PS: In answer to 'why does it take 51 chapters before you see any action? That's espionage. Long periods of watchful boredom, ended by moments of stark terror. Then, if you are lucky enough to survive, the boredom starts again.
The Man from Yesterday
A Man from U.N.C.L.E. Story
by Darklady
Chapter Fifty-One: Every Time is Going to Be the Last Time
Rated: PG-13
****
The cars are driving up as we reach the lawn. A long row of Lincoln limos flanked by radio vans, with the motorcycle escort peeling off as the slowing procession drops them below stable speed.
Everyone waits in the sun through the usual rituals of power. Mr. Van Ort greets the Vice-President, then the delegates, then introduces his own staff. All very formal, and strictly managed by the protocol officers.
That done, they all pose for still photos and smile for the news cameras. In some sense that is the true purpose of this trip. Fifteen seconds on the evening news will do more to shore up Sat-Com's stock price and Azerbaijan's foreign exchange then all the hard infrastructure this ten years of proposed engineering will provide. Something about that rubs against my proletarian background, but.... one does not remain an effective agent by denying the truth.
Napoleon and I watch quietly from the edge of the Sat-Con delegation. It is actually a very effective vantage point. We have an excellent view of both lines of defense. I make a mental note. Perhaps we should try infiltration as prospective employees more often.
Van Ort waits until the entire ritual is finished and we are under the reception tent before he draws Napoleon and I over.
"Mr. Vice-President, let me..."
A bland-faced young lady at his side holds up her hand. "The Vice-President does not speak English."
"Does he speak Russian?" Van Ort asks her.
"Of course."
"Then.." Van Ort's tone slows, and takes on the careful accent of someone whose words come from language tapes rather then conversation. "Mr. Vice-President. This is Doctor Kuryakin." Van Ort stops again, clearly searching, then turns back to the young lady. "Can you tell the Vice-President that Dr. Kuryakin will be coming on board to join us in this important project?" Apparently a review of social introductions was the sum of the executive's Russian lessons. Although, given the usual American distaste for such studies, I suppose I must give him credit for the effort.
She whispers to an aid, who in turn whispers to Babeyev. This is painful. I decide to end it.
Vice-President Babeyev." I step forward, nod formally, but do not offer my hand. In a diplomatic situation, that is the senior's prerogative. "Mr. Van Ort has suggested that my partner and I join in the coordination efforts for this project."
"You are Dr. Kuryakin?" Babeyev gives me a careful look, as if trying to place me by accent and features. " You are Russian?"
I nod again.
"I was hoping for a competent Engineer."
Clearly the man was not elected based on his personal charm. Then again, he is the *Vice*-President. And this is not the occasion for debate.
"I received my doctorate from Cambridge," I reply. It is not an answer, but he will likely take it as one.
"That is good." He holds out his hand, now clearly quite willing to welcome me into the project. Apparently Grustov was right about the school connection. Oh, well. As Demitri said, 'any path to victory'.
I am reaching out when a sudden shift at the right catches my eye. Just over the Vice-Presidents shoulder. One of his security men looking suddenly serious. And the man's hand is moving up along his lapel as if.. A threat behind us? I try to follow the eye pattern, but...*Blin*... he is looking at me. No...at...
I grab Babeyev's forearm with both hands and roll him below me, simultaneously yelling, "Down! Hostile! I have one!"
*ping*
The traitor's first shot misses Babeyev. I think it may graze my jacket, but if so it does no harm.
Now everybody is shouting. Still on top of my principal, I pull and fire. Two shots centered on the guard's chest. He is down.
*ping* *ping*
Chyort. That does not sound like defense. Wrong direction.
*prang* *prang*
Return fire. A shout and a curse. Not English. Napoleon must be covering me.
I shove Babeyev behind a potted palm. He should be semi-safe there. Two of his men dive on him. Good. As long as they are straight, he has a chance. And now so do I.
I roll off the ledge and risk a look. Most of the other innocents have had the good sense to drop. Van Ort is wisely crawling under a table. Not that plywood will do that much good in a fire fight, but at least it clears the visual for more active targets.
Two men in blue suits are running across the lawn. Babeyev crew from the colors, but whether assault or defense? No way to tell. The are both ahead of Napoleon, so..
*ping*
One turns and fires. Napoleon rolls. Decided. Assault. One round only, then the man is running again.
A foolish error. Perhaps fatal. Napoleon returns fire, and he does not miss. One down. One active. As Napoleon jumps to his feet I follow.
The last hostile will try for the parking lot. That much is obvious. He will need a car, both for transport and for cover. And the sacrifice of his colleague has given the fleeing man an edge. Napoleon dodges left. I go right. As we reach the near edge of the reflecting pond I spot Mark and a crew of black-suits coming up from the gate.
That is good in the sense that it limits escape, but it also removes any safe field of fire. For us at least. The hostile has a range of targets, and still several possible exits. Best if he goes down soon. I holster my pistol and pick up speed.
Napoleon is closest. He catches up with our target just before the man passes the central fountain. Open tackle. Good effort. It catches the would-be assassin off balance and almost takes him down. Almost. The assassin's gun goes flying. Very good. But not good enough. The man grabs at Napoleon and flips him, using the momentum to toss him over-body. Napoleon kicks back, taking the fall and turning it to a roll. Grabbing the target's arm, Napoleon pulls the hostile under him just before they both hit the water.
The target comes up coughing, but by then both Mark and myself are close enough to put an end to any delusions of escape. And two sets of conventional security are coming up fast at my back.
Looking down the barrels of over twenty assorted firearms, the now sodden hostile makes the decision to surrender. Under the circumstances, it would seem his best option. As the various security forces debate possession of the now-prisoner, I hold out my hand to help Napoleon.
"Damn, Illya." He runs a finger over the bullet shredded shoulder of my jacket. "Why is it always you that they shoot at?"
I hand him my handkerchief. "Why do you always fall in water?"
"There is that." He squeezes out his hair, then wrings the sleeve of his dripping jacket. "And I once again ruined my best suit."
"At least this time you will not have to explain to Waverly why he should replace it."
Napasha grins ruefully. "Think April is going to be more reasonable?"
END CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE