A Man from U.N.C.L.E. Story
by Darklady
Chapter Twenty-Four : The First Hello. The Last Goodbye
Rated: PG
Dedicated to 8R - maker of very fine steel. Illya would have appreciated your art.
Tribute : To Anne Higgins. Yep, these are *those* pictures. Only surviving copies. LOL
*******
"We're landing."
Napoleon wakes me when we start our decent. Enough time to wash up, but not to brood. He knows me too well.
At my insistence he goes first. In the time I take to locate my kit he is back, having somehow managed to shave, brush, and magically restore his suit to the same sharp crispness it had when we boarded for Warsaw. From appearances one would be more inclined to believe he had spent a quiet night in his own apartment, rather then nearly twenty-four hours in the air. But then -I mentally concede - that is the Solo style.
I shave quickly in the cramped airplane bathroom. Not the best location, but I have been in the air long enough to begin showing shadow - blond as I am - and I have always had a personal quirk about meeting 'interesting' situations well pulled together. Not that I am the slave to the mirror that Napasha can be at times, but life in America has taught me the virtues of a professional appearance. After that, a quick splash of water and and a few runs of the comb make me as neat as possible under the circumstances. For one I am grateful for my current unnaturally short hair. At least it's care takes little time. And I do not wish to leave my partner alone over-long.
By the time I return he has brought down our cases and stashed them below the window seat. Wise. We may wish to move quickly.
"Welcome to New York Kennedy Airport, local time 10:15 a.m.," the Captain begins.
I listen to his announcements with half an ear. We have no connections to worry about. Still, it may be best to mix with those who do. We wait until the crowd has started , then mingle in. There is a well dressed man in front of us, and we shape our body language to look like we are with him. That is, until he is swept into the embrace of another man waiting at the exit.
Napoleon looks at me, one eyebrow raised.
"Perhaps that is his brother?" I say.
"The man's black."
I shrug. "Stepbrother."
*****
I wait by the exit watching while Napoleon rents another convertible. Green this time. They must be out of red ones. He keeps the keys and tosses me the maps. Naturally.
A smiling young man brings it right up to the sidewalk stand. As he drops our luggage into the trunk I ask Napoleon . "Do you want to drive over to Vermont first?"
"Why?"
I am shocked at the question. "To see your family?"
Napoleon just flips the keys. "If I walk through that dressing room in Del Floria's, and Waverly is sitting in his office, I'll see them at Thanksgiving."
"And if he's not?" I ask.
"Then I won't."
I control my face, but something must show because he stops. "I'm serious, Illya. If this April woman is April Dancer, then she *will* sanction."
"Even you?"
"Especially me." He unlocks the door and motions me to get in. " I would never have tolerated an agent that would not."
*****
Napoleon roars into traffic with his usual flare, heading into the city. I wait until we reach a familiar off ramp, then say, "Turn left here."
Napoleon does so, then looks over. "Where are we going?"
"Shopping," I answer.
"Here I though I was the materialist in this partnership."
"That would depend upon the material."
I give him a few more directions until we pull up in front of a small storefront. This is on what is euphemistically called a 'business' district, by which is implied the same 'lack' of business that provides us with a parking space directly by the door. Twenty minutes left on the meter, which should be enough. I add some change anyway, using the action to cover a careful scan of the neighborhood. Other then the expected pedestrians and bums, the area is quiet. I check out the flyer-covered frontage of 'Omar's Cutlery and Camp Supplies'. A bit shabbier then I remember, and the place was never a center of culture. I am glad it is still in business.
I head for the door, and after a second Napoleon follows.
Opening the door, I step carefully over the sleeping dog and skirt around a box of cheap hatchets left almost blocking the aisle. The store is dark and shabby and wonderful. Not because of the displays, which are mostly flashy letter openers and fake Swiss Army knives. No, because of what is beneath that display.
Omar is still behind the counter. Thirty years older, perhaps, but still unmistakably Omar. It takes him a moment to place me, but then, "Illya Nickovetch?"
"Glad to see you're still in business."
He looks me over warily. "Likewise, I guess."
"What have you got for me?" When he hesitates, I add "In a knife."
"Knife, eh?" He chews his cigarette a bit, then turns for a box under the back counter. "Hooked up with a new guy. Does good work."
Interesting. Cable Damascus. Flashy pattern, perfect balance. I give it a flip at the target set in the far wall. Steady flight. "Wrist sheath?" I ask as I walk over to retrieve it.
He shrugs. "I can find one."
"This man - does he do boots?"
Omar doesn't bother talking. Just slaps another box on the counter, and goes back to searching through his leather supplies. I check out half a dozen. They are all good. No, excellent. I settle on a nice pair with leaf blades and flat bone handles. Decent flyers. Very nice to grip.
When I put them by the cash register, Omar produces the boot clips unasked. Then the wrist sheath. Very good leather. Thumb safety. Wide straps. I adjust the straps while he is ringing them up. The total is... high... but I do not comment. Good equipment is a necessity.
Napoleon waits until we are back at the car to tease. "Just the thing for the well dressed man about town?"
I smile. "I never leave home without it."
******
Signs pass as we head back towards our accustomed turf. At the most familiar I ask, "Shall we try your apartment? Or mine?"
"Not yet," Napoleon answers. "If it's there, it's dangerous."
"If not?"
"Then it's even more dangerous to be looking."
*********
He cuts across streets a few times. Swerves around a truck. Nearly clips a tourist bus. The usual evasion tactics. Not that we are being followed. It is simply the done thing. But in the end, we arrive where we must.
Napoleon slows the car as we pass the well known address. "This is it." He gestures at the familiar sign. "Del Floria's."
"The shop is still there." I nod, rechecking my tools. Nothing left but to try it out.
***************
Napoleon wishes to go first, but I insist. He is the senior agent, so by definition the better. According to the book he should cover me. Therefore I enter first, and he strolls in behind me. Convincing enough if one does not know what to look for... although I can not imagine how here that could be the case.
Del Floria's is Del Floria's. A few racks have been moved, but the basic layout is unchanged.
Napoleon stops by a rack of shirts near the dressing room as I go through. Yes, the door is there. I stick my head out the door. "Excuse me? Could you bring me that shirt?"
He grabs the first one to hand and slips in behind me.
"Here." I pull out my knife and use it to flip the door latch.
He locks the dressing room door behind us then follows me through.
The reception desk is there. Unchanged, but...empty. Also dusty. And dark. Only one light in the long ceiling fixtures appears to be working. I slide over to take the point while Napoleon searches the desk. If our badges exist, they will be there. He tries both drawers, then stands up, shaking his head.
I am about to suggest that we risk entry anyway when the side door opens and a young black man in a black suit and dark glasses steps out. He is holding two plastic triangles. Number 11 and number 2. "Were you looking for these?" he asks.
An older man in the same outfit follows behind him. "Mr. Solo. Mr. Kuryakin. We were told you might show up here." I am raising my knife when he signals, and another pair appear behind him. One man, one woman. Both also in black. Under the circumstances, I decide to put it away.
Napoleon looks over at the crew calmly. "You are?"
"Jones, Chief Control Officer." The older man holds his hand out for the two triangles - and receives them.
"Your badges, gentlemen. I believe we have the numbers right?" He hands us each one badge - accurately. " I'm afraid this site is used primarily for storage. But you are quite welcome to look around. Escorted, of course."
Napoleon nods at that. "Of course"
"And what will we see?" I ask.
"Whatever you want, I'd imagine."
Well, that is no answer. Still, to look is more informative then not to look.
I check with Napoleon. He signals yes. We take our badges and, followed by the two silent agents, head off down the hall.
The rooms are still there. Napoleon's office, Mr. Waverly's office, mine. They are there, but they are changed. New old paint. New old furniture. And boxes. Everywhere boxes. And dust. I know that can be manufactured, but... this dust feels real. "May I see my lab?" I ask.
The woman shrugs. Well, at least that is not a refusal. I glance at Napoleon. He nods. Together we make out way past medical to my laboratory.
That, too, is there. Like everywhere else it is dusty and cluttered, but there. Unless? I head for the workbench and pull out the bottom drawer. Long ago, when I first came to U.N.C.L.E., I had altered that drawer. Is it? Yes. As I reach down and sideways I can feel the release clasp of my hide-a-way. Not that I ever needed it. U.N.C.L.E. New York was as honest as Waverly had claimed it to be. After the first month, I was even a bit embarrassed at what I had done. I had never stored anything there but a few pictures captured from T.H.R.U.S.H. Now, as I reach in, I can feel the edge of brittle paper. I ease them out.
Yes. I glance down at the clouded membrane. The color has faded, but the scene is still recognizable. I quickly slide the photographs into my pocket. The two guards must observe my actions, but they chose to ignore them. That done, I turn again to Napoleon and signal, 'What do we do now?'
Before he can answer the senior agent walks in. "Finished, gentlemen?" he asks. From the tone, I doubt it is a question.
"If we are?" Napoleon's voice is dead level, revealing nothing.
"I'd ask you to accompany us."
"If we decline?"
"You are free to go." Mr. Jones gives us a very unconvincing smile. "And you'll never see any of us again."
Napoleon looks at me.
I look at Napoleon.
After a second he signals 'Go along.'
******
Our next stop is vehicle storage. That is as dusty as everywhere else, but far less cluttered. Only two black cars occupy the concrete floor.
The young black agent holds the door as we get in. I try to believe that it is a courtesy. Of course it is. But once we are seated, the doors lock on their own. Then the windows turn opaque. The driver turns to us as the interior partition rises. "Sorry, gentlemen. Security requirements."
Obviously. The only question is whose.
*********
A short ride. Either with good streets or good shocks. Whichever, I can not feel the road or follow the turns. Our destination is another garage. Just as grey, but this time with far less dust. There are several more cars as well. All large. All black.
Our babysitter again goes through the charade of holding the door. Does he think we were planning to camp in the car? Whatever. We have no choice now but to go along.
At Napoleon gesture we follow the young man past the vehicles to a bank of elevators. The driver follows. He presses his palm to a plaque set in the wall. The door opens and we get in. Only two men now. They are armed, but still. If pushed, we could take them. But why? And where would we run? For now, we must cooperate.
The door opens on a plain looking office hall.
The woman called April Dancer is standing there. "Illya." She beams. "Napoleon, dear." She waves us forward. "I've been waiting."
END CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR