"Welcome back, Mr. Kuryakin," the receptionist said as she ran his badge through the scanner. She stood and walked around the desk to pin it on his jacket. "It's wonderful to see you looking so well, sir."
He resisted the urge to sigh. The solicitous comments about the state of his health from the female staff since his brush with death last month was still a bit disconcerting—though the fact that it irritated Napoleon no end made it an acceptable trade off.
"Thank you, Madeline. Can you tell me, has Mr. Solo returned?" he asked.
"He's still in Toledo with Mr. Slade, sir."
"Spain?"
"Ohio. Oh-I have a package here for you sir." she added.
"Thank you, Madeline."
He hoped the package contained the particle physics journals he'd ordered last week; but the package was far too light and the stamps and markings indicated it was an overnight package from Paris.
"I'll be in the conference room catching up on case reports if anyone needs me, Madeline."
Kuryakin was pleased to have the conference room to himself. He was hoping to use some of his time on restricted duty to get the backlog of casefiles updated and preferred to work without having to engage in tedious, time consuming small talk with his well-meaning colleagues.
He dropped a stack of files along with the mysterious package on the table then poured himself a cup of coffee—though perhaps calling it coffee was a bit of an overstatement. Other than being dark colored and sufficiently hot, it had little in common with actual coffee.
He turned his attention to the package from Paris. Though he didn't recognize the handwriting on the envelope, he did recognize the return address as being the small hotel where he'd stayed with Imogen. He opened the package and was surprised to see the lovely scarf with the butterflies that had apparently been the catalyst for their breakup. A pale blue envelope with no inscription lay atop the scarf.
He opened the envelope and recognized the plain white card he'd given Imogen with Lisa's emergency phone number. He turned it over and smiled as he read the inscription on the back.
"For the love of heaven, just grow a pair and tell her—Carpe diem! -hope she enjoys the scarf. Imogen"
It was a gracious gesture—so like Imogen. While she was correct that she wasn't the love of his life—she was a lovely woman and he'd cared for her. He was pleased to know she would indeed 'land on her feet'; he wasn't necessarily certain he could say the same about himself.
In less than two years he would be facing the end of his career as a field agent. He still wasn't sure how he felt about that. It was something he had assiduously avoided thinking about, despite Napoleon's recent prodding on the subject. His partner would be facing reassignment even sooner.
'What's next for us, tovarisch?' He had been unable to answer Napoleon's question. It was something he'd not allowed himself to consider. In truth, he didn't think he'd live past forty, and planning for a future that was unlikely to come seemed pointless. He and Napoleon were forever getting themselves into tight situations and he'd always assumed the time would come when he wouldn't make it out. Four weeks ago, he'd been certain that time had come—and then it didn't.
But in a most ironic epiphany it appeared facing life might actually be more daunting that facing death. Change. He'd never liked change. Growing up during the war his experience with change was that it was rarely for the better—and nothing he'd experienced in his adult life had changed that opinion. He could deny it all he wanted, but the future was coming for him sooner rather than late—and change was an inevitable fact of life. He would have to make some decision about what that future would entail.
Napoleon was being courted by other agencies and had suggested they could make the move as a team—though he knew that some of those agencies would be less welcoming to him with his Soviet background. Ironically, the USSR had let it be known that there would be limited opportunities for him in his homeland. In some circles he was seen as 'damaged goods' tainted by decadent Western ideas and philosophies.
He took another sip of the coffee. He was tempted to walk down the hall to Lisa's office where her secretary, Mary Grace, would have a freshly brewed pot of coffee and most likely a plate of bagels or scones, but he wanted more time to think about Imogen's accusation that he harbored feelings for Lisa before actually having to face her. The list of topics he was avoiding seemed to be growing by the minute.
He'd been attracted to her the moment he'd met her. She was a strong, confident woman with a sharp agile mind. Though he'd certainly entertained thoughts in her direction she'd never shown anything beyond a professional interest in him. For some strange reason, the fact that she'd repeatedly shot down Napoleon's advances made her even more desirable.
Working with her the past few weeks had been an unexpected pleasure. He'd initially balked at Mr. Waverly's suggestion that he assist in her transition to Deputy Section One Chief; he seriously doubted they'd work well together. But he found she was a creative, out of the box thinker who genuinely cared for the people working for her. Was there any chance she might care for him? What did someone like him have to offer her?
Imogen had seen something that he'd been unwilling to face. He laughed softly and shook his head. He'd never be able to keep Lisa Rogers in a box. If he wanted to be with her, he knew it would have to be all or nothing. He was unsure if he was capable of that level of commitment within himself. It was something he would need to think about—but that would need to wait for another time. Right now, he needed to get these casefiles finished.
"I thought you were in Paris until Tuesday," April said as she studied the coffee that remained in the pot. "Should I chance it?" she asked.
"It was unpalatable when I tried it three hours ago—unless it improves with age like wine I'd pass if I were you."
"How was Paris?"
"Uneventful as expected. The hand off was by the book, our asset was punctual—it was a routine courier assignment."
"I meant after the drop—how did your weekend with Imogen go?"
"How did you know I was meeting Imogen?"
"I sort of wheedled it out of Lisa."
"I'm assuming your interrogation methods were within Geneva Convention protocols," he said with a peevish frown.
"It was Manhattans at 21, quite a few, actually. Heather and I were both lobbying for the courier run to Paris that she gave to you," she said taking a playful swat at him. "But she explained it was so you could have a weekend with Imogen, so as incurable romantics we were honor bound to forgive her. So… how did it go?"
"Not as expected," he said as he got up from the table and took the coffee carafe from the warming plate.
"Not as expected good or not as expected bad?"
"I'm not certain." He rinsed out the carafe, filled it with water then started looking in the cabinets for coffee.
"Heather and I were sort of hoping you would ask Imogen if she could get us a couple of passes for Milan Fashion Week next month?"
He sighed. "I'm afraid that would be rather awkward. It would appear we are no longer seeing one another."
"So, unexpected bad, then?"
"It is what it is," he responded. "I believe we are neither of us worse for the wear."
"Well," she said with a coy smile. "I'm not with anyone these days and you're not with anyone—so if you'd like to go out for dinner one night this week, I'm available?"
"A tempting offer, April, but I think I'm sort of with someone."
"My, aren't you a fast worker," she responded with a throaty laugh.
"I'm not, actually. It's… rather complicated, but I do appreciate the offer. Under other circumstances I'd have jumped at the invitation."
It was close to noon when he finally finished updating the last of the casefiles. 'Grow a pair.' He picked up the phone and called Lisa's office.
"I wanted to let you know I'm back in New York."
"Yes," she responded. "I was surprised when I saw you logged in on the morning report. I wasn't expecting you back until Wednesday."
"I have something I need to drop by your office and I thought if you didn't have plans for lunch I could go by the Ukrainian deli on Houston and pick up something for us."
"That would be great," she responded. "I wanted to get your input on possible ways to streamline the weekly reports. I feel like we're duplicating a lot of functions that could be handed off to the local operations and free up the resources for higher priority matters. How does two o'clock sound?"
"Perfect, what would you like?"
"Surprise me."
He returned the scarf to the box and read the card again before slipping it in his pocket. Chicken sandwiches and latkes at two—hardly a three-star dinner in Paris, but it was a start. Carpe diem,!
