To Touch Brilliance: three movements in the key of B. Myers
in which the Raven finds a Player in her nest,
and the Wolfe smells treble.

Part I: molto lento

Claudia Jardine was tired. Tired, tired, tired, she said to herself in decrescendoing whole notes. Her exhaustion was complete and left her struggling to sit upright in the limousine as it pulled away from her hasty exit of the night's concert venue.

The evening had been less than stellar, and though she was loathe to blame her own performance aloud (indicting instead the acoustics, conductor and instrument she had been given to play) she knew the responsibility lay within herself. She had been distant--depressed even--this entire leg of the tour, ever since that night at Albert Hall.

She sighed. Albert Hall--since then, everything she came into contact with—instruments, people, her own thoughts--played in a minor key. She felt dissonant, flat, and unable to be pleased by anybody or anything. It was a common enough occurrence in her life, but lately the feeling had begun to leave her unsettled. Perhaps she had spent too long as the diva. Again, she sighed and briefly entertained the idea of allowing herself to fall asleep and onto the nearby shoulder of her for-the-night bodyguard.

Thinking of the bodyguard, though, revived her earlier discordant mood with a vengeance. She made an effort to come around again, and addressed the man who sat opposite, his receding hairline and small build belying (she hoped) his expert ability at delivering the level of security that she paid him so handsomely to do.

"Bert," said the woman the French adoringly called La Jardine, edginess creeping into her voice. An edge that carried over the small TV that had been playing the evening news, the surrounding whine of walkie-talkies and other surveillance equipment littering the compartment. "The one you sent tonight to stand in the wings will never do. I want someone else immediately."

Ready as always for another barrage of inadequacies in his execution of the temperamental star's safekeeping, Bert Myers' face broke into a comforting smile. "Mademoiselle," he coaxed. "Ms. Jardine." He spread his hands expansively. "Claudia."

She crossed her arms in response to the familiar chorus of placating.

Seeing this, he regrouped and addressed the man seated next to Claudia. "Gordo," he ordered, "swap me seats here."

The larger man lumbered across the floor to the facing seating, freeing his space for Bert to take, which Bert did, addressing Claudia's demand. "Nick Wolfe is one of my best men," he offered solicitously. "He runs the European end of the firm."

At least he did, thought Myers to himself.

"I was really hoping that the two of you might hit it off." He had to strain to keep his voice from showing the grimness he felt. It was after two in the a.m., and the third confrontation with Claudia over security matters in as many days.

"He doesn't believe me," Claudia pouted, her prior haughtiness erased in the wake of wounded ego.

"Claudia," Bert put his arm around the back of the seat, slipping seamlessly into the by-now-familiar role of comforter.

"No," she was firm, arms still crossed. "He thinks I'm just some prima donna with a persecution complex using all this--" she gestured to the interior of the limo, its littered equipment, bullet-proof windows, "--as a bid for attention." She snuffled her nose, which in her frustration and earnestness had begun to run--a precursor to tears.

"What makes you say that?" Bert begged to know. "The two of you hardly were even in the same room together all night." He did not want to have to put Nick on another job. He had been hoping to hand security for the French leg of Claudia's tour over to his partner as soon as possible. What had the mercurial Mr. Wolfe gone and done now?

"He asked too many questions." Claudia recalled the brief grilling the intense, leather-jacketed brunet had put her through only moments before she was slated to perform. "Too many questions that I've already answered again and again."

"I'll talk to him," Bert promised, his voice dropping sympathetically, his mind jumping ahead, trying to decide on the best tone with which to upbraid Nick, yet leave the other man willing to stay on the job. Decades of subtlety in finessing covert international operations had prepared Bert Myers for dealing with clients like Claudia Jardine, as brittle and dangerous in her personal relationships as she was in her passion and abandon for music--but Nick Wolfe, clinging to some inner code, motivated (for the most part) outside of what he could gain from the world around him? Well, that called for a different type of diplomacy.

"I'm not making it up," Claudia said with deep resolve, bringing Bert's mind back to the situation at hand. "Someone is trying to kill me." She yawned before she could stop herself. "Ever since I played London and Albert Hall."

"I know, I know," Bert crooned, seeing from the yawn that she would be nodding off in moments, her concentration and her anger spent.

"Promise me you won't let them get their hands on me, Bert. Promise?" Claudia looked up at him with a pair of eyes that he had always found difficult to resist, her voice in tune with that of a sleepy child, close to dreamland, asking something of their father that they won't recall the next morning.

"No," Myers answered. It was an easy promise to make. "Never."

His hand slowly guided her head to his shoulder, where she could stay until they reached the hotel, and where, while she slept, he could concentrate on how to manage Nick Wolfe, and not Claudia Jardine, for a change.

...to be continued...

DISCLAIMERS: The characters in this story are not my property, never have been, and I'm just borrowing them for a few pages. No money is being made, etc. Thanks. Feedback is cherished.