A Man from U.N.C.L.E. Story
by Darklady
Chapter Forty-Three: Games People Play
Rated: PG-13
****
A beautiful house. All peach stucco and black wrought iron. Not large, but surrounded by the acre of fruit trees that seems ubiquitous as the sign of local affluence. A tall ironwork fence surrounds the property, but the driveway gate opens as we approach. Quiet proof that, for all the bucolic calm, we are being watched.
Napoleon parks at the top of the long driveway. As I get out, my eyes follow the red pavers and blue Spanish tile that shows our way to the vine shaded front door. Tiny pin-lights mark the edge of the path, and brighter spots pick out the occasional well-trimmed oleander. All very casual, and yet expensively maintained. The California flavor of ostentatious.
Before we can ring the bell, Dr. St. Armot greets us at the door. He is much as I had expected. Middle age, middle weight, aggressively middle class; but with eyes far sharper then he would wish to have noticed. It is not wise to be careless around such men.
"Dr. Kuryakin. Mr. Solo." He shakes our hands, then waves us into the living room. "Welcome."
"Dr. St. Armot." Napoleon brings out his 'bonhomie' smile. "So nice of you to have us."
I check out the fashion magazine living room. Good leather furniture. Better Turkastani rugs. Garish abstract art that I'm sure is finer still, if one were to ask a curator. Heavy velvet drapes that block all light from the street, and would do much to deaden even the noise of speech. Not that anyone would be listening from the street. But of course not. But I think if one were they would gain little here.
"Something to drink?" Dr. St. Armot pulls three glasses from the bar.
"Scotch."
"Vodka."
As he pours, a well dressed woman comes in from the kitchen. Blond, sweet faced, to all appearances the perfect executive wife. Only the green eyes are wrong. They remind me of a tiger I once met in the jungles of Burma. Except that I won the fight with the tiger. I do not think I could rely on such fortune again.
"Gentlemen." St. Armot lifts his glass. "My wife Elaine."
"Welcome." She shakes my hand as her husband pours her a glass. "It's so nice when I get to welcome new friends to the neighborhood. I thought we'd eat on the patio. The weather is so fine at this time of year."
"A wonderful idea." Napoleon takes her hand with the twist of his lips that says he would rather kiss it.
Center target again. Damn the man. Mrs. St. Armot twinkles a bit as she adds. "I hope you like Italian."
"Very much." Napoleon's smile deepens. "Elaine."
"Wonderful." Her tone says she has spotted the game, but will play anyway. "I made lasagna."
"I love lasagna."
We follow her out to the back patio. It is much like Mark and David's. Only somewhat larger, and without the pool. Instead there is another wet bar, a fireplace large enough to roast a boar, and a fountain. Also fruit trees. Dozens more fruit trees. A foolish thought catches my mind. Whatever do the local gentry do with all that produce? I can not see this elegant pair with a produce stand. Especially not Mrs. St. Armot. If her smile is acquired, the pearls below them are clearly hers by divine right.
She serves us pasta and salad, and we chat a bit about traffic and weather and the constant difficulties of building just the right house. Mrs. St. Armot is serving dessert before her husband decides to get down to business.
"So," He smiles at us both. " You gentlemen are thinking of moving into the area." It is not quite a question.
"Perhaps." I answer.
"So cautious." The Director glances at his wife, who only smiles. "I get a lot of that. Comes with the turf." He takes a deep sip of his cappuccino, then continues. " This is a wonderful area. Full of opportunities. And , of course. I like to think the rad lab is high among them."
I am perhaps strung up from the day, but the courtesy is getting excessive. I decide to be blunt. "Forgive me, Dr. St. Armot. But I would not think that the premier American Nuclear Weapons Development Center would have any opportunities for a Russian scientist of my background. At least, none you would wish me you finds out about."
"Please, Dr. Kuryakin." His face takes on an expression similar to real hurt. " Livermore Labs has far more going for it then just producing weapons of mass destruction. Not that I will deny that we still take some restricted work, which I do not..."
I finish the sentence. "Choose to talk about at this time?"
"Exactly," The Director concedes fraternally. "But there are other projects. Power generation, for instance. We are doing some major work for the international space project. And we are at the forefront of legitimate cold fusion. Both of those are multi-national operations, and they require science trained people to lead them."
"So you are interested primarily in management skills?"
"At this time, yes." He searches my eyes carefully. I do not think there is anything to be seen, but after a pause he adds. "Not to say we would not offer research opportunities. We can and do. But.... what I need primarily is science-trained people who direct the work between a ...variety...of personnel. People who can function well within a high-level governmental setting. Those are skills the two of you gentlemen offer in abundance."
"I would think that would be common?"
St. Armot shakes his head. "Hardly."
It is Mrs. St. Armot who smiles knowingly, and then answers. "This area is long on genius. But I fear it's sadly short of diplomacy."
Napoleon quizzes the Director about cold fusion funding over the final port and cheese. Quite extensively. I don't believe that Napasha has much information on the subject. Then again, I didn't think he knew computers, either. For that matter, I am still uncertain on that subject. Perhaps he wants answers. Perhaps he is just being charming. With Napoleon, it is impossible to ever be sure. Except... if he learns something, he will tell me when we get home.
Ten o'clock. Napoleon stands, signaling that it is time to leave.
As we head for the door Napoleon and 'Elaine' exchange the usual polite farewells. I turn to our host. "Thank you, Dr. St. Armot." We shake hands a final time. "You have given me a great deal to think about."
*****
We are back on the road before Napoleon says anything.
"Not impressed?"
I shrug. "It's nice to know I could get a job, but - no. I would rather go to work at the college. You?"
"I would rather go to work for Iraq. The man was a snake. And his wife?" Napasha shivers dramatically.
I am surprised. From his tone Napoleon seemed to like both the St. Armot's exceedingly. But then, that is his skill. "You are certain?" I ask.
"I should know how to spot a snake," Napoleon snorts. "I am one."
True enough, I agree mentally. All I say is. "But you are such an attractive snake."
"You think so?"
"I have always admired your... coils."
That earns a laugh. "Let's go home - and you can admire them up close."
****************
We have just turned onto the main highway when I notice something in the side mirror. Something..?
"Napoleon?"
"Yes, Illya?"
I tap the window. "The headlights behind us?"
"Not again?" He shifts to the slower lane, watching as the lights behind us do likewise. Then he speeds up a bit. No change.
I gauge the distance as he speeds up a bit. No change. "I think so."
"Damn it." Napoleon loosens his jacket. "This time I am going to shoot someone." He glances at me quickly as I pull my pistol. "Are you steady."
"Absolutely,"I answer, pulling my new pistol. "I only had one drink."
I pop the glove box and pull the red clip. According to the manual this one should contain light explosives. At the least, it will give me the better mass. Only one quarter the capacity of the black, but if I need more then fifty rounds we are already dead.
"Good." Napoleon hesitates a moment, clearly checking his memory. "The road should narrow ahead, with a cliff on the right side. I'm going to speed up, then break back into the second lane. With luck, they should end up beside us. Let's see what that does."
Unspoken orders. If they are beside us, they will never pass us. I lower my window. A deadly clue in daylight. In the dark, they should not spot the danger until they are trapped in killing ground. Tightening my harness, I brace against the armrest and wait.
Napoleon is smooth. He keeps the acceleration gradual, almost incidental, until we are pushing even freeway believability. Then, just as the following driver begins to show signs of suspicion, he counts. "Three, two...now."
He slams the breaks one half second after he cranks the wheel. Tight maneuver. Done wrong, it will send the car skidding out of control. Done right?
It was. The follow-car breaks, but not quickly enough to stay entirely behind us. Thirty feet. Twenty. Ten.
Two shots craze the rear windshield. Visibility almost gone, but for now it holds. I return fire, but the angle is bad. Two Joshua trees vanish in splinters. Double miss. And the follow car is slowing just past our tail. Bad position.
"Plus two," I tell Napoleon.
He cranks left, whipping our rear into their fender. With both sides prepared, it's not enough to take them off the road. Unfortunately. But it does force the driver off the breaks in order to steer. Good enough. I lean out. Another round. This one low and almost down our side. No chance to aim. As it is they get two more rounds into our frame. No matter. Our metal holds,and their tire does not.
Off balance but not out, their shooter sends another volley into our frame. Amateur. He should have waited another two feet and been fully along side. He is too anxious. At this range and with their angle I would have had both gunman and driver.
"Brace," Napoleon commands, responding with a full side slam. The impact sends damaged glass raining over the back seat, but our harnesses hold us in place. Now locked, Napoleon accelerates to the right until the opponent is pushed through the low guardrail.
The drop is sharp. At least fifty feet near vertical to the hard ground below. My door bends out with a scream of stressed metal. For a moment I fear the cars are truly locked, and we will go with them down to the rocks. We do rock severely, but at the last our breaks hold. The follow-car slips free and we remain above, teetering on the verge but still safe.
Napoleon drops the automobile into reverse and backs cautiously away from the unstable edge. Only once we are safely back on the paved roadway does he look at me. "What time do you think it is in New York?"
*********
Pulling out my phone, I press the buttons for April's home number. This time there are fifteen rings before the phone is answered with a grunt.
"April?" I ask.
A thump, then the background sound of a masculine baritone groaning. "Honey, it's for you."
Another few thumps and a hiss before a more familiar voice comes on the line. "Napoleon?"
"Illya," I answer.
She yawns and hits the scrambler. "Not another wrecked car? Please."
"Sorry."
"Oh, Lord." I hear the scratch of cloth. Most likely sheets. Then.. "Where do I pick this one up?"
"With a crane, I'm afraid." I look at the rock wall, which is reflecting occasional flashes of light from the flames below. "Napoleon sent them over a cliff."
"A cliff," April repeats wearily.
"At least we did not shoot anyone." I remind her. "You were most insistent about that."
"Much appreciated, I'm sure." Three beeps indicates the connection of another line. "What is your position?" Another pause before asking, "Do you need help?"
I look at Napoleon, who shrugs.
"No," I answer, reading our location off of the roadside pole. "Our car will still drive."
"Fine. Go on home. I'll send out a team." Another few beeps and a hiss, followed by a brief silence on our end while she talks to whoever is on the other line. " Call me again in the morning. I want a debrief. And Illya?" Her voice takes on a edge of maternal endurance. "Do you think the two of you could get through the rest of the night without incident?"
END CHAPTER FORTY-THREE