THE PRINCESS GAMBIT AFFAIR
By AJ Burfield
PROLOGUE: Snow Job
The wind was steely blades slicing across exposed cheek and icy breath instantly crystallizing wind-induced tears, making eyelashes heavy with brittle frost. Crouched in a hollow of muddy snow that sucked away every degree of heat from his fleece wrapped body, Illya Kuryakin awkwardly tugged down the earflaps of his llama-lined hat in an effort to cover the tiny sliver of skin under each ear that was open to the elements.
The collar of the coat would come up high enough, but then he would be unable to use the binoculars effectively if he covered his lower face as common sense dictated. He also wondered if the thick, lined gloves he had in his pocket would be any worse on his hands than the ones he currently wore which had the fingers cut out. The ones in his pocket were warmer, true, but his fingers were so cold right now that they were just as ungainly and unfeeling as they would be inside his lined gloves. But he knew that the trigger guard of his sniper rifle was unforgiving to the sensible cold weather pair.
The thought that the bare skin of his finger just might freeze to the trigger distracted him momentarily and he pulled the rifle in closer to his side. Maybe, just maybe, an inkling of heat would trickle out from his body and warm the metallic surface a bit. The nip of unforgiving wind caused him to hunch his shoulders and nestle down with a shudder. Reluctantly, he put the binoculars back up to his eyes and tried to ignore the chatter of his teeth and the crawling fingers of cold trying to work their way to his belly.
He knew snow and he knew cold. This wasn't the worst he'd been in, but he was more accustomed to New York winters at this point in his life. Western Russian winters seemed much more harsh.
He also knew he shouldn't be here too much longer and was brightened by the thought of getting to lie in a bed instead of icy snow.
Again he found the building in his binoculars and viewed the front porch with a well rehearsed sweep. The guards were still there and looking just as miserable, but at least they had a porch on which to take refuge. The front windows were illuminated warmly from the inside with friendly yellow light. Evening was approaching. The lower windows flickered, indicating a lively fire in the fireplace. The curl of smoke from the chimney, grey against the falling white of snow, confirmed that fact.
Movement in an upper window caught his attention and he refocused the lenses to get more detail, looking around the snowflakes that gathered on the lower part of the lens rim. A teenaged girl, her hair pulled into a ponytail that curled down her back, disappeared from one window and appeared in the next. She stopped, her mouth working and her body language shouting that she was arguing with someone. Who?
Illya's grip on the binoculars tightened and he pushed his body lower and forward in anticipation. Two hands appeared in the window's frame and rested on the girl's shoulders to calm her. After a moment, the hands firmly pulled the girl from Illya's sight and a moment beyond that, the drapes snapped shut.
With a resigned sigh Illya realized that he might be here longer than he planned. The binoculars dropped into the snow with a plop and he took a luxurious moment to jam his bare fingers into his armpits. When he felt the painful pinpricks that indicated minimal thawing he withdrew his hands and fumbled for the communicator in his pocket.
"Open Channel H." He waited a moment, calculating the time it would take for his partner to open the connection. "Napoleon? Are you thawed enough to respond?"
After a few seconds the smooth voice of his American partner emitted from the silver pen. "I think so. I can't feel my lips to know if I'm talking, though."
A half-dozen comebacks entered Illya's mind but he decided to keep the conversation to business. "I know what you mean. We'll be losing daylight in about fifteen minutes. I'm going to attach the night scope. Cover the house until I'm finished."
"Good idea, but if your fingers are in the same shape as mine right now, that may be a bigger chore than you think. "
"I tend to agree. Pay attention while try to get my fingers to obey."
"Will do. Out."
Snow was falling a little faster as he disconnected and slipped the pen device in his pocket. He moved back from the edge of the slope and sat up. The wind found the tiny opening along his collar and icy tendrils crawled down his neck while he concentrated on the rifle he pulled into his lap. Illya removed the day scope with a few turns of a screw and pulled the infrared scope from his pocket.
Daylight retreated quickly, chased away by time and the incoming dark clouds rolling above the towering trees that surrounded him. The Russian fit the night scope expertly and began to tighten the screws, glad he'd started when he did. It would be dark sooner than expected; a storm was coming in.
He had to concentrate fully on what his fingers were doing because he couldn't entirely feel them. He redoubled his effort and completed the attachment. By now the snow was falling at a rapid rate, as was the temperature. A puff of icy breath blew back into his face as the wind shifted as he gripped the rifle and flopped down on his stomach. He crawled back to his snow perch and just as he touched the freezing scope to his eye and found the front door, a finger of ice pressed firmly against the soft hollow barely exposed on the back of his neck.
"Do not move or your blood will ruin this nice, fresh snow."
The Russian voice was low and menacing. The UNCLE agent didn't think he could feel anymore of a chill, but the voice managed to do just that and he froze in place, flat on his stomach in the freezing hollow of snow.
"Drop the rifle."
The sniper rifle nearly disappeared in the fresh powder when Illya's fingers released it. It was quickly covered by snowfall.
"Put your hands behind your head and lace your fingers."
Illya did so, his face millimeters away from the snow as he leaned on his elbows. A slight grin touched one cheek; his unseen adversary had committed the cardinal sin of touching his victim with his gun's muzzle - Now Illya knew the exact location of both his adversary's gun and body.
The agent's mind ticked off seconds as he waited for his moment to spring.
"Now get to your . . ." The voice didn't get the chance to complete the order.
Illya rolled and whipped one arm back and down, which knocked the rifle muzzle aside and allowed him to clamp his hand down on the top of the weapon. He yanked the barrel forward until the muzzle stuck in the snow at his side. The man was abruptly pulled off balance.
The agent pushed upward from the ground and managed to scramble to his feet. Following through with his forward motion he bowled the man over and landed on top of him. They rolled over and over in the snow, leaving wide rifts behind that filled quietly with new fallen flakes as they fought.
Both rifles were now lost in the snow as both men grappled for the upper hand, the miserable cold forgotten. Illya could feel his foe's hand wriggle downward to get to something stashed in his waistband. The agent quickly calculated that it would be faster to take his opponent's weapon from the waistband than to try and go for his own shoulder holster that was buried under layers of clothing. Illya worked his hand down and located the bulge at the man's hip; the man's efforts redoubled to keep the agent's hands away.
They continued to roll as they fought for the hidden weapon. With the fingers cut out of his gloves, Illya's bare fingers had the slightest of advantages in maneuverability and he managed to get his hands on the object first.
*A knife,* he realized. *A large one.*
Illya yanked the blade out and the other man got a two handed, vice-like grip on the agent's wrist. The goon was larger than the agent, but they were nearly equal in strength and continued to struggle. The man opened his mouth to yell and Illya jammed his forearm between his jaws and put his full weight behind it to keep him quiet and hopefully prevent him from biting.
Sporadic, violent gusts whistled through the trees blew the snow into near white out conditions. Neither one noticed that they were at the edge of a rift in the forest floor that fell down into a rocky creek bed ten feet below; the blowing whiteness hid the danger.
With a triumphant yank, Illya got full possession of the knife and rolled to his knees. He raised the blade to strike as the guard swore and rolled away from him. Illya saw him jackknife and fumble for something near his ankle.
*An ankle holster,* Illya thought immediately. *Napoleon will never let me forget bringing a knife to a gunfight!*
The agent lunged as the guard pulled an object up from his ankle. Illya slammed the big blade into his opponent's chest with all his weight behind it, and felt a thud against his own body at the same time. They rolled together, connected by momentum and Illya's unyielding grip on the knife.
Blinding fireworks invaded Illya's consciousness as agonizing pain ripped along his left side.
Then he felt like he was floating.
The reality of their fall came home when they hit the rocky creek bed below. His opponent broke his back and died instantly on impact with the ravine floor; he also happened to break Illya's fall. The back of the dead man's head had smashed through the thin ice on the creek and his chin stuck up like a small island in the icy swirl while the rest of his body lay on the rocky terrain. Illya pushed off from the body and flopped aside. Falling snow immediately blanketed the dead man and he soon blended in with the snow-covered boulders of the creek bed that surrounded them.
Illya fought to keep awareness and rolled to his knees. He tried to crawl to drier ground but the heavy snowfall made it difficult to determine exactly where that was. His dazed mind didn't realize that he'd lost compete use of his left arm, and he distractedly wondered why it was taking so long to get anywhere. Everything around him looked the same no matter how hard he struggled.
Eventually he bumped into several large drifts that wouldn't yield, and he looked carefully at them through his fading vision. The whiteness was blinding and hid the fact that he was up against the ravine wall. Shivering in shock and cold, the agent snuggled between the protruding rocks seeking shelter. He pushed deeply between them, and to his muddled surprise, fell backwards into a large cave.
Things were dark and brown and still in here; it was a welcome respite from the unforgiving white outside. Illya struggled, crablike, to the smooth, rock wall furthest from the entry. He propped himself up and pulled his knees in tightly to his chest in a desperate effort to conserve body heat. It wasn't long before he didn't feel anything at all.
PROLOGUE: Snow Job
The wind was steely blades slicing across exposed cheek and icy breath instantly crystallizing wind-induced tears, making eyelashes heavy with brittle frost. Crouched in a hollow of muddy snow that sucked away every degree of heat from his fleece wrapped body, Illya Kuryakin awkwardly tugged down the earflaps of his llama-lined hat in an effort to cover the tiny sliver of skin under each ear that was open to the elements.
The collar of the coat would come up high enough, but then he would be unable to use the binoculars effectively if he covered his lower face as common sense dictated. He also wondered if the thick, lined gloves he had in his pocket would be any worse on his hands than the ones he currently wore which had the fingers cut out. The ones in his pocket were warmer, true, but his fingers were so cold right now that they were just as ungainly and unfeeling as they would be inside his lined gloves. But he knew that the trigger guard of his sniper rifle was unforgiving to the sensible cold weather pair.
The thought that the bare skin of his finger just might freeze to the trigger distracted him momentarily and he pulled the rifle in closer to his side. Maybe, just maybe, an inkling of heat would trickle out from his body and warm the metallic surface a bit. The nip of unforgiving wind caused him to hunch his shoulders and nestle down with a shudder. Reluctantly, he put the binoculars back up to his eyes and tried to ignore the chatter of his teeth and the crawling fingers of cold trying to work their way to his belly.
He knew snow and he knew cold. This wasn't the worst he'd been in, but he was more accustomed to New York winters at this point in his life. Western Russian winters seemed much more harsh.
He also knew he shouldn't be here too much longer and was brightened by the thought of getting to lie in a bed instead of icy snow.
Again he found the building in his binoculars and viewed the front porch with a well rehearsed sweep. The guards were still there and looking just as miserable, but at least they had a porch on which to take refuge. The front windows were illuminated warmly from the inside with friendly yellow light. Evening was approaching. The lower windows flickered, indicating a lively fire in the fireplace. The curl of smoke from the chimney, grey against the falling white of snow, confirmed that fact.
Movement in an upper window caught his attention and he refocused the lenses to get more detail, looking around the snowflakes that gathered on the lower part of the lens rim. A teenaged girl, her hair pulled into a ponytail that curled down her back, disappeared from one window and appeared in the next. She stopped, her mouth working and her body language shouting that she was arguing with someone. Who?
Illya's grip on the binoculars tightened and he pushed his body lower and forward in anticipation. Two hands appeared in the window's frame and rested on the girl's shoulders to calm her. After a moment, the hands firmly pulled the girl from Illya's sight and a moment beyond that, the drapes snapped shut.
With a resigned sigh Illya realized that he might be here longer than he planned. The binoculars dropped into the snow with a plop and he took a luxurious moment to jam his bare fingers into his armpits. When he felt the painful pinpricks that indicated minimal thawing he withdrew his hands and fumbled for the communicator in his pocket.
"Open Channel H." He waited a moment, calculating the time it would take for his partner to open the connection. "Napoleon? Are you thawed enough to respond?"
After a few seconds the smooth voice of his American partner emitted from the silver pen. "I think so. I can't feel my lips to know if I'm talking, though."
A half-dozen comebacks entered Illya's mind but he decided to keep the conversation to business. "I know what you mean. We'll be losing daylight in about fifteen minutes. I'm going to attach the night scope. Cover the house until I'm finished."
"Good idea, but if your fingers are in the same shape as mine right now, that may be a bigger chore than you think. "
"I tend to agree. Pay attention while try to get my fingers to obey."
"Will do. Out."
Snow was falling a little faster as he disconnected and slipped the pen device in his pocket. He moved back from the edge of the slope and sat up. The wind found the tiny opening along his collar and icy tendrils crawled down his neck while he concentrated on the rifle he pulled into his lap. Illya removed the day scope with a few turns of a screw and pulled the infrared scope from his pocket.
Daylight retreated quickly, chased away by time and the incoming dark clouds rolling above the towering trees that surrounded him. The Russian fit the night scope expertly and began to tighten the screws, glad he'd started when he did. It would be dark sooner than expected; a storm was coming in.
He had to concentrate fully on what his fingers were doing because he couldn't entirely feel them. He redoubled his effort and completed the attachment. By now the snow was falling at a rapid rate, as was the temperature. A puff of icy breath blew back into his face as the wind shifted as he gripped the rifle and flopped down on his stomach. He crawled back to his snow perch and just as he touched the freezing scope to his eye and found the front door, a finger of ice pressed firmly against the soft hollow barely exposed on the back of his neck.
"Do not move or your blood will ruin this nice, fresh snow."
The Russian voice was low and menacing. The UNCLE agent didn't think he could feel anymore of a chill, but the voice managed to do just that and he froze in place, flat on his stomach in the freezing hollow of snow.
"Drop the rifle."
The sniper rifle nearly disappeared in the fresh powder when Illya's fingers released it. It was quickly covered by snowfall.
"Put your hands behind your head and lace your fingers."
Illya did so, his face millimeters away from the snow as he leaned on his elbows. A slight grin touched one cheek; his unseen adversary had committed the cardinal sin of touching his victim with his gun's muzzle - Now Illya knew the exact location of both his adversary's gun and body.
The agent's mind ticked off seconds as he waited for his moment to spring.
"Now get to your . . ." The voice didn't get the chance to complete the order.
Illya rolled and whipped one arm back and down, which knocked the rifle muzzle aside and allowed him to clamp his hand down on the top of the weapon. He yanked the barrel forward until the muzzle stuck in the snow at his side. The man was abruptly pulled off balance.
The agent pushed upward from the ground and managed to scramble to his feet. Following through with his forward motion he bowled the man over and landed on top of him. They rolled over and over in the snow, leaving wide rifts behind that filled quietly with new fallen flakes as they fought.
Both rifles were now lost in the snow as both men grappled for the upper hand, the miserable cold forgotten. Illya could feel his foe's hand wriggle downward to get to something stashed in his waistband. The agent quickly calculated that it would be faster to take his opponent's weapon from the waistband than to try and go for his own shoulder holster that was buried under layers of clothing. Illya worked his hand down and located the bulge at the man's hip; the man's efforts redoubled to keep the agent's hands away.
They continued to roll as they fought for the hidden weapon. With the fingers cut out of his gloves, Illya's bare fingers had the slightest of advantages in maneuverability and he managed to get his hands on the object first.
*A knife,* he realized. *A large one.*
Illya yanked the blade out and the other man got a two handed, vice-like grip on the agent's wrist. The goon was larger than the agent, but they were nearly equal in strength and continued to struggle. The man opened his mouth to yell and Illya jammed his forearm between his jaws and put his full weight behind it to keep him quiet and hopefully prevent him from biting.
Sporadic, violent gusts whistled through the trees blew the snow into near white out conditions. Neither one noticed that they were at the edge of a rift in the forest floor that fell down into a rocky creek bed ten feet below; the blowing whiteness hid the danger.
With a triumphant yank, Illya got full possession of the knife and rolled to his knees. He raised the blade to strike as the guard swore and rolled away from him. Illya saw him jackknife and fumble for something near his ankle.
*An ankle holster,* Illya thought immediately. *Napoleon will never let me forget bringing a knife to a gunfight!*
The agent lunged as the guard pulled an object up from his ankle. Illya slammed the big blade into his opponent's chest with all his weight behind it, and felt a thud against his own body at the same time. They rolled together, connected by momentum and Illya's unyielding grip on the knife.
Blinding fireworks invaded Illya's consciousness as agonizing pain ripped along his left side.
Then he felt like he was floating.
The reality of their fall came home when they hit the rocky creek bed below. His opponent broke his back and died instantly on impact with the ravine floor; he also happened to break Illya's fall. The back of the dead man's head had smashed through the thin ice on the creek and his chin stuck up like a small island in the icy swirl while the rest of his body lay on the rocky terrain. Illya pushed off from the body and flopped aside. Falling snow immediately blanketed the dead man and he soon blended in with the snow-covered boulders of the creek bed that surrounded them.
Illya fought to keep awareness and rolled to his knees. He tried to crawl to drier ground but the heavy snowfall made it difficult to determine exactly where that was. His dazed mind didn't realize that he'd lost compete use of his left arm, and he distractedly wondered why it was taking so long to get anywhere. Everything around him looked the same no matter how hard he struggled.
Eventually he bumped into several large drifts that wouldn't yield, and he looked carefully at them through his fading vision. The whiteness was blinding and hid the fact that he was up against the ravine wall. Shivering in shock and cold, the agent snuggled between the protruding rocks seeking shelter. He pushed deeply between them, and to his muddled surprise, fell backwards into a large cave.
Things were dark and brown and still in here; it was a welcome respite from the unforgiving white outside. Illya struggled, crablike, to the smooth, rock wall furthest from the entry. He propped himself up and pulled his knees in tightly to his chest in a desperate effort to conserve body heat. It wasn't long before he didn't feel anything at all.