to as a jacuzzi."
*********
It is amazing what hot water can do for the human spirit. Napasha had been growing more edgy since we left Tallin. By the time we reached the airport he was at his most charming - which is to say his most tense. A good pounding will relieve some of that tension. Not that it will not be beneficial for me as well.
I survey the tiled platform surrounding the deep basin. It is much larger then the tank back at the hospital. The basket on the counter holds a small bottle marked 'bath-oil'. I crack the seal and sniff. A bit floral, but pleasant. It feels very slick on my fingers. Excellent. Virtue may be its own reward - but I have never felt it should be required to be.
I suspect Napoleon had intended to convince me of the pleasures of fine dining in Riga. An improbable concept. Also a foolish risk under the circumstances. If so, he has abandoned the idea without hesitation.
"Room service?" He gives it the tone of a question, but I know his decision is made. Napasha may occasionally twit me about my 'fetish' for bathing, but in truth he shares it.
Two quick turns on the water taps is answer enough. I check the flow, then the volume, deduct my own mass and Napoleon's, then do some fast math. From the size of the tub this might take a while. No matter. If the kitchen was fast, we could always eat *first*.
Napasha locates the towels and drops several conveniently near the edge. "Think they have pizza here?" he asks.
They do, but not at this time of night. We settle for the house supper. The local version of a deli plate. Lots of cold cuts and good cheeses served with sweet butter and dark breads. Hard boiled eggs spiced with paprika. Sharp flavored pickles. Tiny little mushroom pastries. Four bottles of the excellent local beer. The first sip reminds me why I have always hated the American versions. They even found Napoleon some ketchup, although when the waiter mentions it he smirks at the strange tastes of foreigners.
I hand Napoleon a tip sufficient to reconcile all dietary sins. The waiter thanks us profusely. I just smile and say nothing. In the flurry of checking in the management somehow forgot to ask for *my* passport. Their records doubtless show two Americans. All the better to frustrate any detectives looking for one Russian.
Ignoring the service plates, I grab a handful of pastries, popping one in my mouth and passing the other to Napasha. They are delicious. Just as I remember.
He glares at my enthusiasm. "Don't you people eat hot food?"
I ignore that. Napoleon is just tired. And worried. Also homesick, I suppose. Americans are not used to European food, and for all his Italian grandfather Napoleon is sometimes *very* American. That is one of his moderately irritating traits.
By the time the door closes again, I can hear the water reaching the brim. What a choice - food or my favorite snack. Fortunately not a decision which needs to be made. Napasha carries over the tray and positions it carefully just with arms reach of the taps. Not too close. Soggy bread is distasteful . Still, close enough for tub snacking if both residents are....cooperative.
I fold my jeans and shirt carefully into the hotel laundry bag. They smell from the sea and train ride, but not intolerably. There will be no time to clean them, but no need to abandon them either. For once, Napoleon has no comment. He merely peels off his clothes and hands then over. Wise. We are both on edge, and in no need of an argument over my parsimony or his profligate habits.
Turning off the taps, I check the temperature. Just below scorching. Perfect. Glancing over the control panel, I decide against the bubbles but start the jets.
Napoleon slips carefully into the hot water, sighing as he shifts so the hard jets reach his left shoulder. He was shot there once, and despite his recovery there is a lingering soreness a cramped train would have aggravated. Also, from the Chan woman's remarks I have the impression he was in worse shape then I was when we left the hospital as well. Not that he will say anything. Napoleon does not discuss his weaknesses - not even with me. Sometimes, I think, even less with me. No matter. I know. I alone know.
Oh, he complains often enough, but that is for show. Chatter about his suits and his cars and his ruined dates. Never a word about his pain. How many times have I pulled him out of cells and chains, then listened while he insists to the clean-up crew that his captors were 'perfect gentlemen'? How many times has he chatted brightly at Waverly or some medic, assuring them that 'they just used truth serum' and that all he needs was an evening's rest? How many times afterwards has he collapsed in our room, leaving me to patch and bandage and salve? To work out cramped limbs and stressed tendons so that he can stroll back into headquarters and insist he is again ready for duty.
And I do, because I know his gloss is his first defense and part of his strength. Not all of it. Not even the greatest part. Under the slick shell of mystery there is warrior even I would not wish to face in darkness. And that, as much as love or friendship, is why I help his game. Likewise why he helps my fiction of Ice Price and soulless scientist. So that neither of us has to acknowledge all that we might be.
"Coming?" The tone is snappish. He is talking to talk.
I set my beer down and ease in on the other side. The tub is large, although hardly party-sized. A cozy fit, but comfortable.
I press my back against a low jet. The hard pressure of water relives cramps that I had not been aware of. Pain is often like that. Something ignored until it vanishes, whereupon the comparison testifies to how bad it was. We rest in our opposite ends, touching but alone, until enough of the ache has passed to let me come out of myself.
When I reopen my eyes Napasha is holding out a pickle. "Bad?"
I bite down on the salty sweetness and lick the juice from his fingers. "Better."
He follows the first treat with bites of egg and slivers of spiced ham. When I reach to feed myself he lets me, but then reclaims my fingers, licking between them to share the flavors.
I pick out a crisp gherkin and hold it while he nibbles down its length, snatching the last edge from my fingers with nipping teeth.
We finish half the platter like that, alternating snacks and kisses. Until that appetite is satisfied.
Napasha reaches for me, and at the first brush of fingers on my shaft I float against him.
I slide my hands down his back, steadying myself against the stream as I circle a finger around each sensitive vertebrae. He arches into my touch. Long fingers grip the curves of my ass, pulling me closer and open at the same time. His lips settle on my neck, biting and kissing their way toward my lips in a familiar rhythm. I send my hands lower. Reaching the end of his spine, I curl one finger around the sac of swollen balls, stroking lightly over the flesh until he moans against my cheek. I turn my lips to his, and as our tongues join I swing my knees up to clutch the sides of his chest.
My balls rub over the head of his cock, telling me he is in position. I ease down, as with one hand he guides himself within me. The oil has made us both slick. His enters me easily. The water takes my weight, and leaves me free to move against him. Each thrust of his cock moves his belly against the sensitive head of my own. Each withdrawal sends sparks of bliss throughout my body.
I press my fingers against his entrance, echoing the rhythm he has established.
Heat is supposed to deaden sensation as it increases endurance. You could not prove that by me. Far too soon I am moaning against his mouth as the spasms of pleasure claim my body. Lips locked, I allow myself to whisper "Pasha." A dangerous indulgence, but I must have some follies. As I fall against his chest, I feel the hot splash of his own release. We slide together, too relaxed to grip but too comfortable to let go. The water supports us, and the warm jets coax us chest to chest in an easy embrace.
We float in the swirling water until we are flushed from the temperature as well as exertion. We should get out, but it is hard to leave such comfort.
Napasha presses the button for the whirlpool, knowing the bubbles will cool us down.
I reach up and brush a few beads of sweat from his forehead. "See." I murmur against his lips. "We Europeans do have a hot supper - sometimes."
END CHAPTER NINETEEN