A Man from U.N.C.L.E. Story
by Darklady
Chapter Twenty-Seven: Two Fine People
Rated: PG-13
*******
When we get off the plane this time, our reception is waiting.
Mark Slate is recognizably Mark. Older, of course. He must be nearly sixty. He does not look it. A bit heavier perhaps. A touch of grey at the temples. But still very much the man I remember from the field. "Illya." He calls out. "Napoleon."
We push through the crowd to where he is standing.
"Mark, you look fit." Napoleon says.
Mark sweeps Napoleon into a broad hug. "You guys look great. How was the flight?"
"Too long," I answer, holding out my hand.
"It always is nowadays." He replies, accepting the handshake. "Terrible service, and the food keeps getting worse. But, hey, you're here now. Luggage?"
"Only this." I point to our bags.
"Great," he replies, setting off down the hallway. "I left David to park in short term. They give thirty minutes free. If you want to rent a car, it's smarter to do it in town. Better rates." Which might explain the rush. I do not recall Mark having Napasha's trouble with his expense accounts.
The airport is cool, but outside the night air is warm. I begin to regret the holster that makes me keep my jacket. Mark guides us through a maze of concrete and cars, past the elevators and up a flight of open stairs. Within minutes we arrive at a new looking green sedan, besides which a middle aged man is standing. Graying black hair, sun browned skin, a bit thick at the waist , can this be...? The man looks up. "Mark. These are your friends?"
"Yes." Mark opens the trunk and holds a hand out for our luggage. "Napoleon Solo and Illya Kuryakin, spook of spooks and scourge of evildoers everywhere. Well, almost everywhere. This is Dr. David Martinez, my partner, and the terror of the Berkeley economics department."
We shake hands all around. David Martinez looks a bit younger then Mark, but not as much as I had expected. And he was also a professor? Dr. Martinez opens the back door and waves us in. "They were just shocked to find they had hired a free-market conservative."
Mark slams the trunk shut. "Standards are dropping everywhere."
"It's not a bad department, really." Martinez says, starting the car. "Lots of bright students. But after spending the day fighting the Bolshevik hordes - I could use a drink."
"So say we all," Mark snaps back. "Several, if you're going to go all Keynesian on us."
"Please." Martinez makes a theatrical clutch at his heart. "Careful with the insults." He pulls on to the freeway, steering sharply to avoid an on-coming truck. Finally, I think, I have found someone who drives even more recklessly then Napasha.
I sit quietly, listing to Mark and his friend swap soft insults with the confidence of long familiarity. There is something different to their chat, and it takes me a while to realize what it is. They banter like any old married couple.
I hesitate, looking at Napoleon.
"Mark? " he asks. "You are really....?"
"Twenty-six years come September."
Napasha glances at me , then asks Mark, "The University does not object?"
Mark chuckles. "The University gives us benefits and threw a nice party for our Silver Anniversary."
"Not that nice," Martinez snaps back. " Cheap Paso Robles wine."
"You're joking."
"David Never Jokes." Mark answers in mock solemnity. "He's into Hayak. He's also a wine snob."
Martinez snorts at that, but he does not deny either claim.
Our driver honks at a pickup and slips over three lanes to make an off ramp, while Mark turns around in his seat to look at us. "Rather, I'm the one who's dead serious. That's one of the reasons I invited you two out here. There's a whole new world waiting, chaps, but to get there.... you're going to need your friends."
The car pulls to a stop beside a two-storied Tudor house on a well manicured lawn. Hidden lights illuminate the twin strips of rose bushes that separate it from its neighbors. "Home sweet home." Mark quips, hopping out and opening the trunk "Now, before I bring in the luggage, are we going to play one room or two?"
Napoleon hesitates, then says, "Ask Illya."
Mark looks at me. "I suppose....one," I answer.
**********************
Mark takes up our luggage while his friend guides us to the living room. It is very... comfortable. Even inviting. Nice leather sofas, good walnut furniture, exceedingly good rugs. Here and there sits an exotic piece that is clearly a souvenir, although whether of Slate's adventures or of more plebeian travels I could not guess. Such a lovely house, much like the ones I remember from my Cambridge days...except Californians have either discovered heating or learned to manage without it. Given the outside warmth, it could be either.
David Martinez opens the top of a large globe and pulls out two glasses. "Chivas and vodka. Have I got that right?"
Napoleon picks a well positioned leather chair and settles in. "If you have it."
"Chivas Regal Premium Label. Purchased for the occasion." He hands Napoleon a glass, then brings another to me. "I made Mark spring for the good Polish stuff."
"Thank you Dr. Martinez."
"David, please. Unless you really want me to call you Dr. Kuryakin. Although, with my lead ear for accents, I'm not even sure I could."
"Very well." I raise the glass. "David." He is right. The vodka is excellent. Perhaps even better for being served warm.
David pours two stemmed glasses of dark red wine and closes the globe. "I'm delighted to meet you two - at last," he says, taking a place on the sofa. "Mark doesn't talk much about his secret agent days, so I can hardly claim to know you second hand, but when he heard you were coming? He was like a kid at Christmas."
"You will destroy my aura of mystery." Mark is standing in the arched entrance.
"What aura of mystery?" David pats the cushion beside him. "Nowadays I can barely imagine Mark as a spy. His face shows everything."
Mark takes the seat indicated and reaches for his wine. "It does now, David. You didn't know me at my worst."
"Worse than...?" He shakes his head at some old memory. "I wish I had."
"I'm glad you did not. It was bad enough..."
David shrugs. "Liberal guilt. What can you do?" He takes a sip if wine, then turns to me "So. How are you two enjoying the new millennium?"
I think for a moment. "It is... interesting."
"As in the Chinese curse? Don't listen to the radio crazies. We have our problems, but ... I think you'll like it here."
We sit for a bit, listening to Mark and Napoleon revisit our good times.
David rises. "I have to go check the kitchen."
"Would you care for some help?" I ask.
"You cook?"
"Not well, but after the Russian Navy? I know how to follow orders."
He laughs. "Five minutes, guys."
Martinez is serious about his cooking, but after a minute of close observation he declares me qualified to toss the salad. An honor, since in this case it is a exceedingly complicated affair of spring greens and crudities. While I mix, he adds the last garnishes to a platter of new potatoes and pastry wrapped salmon.
I carry it all to the dinning room while David brings up another bottle of wine. Officially white, this time, although the actual shade is darker then the fish. After pouring, he passes the label to Napoleon. Soon they are off on another discussion of exotic vintages. Which again leaves me to talk to Mark.
"Mark. I cannot believe you left the agency early?"
"I can't believe they let me. I resigned in protest over.. well...certain policies. Waverly died in 1978. Did April tell you that?"
"No, but when she said she was CPO.... well." I hesitate. "We would have expected you to hold the post."
Mark shrugged. "Might have, eventually. I took Enforcement, but I never quite had the Solo style. Sir John took over after Waverly, but.... it wasn't the same. He was more of a player, and he let things get.... political. You are lucky you missed it."
I ran through the history book I had finally finished on the plane to California. "If you resigned in 1980, it must have been the matter of Afghanistan."
"I'd rather not discuss such things. Not necessary."
"Right answer," Napoleon agrees.
David looks at the three of us and shakes his head. "And here I thought the FBI was paranoid."
Mark was right about his companion's gourmandise. He brings out third bottle with desert. Sweet liqueur with fruit and cheese. Very European, although David Martinez proudly assures us that it is all local produce. Napoleon is impressed, and they fall into a chat about crus and curvees. That leaves me to talk with Mark.
I mention my 'resignation', and the strange advice of the general and Dr. Goldak. "What I cannot believe is that my people want me to leave."
"Things are different now."
"So I have been told."
Davis looks up from his lecture on the wine label. "You know, Mark, Illya really should get together with Grustov in Languages." He turns to me. "Demitri runs a quiet little support group. Very low key."
"What is a support group?" I ask.
"Peer support." Davis answers. " People to talk to? Like A.A.? Except his is for ....well....you know. Very non-partisian. There's always been a big C.I.A. presence in the area."
"You want me to meet with the C.I.A.? I do not think...."
"No! Illya! David did not mean that!" Mark sends a sharp glance across the table to his friend. "David. Be a bit sensitive!" He turns to me, calmly reassuring. "Demitri Grustov retired as a Colonel in the G.R.U. All very kosher. I checked." At that, Mark grins. "I mean, I would never knowingly hire an *active* agent. This is a state school."
David rolls his eyes at that, but Mark continues. "Grustov applied with the language department. They wanted someone to teach Turkish and Slovenian. He wanted to come to California. Very good deal all around. PoliSci picked him up later. Goldstein was bitching about faculty balance for the R.O.T.C. instructors."
That is no explanation. "If he is not active, why does he run a group?"
"A support group... oh, never mind, that's just one of the things that has changed. You'll catch on."
David changes the subject. "Can we convince you two to stay in Berkeley?"
"I was thinking of going back to school."
"I though you already had your Doctorate?"
"Yes, Quantum Physics from Cambridge. 1954."
"Ouch!" David makes a pained face. "That field has changed beyond belief. I think we have a pretty decent department here, but the real work is being done out at Santa Barbara by the Chaos Math guys. Very radical." He rises and begins collecting the plates. "I can show you around, but I don't know too many people in that department. Economics is not considered a hard science."
END CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN