The Man from Yesterday
A Man from U.N.C.L.E. Story
by Darklady
Chapter Twenty-One : Leaving (On a Jet Plane)
Rated: NC-17
*******
I know I set the alarm. It was somewhat challenging, given the new technology, but not so much so that I would doubt my results. Why then was I waking to the feel of warmth on my groin rather then the sharp buzz I had anticipated. Not that I am complaining.
Through slitted eyes I look down at the thick curls tickling my waist. Napasha has always had the softest hair. Even shaggy as it is now, it is beautiful. Make that *especially* as it is now. If that dark hair is always a pleasure to see, how much more so do I enjoy seeing it against my navel when that means his cheek is against my thigh and his lips are...oh yes ...on my cock.
My eyes spring open. I twist to the side, not thinking until my glance falls on the bedside clock. Six o'clock? Our plane leaves at 7:15! "We do not have time for this."
"Time enough." He murmurs, increasing his pressure.
"We will miss breakfast." A stupid comment, but my brain has little space left for conversation. All my attention has ventured south to catalog the pleasures of each separate nerve under Napasha's agile tongue.
Napasha pauses for a moment and licks his lips.
I reach for him, but he bats away my hand. Apparently he is in one of his moods. So we will do it his way - for now.
I give myself up to the sensation of wet heat and pressure. Of his hands on my balls and his tongue flicking over sensitive skin. Within seconds I am past control, gripping the sheets and spilling blindly within those talented lips. I am still gasping when Napasha rises to his feet, heading for his valise with the bland air of a man for whom nothing has happened.
I will repay him, I vow. As I am quite sure he knows. But he also knows that just now we are out of time.
We shower and dress quickly. There is no time for games. Fortunately, we have nearly nothing to pack, and Napoleon can dress quickly when he must. In less then ten minutes we are downstairs and standing at the front door.
The uniformed man at the door materializes a taxi and bows us into it. Napoleon appears to take such servility as his due.
I scowl.
He gives me a cat in the cream pot smile. "Still missing breakfast?"
Decadent American. Not that I do not love him for it, but still.... "You may have dined... I have not."
"Complaining?"
No. I am delighted. Still, it would not do to say that. Not here, where there might be ears. Not now. Perhaps not ever. So I keep silent.
Napasha grins. "Besides, it's a meal flight."
I smile back, conquered. He knows me too well.
Napoleon gives the driver our destination, then turns to me. "Illya. Got a hundred?"
"You bribe the driver." I answer. "It is your fault that we are running late."
***************
The cab driver must race in his spare time.
We make the airport desk with five minutes to spare. Fortunately, we have no check-in luggage. The desk clerk looks put upon, but not to the point of disaccommodating first class passengers. Riga has clearly reverted to feudalism. He checks our tickets and our passports and waves us on to the stairs.
The plane is full. I am glad Napoleon insisted on following procedure and purchased three seats. We take ours - window and aisle at the back of the forward cabin. Right across from the rest rooms. Very secure.
We have just stowed our cases in the overhead bin when a well tailored young man strolls up with the stewardess. "Pardon, Miss." He has Napoleon's smile and a British accent. "I rather believe I'll sit with these gentlemen."
"Well.." I give her a winter look. She wavers. "I don't think..."
His smile stiffens and he pulls a leather ID case from his breast pocket.
She glances from it, to me, to him. "If you insist."
"Gentlemen." She smiles at Napoleon, but keeps one eye on me. "I'm sorry. The plane is going to be full. I know you purchased that seat, but if it's not used I'm afraid I'll have to ask you to give it up for this gentleman."
She give me a hopeful smile. I do not return it.
She turns to Napoleon. "You'll be compensated, of course, and it won't be for the full flight - just as far as Warsaw."
"I don't think..." I begin.
"Don't worry, chaps." He raises one finger in mock salute. "I'll take the window seat." A gesture of trust - perhaps. Or perhaps the knowledge I would offer no other. He speaks to Napoleon but hands me the black case. "Bond, James Bond."
I look over the card. James Bond. British Foreign Service. That is what it says, but.... I remember Mr. Bond, and this is not him. Something of my thoughts must reach my face, because he shrugs. "Shall we say Bond 007.4?"
Well, yes, they do replace. As do we. I wonder at the fate of his predecessor, but such questions are never polite. I will wait to get the report from Intel.
Napoleon stands. Apparently we are going along with this. I do likewise, handing the newcomer his papers and moving over to the center seat. Proper handshakes all around before we resettle ourselves.
We strap in, and conversation is halted for the takeoff and cabin announcements. Nothing new there, although the forced joviality is a touch annoying. We wait until the signs go off before loosening our belts.
Napoleon sits back, apparently relaxed. "Strange coincidence."
Bond catches the question and is clearly not deceived by its tone. "Catching this flight was an coincidence. Rush call to Berlin. Sitting with you? No choice. Rather plonk with blokes who I know aren't K.A.O.S.?"
"K.A.O.S.?"
"Nasty chaps. Rather like your T.H.R.U.S.H. fellows." He makes a vague gesture of dismissal. "How did I tag you? Called in at the start. Think half the world was, to speak plain. Half *our* world, any rate. Day you chaps showed up at that mine, Auntie whistled up the troops. Me? I drove a lorry. Mother can be a bit protective, you know. And the Belaruse? Slimy buggers. Sell their sister for a used Yugo."
"So you recognized us?"
"After a sort." This time the smile was a honest grin. "I must say you chaps are looking worlds better. Rather a bad show down there - but you'd know better then me. Good to have you back in trim, as it were."
I am not fully reassured of his intentions, but perhaps the chance of information will outweigh the dangers of discovery. Especially since the later is a given. I am still considering a suitable question when the stewardess is back.
"Mr. Bond? You have a call?"
"Sorry. I'd best take that."
He unlatches the telephone receiver set in the back of the seat in front of me. "Bond here." He listens, and after a few seconds produces a beige disk from his jacket. Some sort of scrambler, I assume. He snaps one end over the earphone and stick the ear piece in this ear. "Go on."
Napoleon is once again in the back of a newspaper provided by the plane. This time the London Times. Checking his stocks, I assume. Why, even for a capitalist, a man with as little actual ability to hold on to money as Napasha should be fascinated by that....shell game... I can not understand. Still, it does fascinate him. I suppose it is another form of gambling. One that the Americans have somehow declared respectable enough to discuss at work. Myself? If I were to gamble I would prefer some honest waste like poker. But I have always known that American morals are strange. Still, his one visible hand gives the signal for 'listen in'. As if I would have to be told. He knows me, as I know that from behind his paper he is actually watching the plane.
Wishing to appear polite, I pick up my much traveled copy of Astrophysica and pretend to read. Not that there is now anything in it I have not been through twice - and even the first time it was less interesting than the partial conversation beside me.
"Yes?" The British agent's tone is polite but bland.
I listen carefully, but there is nothing to hear. Or rather, there is speech, but Mr. Bond is quite professionally vague. Even so...
"Oh, Please! I rather think first class." The offended tone is quite sincere.
That is the Bond I remember. The Brits spoil their 'elite'. A foolish waste and a danger to cohesion. More so, since I knew the previous Bond was a Scots peasant until he got the call. Then suddenly he was a 'gentleman'. Such nonsense. Still, what better can be expected from a country that prides itself on remaining a monarchy? At least the Americans claim some democratic ideals. Although Napoleon would be no better if Wavery did not exert some discipline.
"Remind Q that makes four suits this month. My tailor is getting a bit chuffed."
That is *very* Bond - and Napoleon is worse.
"Bother M." He taps his fingers on the tray. A bad habit. "Very well. I'm listening." After thirty minutes of tapping and listening. I am bored enough to start reading.
"Gentlemen?" The stewardess is back, this time with a drink cart. Bond waves her off. I consider the offer, but it is to early for vodka - even if I truly deserve some. I settle for coffee, and Napoleon orders the same.
At the first sip I realize my mistake. This is the nasty American stuff. No matter. At least it is hot. I drop down my tray. Napoleon can use it, and still have free access to the aisle. And it will block our British friend.
He notes the movement and signals the stewardess for a third coffee, never turning from the phone. Apparently the conversation is of some interest. At least, he is listening closely. It is another ten minutes before he speaks again. "Charming chap."
Whatever that means. For the tone, it is not a compliment. A few sips of coffee and he goes back to listening.
Another long pause. Our British friend produces a black plastic pad from his pocket and starts jotting down notes. Nothing I can see. He shields it well, and it would be unadvisable to look obviously. Quite an improvement on the old equipment. I doubt this electronic pad leaves impression sheets.
It is another half hour at least before the stewardess returns - this time with breakfast trays. Again our new companion ignores her. We do not. This is very much an American breakfast. Scrambled eggs, bacon, toast. Not my favorite. No matter. I am hungry and it is food.
Napoleon greets his tray with approval. This is his favorite. If not up to his ideals, at least it is familiar. He has more bad coffee. I switch to orange juice. It has a tinned taste. No matter. It is good enough, and I very much appreciate the vitamin C.
At a word, she leaves an extra glass for Napoleon. He needs it for his bruises. Not that he considers such things. I do, so I will see that he drinks it.
We finish breakfast in relative silence. I would like to talk with Napoleon, but our new company rather limits the topics. No matter. We will have time later. When we are finished the stewardess picks the trays and offers magazines and more drinks. I accept the first and pass on the later. Not that the magazines are much better then the coffee. Financial journals and some pink thing called People full of the trite misdeeds of the Hollywood set. I pass them to Napoleon and return to the reading I brought.
After a bit longer I feel the plane start down. Almost there. Our British colleague is still frowning at his phone. "Very well, but have it waiting."
He pulls the mouthpiece off and places the phone back into its cradle in the seat in front of me. "Bloody Krauts," he mutters, slipping his equipment back into his jacket. " They think the only car on earth is the BMW."
I nod at that. "Convertible, I hope."
"Rather." He sound almost outraged at even the question. "One does have some standards."
Yes. I believe this man is now Bond.
The stewardess returns and reminds us to prepare for landing. There is the usual business of strapping and the usual announcement of connections missed and delayed. Whatever the time, that part of air travel endures unchanged. We all sit quietly until we are on the ground.
Bond stands. "Lovely meeting you," he says as we shake hands again. "Give me a call up when you're in London. Mother has my number."
We also stand so he can leave.
I wait until he is out the door before turning to my partner. "Did you believe that?"
"No." He shakes his head. "I wonder how they found us?"
I leave the "they" unquestioned. It does not matter. Made is made. Time to evade.
We wait until the others have left the plane. Thirty minute layover. Not long, but if challenged we can claim to be looking for decent coffee. One sip if the on board stuff should prove back-up enough.
It is a large terminal, and busy. An easy place to vanish if you understand the technique. The usual lobby- and -wings format of any decent sized airport.
Napoleon signals 'follow at a distance'. Any tail will have a hard time watching both of us, and if he makes the effort we may see him first.
The path to the main terminal is clearly marked. Within ten minutes we are seated at a 'coffee bar' sipping overprices espressos. I do not complain. It is hot. It is caffeine. And the view of the concourse is excellent. "Where to now?" I ask.
"This place looks large enough." Napoleon pitches his green paper cup into the nearby bin. "Pick a plane."
END CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE