The Man from Yesterday
A Man from U.N.C.L.E. Story
by Darklady
Chapter Twenty : Hearing the News ( Ain't like Bein' There)
Rated: R
*******
We lay back on the nearest bed. I am finishing off the last of my second beer and listening to Napasha click past channel after channel of what the hotel calls satellite television. Nothing holds his attention for more then a few seconds, but the scan is still a lengthy procedure. According to the bedside brochure there are almost a hundred channels - many showing exactly the same movies. I can recall Loomis in communications watching three movies at once. That was strange enough. But why would anyone want to watch the same movie thrice at the same time?
I would rather read. Which I should be doing now, but somehow my eyes do not wish to remain open. I slide a card between the pages to mark my place and lean back. Napoleon's arm curves around my shoulder. Rolling to my side, I let my cheek rest a moment against the soft curls of his chest. Unshaved, my chin must scratch a bit, because he shifts slightly at the touch. I drop a kiss in apology and he pulls me closer.
I should not indulge myself, but we have so little time to be together. Only a few days unobserved engineered between our assignments and the demands of a agent's life. If April Dancer was telling the truth - or if she was not - perhaps soon we will have even less. If I must leave the service, what reason can we give to remain together? I must capture what joy there is while I can.
Napoleon must feel the same, because he snuggles and drops light kisses on my hair. It is a sweet time, these minutes on the border of dreams.
I am fading when Napoleon jerks up, clicking rapidly to regain the channel. "Illya?"
I sit up, suddenly awake.
He points to the screen, where a vaguely recalled face is making some sort of speech. The man looks familiar. Was there not a..?
"George Bush." Napoleon waves the signal box at the television. "C.I.A. out of D.C."
"Bush." I search for the memory. "He was... the one with the thing for planes...."
"Boats." Napoleon corrects. "He was into fast boats."
"No wonder you remember him."
"Not that well. I mostly sailed. And after I started spending time with you..." He needs not finish. I do not like water. Our time spent together is *not* spent on a boat.
The camera pulls back, showing the podium with its brightly painted a seal. The eagle and stars. The American flag at the man's side confirms Napasha's I.D. The other flag I recognize as that of Israel. "The Americans made G.H. President?"
"No, that's his kid."
"Little Georgie?" I pull up a vague picture of a little boy and a dog. I do not have much experience of children, but he seemed a well behaved child. I say as much, and add "The son is probably decent enough."
Napasha just smiles. "According to the commentator, Old George Herbert was President eight years back." Napoleon shakes his head in disbelief.
"Is he less likely then Vladimir?"
"Vladimir Putin was a... never mind." Napoleon snorts. "Just say I'd believe old Vlad the Impatient could wiggle his way into being President of the U.S. - never mind Russia. He's that type of schemer. But George...?"
I relax back on my pillow. "Is that stranger then the Ambassador from Pepsi?"
He nods acknowledgement at my answer. I do not understand the whims of American politics, but so far their country has seemed to survive it. Although to think of those men both reaching so high? Fate is strange.
I glance back at the screen. An older man, also marginally familiar, steps up to shake Bush's hand. I can not place him until the commentator give me his name. Ariel Sharon. Prime Minister Ariel Sharon. "Sharon?" I echo, shocked. "The Man from the King David?" Has the whole world been taken over by spies? "Napoleon? We are maybe not the only ones in a lot of trouble."
He clicks off the screen, and I feel the mattress bounce as his head hits the pillow. I lean down and kiss his cheek, then start to rise. "I should go now."
"Rest." He pulls me tighter against him. "I'll go mess up the other bed."
"But.."
A few kisses close my eyes and lure me down to the sheets.
"Tomorrow is likely to be tough. Stay here tonight." Another bounce of the mattress tells me he has risen. In a few seconds he returns, and this time he pulls the blankets over us and turns off the light.
In the darkness I feel the rough hair of his leg slide against me.
"I thought you were tired?" I murmur.
"I am," he whispers against my ear. Napasha nibbles down to share one last kiss before we each claim our separate pillows. "But there's always morning."
********************
Why did I wake?
He was careful. I did not feel the shift of the mattress or the withdrawal of his arm. There was no sudden light, no betraying sound. Nothing significant. No special loss of warmth or absence of breath. These losses are the common coin of years of caution. Such deprivations do not wake me. Nothing then. Nothing but the special linkage I have with my partner. That alone opens my eyes, pulls me to my feet, draws my sight to the faint insignificant edge of light marking the closed bathroom door.
I ease to the door. No movement. no sound, no threat ... so why am I worried? I test the knob. It is unlocked. I edge the door open.
At the first movement Napoleon straightens. He gives me his bland look of indifferent curiosity... but his eyes are pink. Not red, no... but still pink. And there is a damp washcloth on the counter.
"Pasha?" I make it a question, for all I do not know what the question is.
"Illyusha." His voice is even. Bland. But he reaches for my hand.
"Where are they?" His words are steady, for all their quietude.
"T.H.R.U.S.H.?" I answer. " U.N.C.L.E.?"
"Two days," he continues. " No assassins, no bombs, no drugs.... nothing." He shakes his head. "Do you think they know where we are?" A pause, then "Do you think they care?"
"Do you..?" I begin, without any idea how I would finish the sentence.
"Illya. We have traveled over a thousand miles. We have been through at least seven major cities. Seen the papers, the magazines, the television. However mad, I have to accept that this is, in fact, 2001."
"Which?"
"Which means that woman was most like April Dancer, and possibly even telling the truth."
"This is bad?" From his tone it is very bad, although I do not see why.
"Consider. If that woman is April Dancer, then she *is* our support."
"Which she provided... until we evaded her." At least, I can name no provable error in her conduct. But... perhaps.. Napoleon has caught something I missed.
Obviously he did. He gives me the 'rookie' look, which stings. And his voice is *far* too kind. "Where are our Specials?"
Our...! My hand reaches automatically to the shoulder harness that is not there. The packets we were given had held money and I.D. But not our weapons.... or our communicators. "Bait?" I ask. The likeliest answer, for all the lure appears untaken.
"Perhaps."
His tone says it all. Mine was the most benign possibility. At best we were left as well guarded bait to lure an enemy. At worst? A stalking horse sent out for the slaughter. A bad asset disposed of at a profit. "So..." I look at my senior. "What do we do?"
"Go home." He drops the washcloth over the rod.
"It makes no difference?"
"Of course not!" The shock in his voice is unconsidered and unfeigned.
"Not even if...?"
"Not ever." Napasha runs his thumb over my scared palm. "The day I let reality affect my actions is the day I will be useless as an agent."
I can give no answer to that except... "Come back to bed. We have an early flight."
END CHAPTER TWENTY