Kelly's home

Later that night

When he got home she was seated on the couch, not-watching BBC World News. She'd been crying, he could see. They both hated arguing with each other about anything, even though they both knew the occasional argument could be healthy in a relationship by clearing the air - plus making up was always fun.

So his first words were: "I'm sorry." He sat next to her, but deliberately refrained from touching her to give her space to respond and not make her think he was trying to charm or seduce her out of her anger - although the very fact that she'd come to his home, rather than staying at her own, indicated a willingness to talk it over. Probably she'd regretted her outburst about a minute after making it, as she usually did, but was too proud to come back and apologise, as she usually was.

Sometimes she wasn't easy to live with, as she'd be the first to admit, but that was the price he willingly paid for all the benefits their relationship afforded him...not the least of which was her wonderful company when she wasn't being fractious, or the fact that he slept much better these days because he was comforted by her warm presence in his bed, reassuring him he was no longer alone.

Not to mention, of course, the dynamite sex he was now getting regularly!

As he'd hoped, she turned to him and returned remorsefully, "So am I. I was way out of line there, sir."

He chuckled softly. "We're off duty, love."

"I was still way out of line," she admitted.

"Actually, you weren't," he demurred. "You had a reason to be mad, and you are entitled to refuse the mission, for whatever reason you like. You don't even have to say why you're refusing. It's your choice."

She'd often thought there was always subtext with this odd, difficult man, and she picked up on it. "But...you need me on this mission, don't you?"

He sighed. "It depends on what we mean by 'need'. Are you absolutely indispensable to the mission? Is it that there's no-one else in SHADO we could substitute? No, of course not. We could change the cover story if I took, say, Penelope - instead of my lover cheering me on, she could be my fractious stepsister, a business colleague or even just a friend, haranguing me. Any of those would work, and of course she's a fully-trained and very experienced field operative - one of our best, in fact, which is partly why she heads the Commander's Protection Detail.

"But would we be able to manipulate Natalia - Shostakovich's daughter - as effectively as I know you could, if I took Penelope? No, because she isn't bi as you are. You're our best chance, Jen. Besides..." he sighed again, "look, this may sound as if I'm manipulating you, and if it does, I'm sorry. But I have a feeling I'm going to need you on this mission. It's my command intuition, which I've learned never to ignore." He stroked her cheek, the gesture deliberately affectionate rather than suggestive or sexual.

She accepted it as such, capturing his fingers with her own and intertwining them, and asked, "Just tell me...why is this girl so important?"

He sighed a third time. "Because as far as we know she shouldn't even exist. You see, when Shostakovich was eighteen he was studying nuclear physics...at Chernobyl. In 1986," he added pointedly.

"The meltdown," she understood, recalling a documentary she'd seen once, plus the riveting HBO miniseries, "you mean he was there when it happened."

"It was more of a burn-down," he corrected mildly, "the graphite moderator caught fire. But whatever we call it, a number of people suffered contamination, including him; he was staying in the nearby city of Pripyat. Years later, as expected, radiation-induced illnesses started showing up. That's why he isn't playing," Kelly explained, "he's too ill - in fact we have reason to believe he's dying. Since quitting nuclear physics, undergoing radiation therapy and reinventing himself as a successful businessman in the wake of glasnost and perestroika, he's tried three times that we know of to father an heir." He paused.

Now Jennifer sighed. Even with her still mad at him (though she was calmer now), he could still invite her to exercise her analytical talents.

And I still go along with it, she noted ruefully. He's bloody hard work sometimes, but I still love him.

Maybe it's why I love him. Well, one reason, anyway...one of several...

"Well, it doesn't take a genius to work out what happened...I take it the babies were stillborn, or miscarried, because they were too badly mutated?"

He nodded grimly. "In fact the last attempt killed the mother, as well."

"Ouch," she winced feelingly. Then she saw it. "So...how can he have an eighteen-year-old daughter? Is she healthy?"

"Perfectly," he nodded, "in fact she's lovely. Here..." he accessed SHADONET on his mobile and brought up a photo.

Her breath caught in her throat. Natalia Ivánovna (as the caption on the photo named her) was beautiful. Masses of very blonde hair framed an elfin face with china-blue eyes; the girl was petite but shapely, neat and cute...exactly her type.

As Kelly knew full well.

"Wow, she's cute," she conceded.

"And I just won a bet with myself," he smiled, "that those would be your first words on seeing that photo. I now owe myself a meal at Toni's."

She couldn't help giggling at the absurdity of that...since it was a bet with himself, he'd be getting the meal whether he 'won' or 'lost'!

He loves making me laugh. I love him for that, too...

Toni's Place

An hour later

"Table Seven, please," Kelly requested when they arrived. "The dog's out for a walk."

"Lassie or Cujo?" the head waitress (or was it Toni herself, Jennifer wondered) inquired.

"Definitely Lassie," he grinned, "but no-one's stuck down a well."

She smiled. "This way, sir. The usual arrangements."

As he seated her and she politely thanked him for the old-fashioned courtesy, Jennifer inquired, "Was that what I think it was?"

"What would that be?"

"A coded exchange," she answered. "Oh, God, she works for you, doesn't she? Either that, or this restaurant's another front."

He chuckled and sat. "No, neither one. But we do have...an arrangement here: they ask us no questions, we tell them no lies. Three years ago I inaugurated a policy of conducting confidential business over a good meal, à la Honor Harrington, for the same reason she likes to hold meetings over a meal with her officers: a good meal is highly conducive to a productive discussion.

"I know exactly what you're thinking - 'Has he taken leave of his senses, discussing confidential business in public where anyone could overhear us?' - but you needn't worry. Take a close look at that salt shaker," he indicated the taller of the - two? - shakers.

Frowning in puzzlement, she complied. It did look a little...odd. It seemed to have a small button on top, and when she picked it up she discovered it was curiously heavy for a salt shaker.

It was only then that she noticed the dead silence...and that the shaker seemed to be quivering in her hand. The shaker was shaking.

"What's going on...?" she ventured uneasily, looking around the restaurant. "I...I can't hear anything beyond this table."

"And no-one can hear us, either," he nodded with a satisfied air. "It's called a sonic baffle - it sets up standing ultrasonic waves in the air around the table which prevent sound waves in the audible range from propagating. Even with the best surveillance equipment - that is, our equipment - no-one can hear a damn thing we're saying right now.

"So I can talk about SHADO," he yelled, "or the ALIENS, as loud as I like, and not have to worry about eavesdropping. Even lip-reading won't work; the waves cause the surrounding air to shimmer, so we can't even be seen clearly. Laserdropping wouldn't work either, even if we were close enough to a window - which, as a precaution, Table Seven is not."

"Wow," she breathed, eyeing the 'shaker' with a new respect, "that is clever. One of Phyllis's gadgets, I bet."

"Spot on," he grinned, "in fact it's one of the things we're going to declassify, though its circulation will be limited to high-level diplomats, security and law enforcement officers, and business magnates. You can imagine how useful and hence valuable it could be to people like them."

"And how it could be abused," she pointed out, "so I hope you're not going to sell them to just anybody."

"Oh, hell, no," he denied firmly. "Anyone looking to buy one will be subject to rigorous security checks...some of which they won't know about. We'll build security measures into them, too, to prevent misuse. Prospective buyers will have to prove they actually need one."

"That's good," she nodded, but frowned. "Though it does have a practical flaw, you know." He looked the question at her; she went on, "How's the waitress going to know when we want to order if she can't hear or even see us?"

He chuckled. "Easy. We stop talking about confidential matters, press the button..." he did, and all the typical sounds of a busy restaurant flooded quietly back, "...and switch it off; she'll know then that we're ready and she'll come over. We order, she goes to fulfil it, we switch it back on and resume our discussion until she arrives with our order."

"Well, that was pretty obvious, wasn't it? You like making me look thick, don't you?" she accused with a faux miffed air.

"No, it was a valid question," he returned, deadpan.

She was sure he was laughing at her, but she would bide her time. Oh, there would be revenge, eventually. He'd get that spanking he was apt to receive, the saucy git...

Over the lobster bisque - which, this time, they were determined to actually finish, as it was scrumptious - Jennifer asked curiously, "Why's her surname different? Surely she's not married?"

"It's a Russian thing," he explained after swallowing a bite of crusty (freshly baked and delicious-smelling) bread, "with boys the suffix 'ovich' means 'son of', so if Natalia had been born a boy he'd have been given the surname 'Ivanovich', 'son of Ivan'. But Natalia's a girl, so she got 'Ivánovna', which means -"

"- 'daughter of Ivan'," she surmised.

"Da," he quipped.

"Do you speak Russian?" she asked, impressed yet again by the breadth of his erudition. She loved being involved with a polymath; she'd never been too keen a student herself, but she respected people who were and she did enjoy picking up titbits of knowledge from him.

"Nyet," he again quipped, "I know a few phrases and curses, I can count up to three -"

"Go on, then," she suggested, mildly goading him, then frowned and admitted, "not that I'd know if you got it right."

"Odin, dva, tri," he replied, continuing with a grin as she chuckled, "- and I know about the naming tradition I just described, but that's about it. I did try learning it once, but all the Slavic languages are totally different from the Latin-based ones, with a different syntax and grammatical structure. It made my head hurt," he winced.

"Wuss," she chided, kidding.

Once Covid-19 had been dealt with, people had resumed socialising with a vengeance and so restaurants were rapidly recovering their lost profits - and then some. In these days of increasingly elaborate and exotic (if not downright pretentious) cuisine in the UK, Toni's Place had made a name for itself by rebelling, bucking the trend with what many saw as a welcome return to basics: simple, balanced English meals, well-prepared in traditional styles (the one exception being the lobster dishes of which Sophie had become so fond).

On the other hand there was a scale for steak, with illustrations, so customers could specify how well their steaks would be done, in accordance with the current generation's Internet-driven predilection for exactitude. On a scale of one to ten, with a touch of humour they both appreciated, 'one' meant the steak was so rare the cow was still chewing the cud, and 'ten' meant it was a burnt offering to the gods after having been roasted with a welding torch!

("Let it not be said," Toni DeLorean once said in an online newspaper interview, "that we don't cater to finicky customers!")

Over a beautifully-done steak so tender it could be cut with a fork (it was rumoured that Toni's Place had taken a leaf out of the Mythbusters book by using explosives to tenderise their steaks, and Kelly halfway believed it), potatoes roasted to crispy perfection, baby carrots and a sumptuous gravy, Jennifer inquired pointedly, "Is this nicely simple and, mmm," she took a bite of steak and sighed in pleasure, "utterly delectable meal intended to win me over and persuade me to go on the mission?"

Kelly was briefly tempted to quip 'Of course it is!', but decided against it...because it wasn't true. He'd never lied to her, even in jest, and this was no time to start - not that there ever was or ever would be a time. "No, it's my way of apologising and making it up to you."

"Even though, as you once pointed out," she recalled archly, "you're not obliged to apologise to anyone?"

"I'm not apologising as the Commander of SHADO, love. I'm apologising as me."

That did it. She could tell he wasn't lying to her. He never did. So she sighed; as her Gran had once said (well, more than once...well, more than a few times, actually...!), if women hadn't learned when and how to accept men's apologies gracefully, there'd never be any kids. "Apology accepted."

"Thank you, Jen." They kissed.

"You're still going to talk me into it, though, aren't you?"

"Do I need to?" he asked pointedly. He'd already read the answer in her body language; he knew she was intrigued by the prospect.

She hesitated, then sighed again. "I want more details first. This does not mean I've volunteered," she fibbed. "First, why do I have the feeling that you regard my part of the mission as being more important than yours?"

He chuckled wryly. "You're very smart, very perceptive...and absolutely correct." Abruptly he dropped the humour. "The thing is...I can't pin it down, but I just have this nagging feeling that Natalia is the key player here, not her father. I can't seem to let go of the fact of her sudden appearance; it's important, in some way I can't consciously define. I mean, how the hell has she stayed hidden - from us! - for eighteen years?

"Also I can't shake the intuitive feeling that it's somehow connected with something odd that happened nineteen months ago: Shostakovich completely dropped off SHADO's radar for a month. We still don't know how he did that, or where he went...or even why. Even odder, in a way, is the fact that during that month, his financial holdings and assets nearly dectupled in net worth, making him a billionaire - just under $1.4billion all told."

"Did They have anything to do with that?" she wondered shrewdly. "Maybe they gave him some of the same gold ore they paid The Men with, and he used that to invest?"

"That's possible," he acknowledged, "if we're right and he's had dealings with them."

"But why would anyone do deals with them," she argued, "if they knew what They're trying to do?"

"Ah, but does he know that? Remember, The Men thought they were dealing with intermediaries; they'd no idea the 'small, skinny bloke' was actually their 'client', let alone that he was an Alien. Maybe, just maybe, Shostakovich thinks the same; maybe he's just a dupe."

"Could he be playing a double game?" Jennifer asked thoughtfully. "Going along with them until he gets what he wants, then selling them out to SHADO?"

"That's possible too, if not fairly likely," he conceded. He shook his head ruefully. "It's times like this when we really miss Sylvia; she'd have been able to find out in fairly short order what he's up to. But lacking her services, we can't take the chance. We've got to know."

"Because if he does know, but he's working with them anyway...then he's dangerous - and an idiot besides," she remarked sourly. "Worse, that'd make him a traitor. If it's true, we have to stop him -" She paused, looked sheepish and sighed a third time. "Did I say 'we' there? I did, didn't I?"

"You did," he smiled, "classic Freudian slip."

"Okay, I'm in," she surrendered good-naturedly, kissing him again. "But you're still buying dessert."

"Never occurred to me not to," he grinned.

It was a sinfully rich, deliciously moist five-layer chocolate sponge cake with chocolate buttercream filling and a fudge topping, served with a lovely coffee liqueur, and tasted every bit as exquisite as it looked. "Mmm, that has to be illegal," Jennifer joked, "nothing legit could ever taste so good!"

Kelly laughed and toasted her with the liqueur. "To bold financial ventures."

"To reckless but brave men," she returned. They clinked glasses.

Kelly's bed

Two hours later

"So how much money's at stake?" she asked after an energetic spanking/lovemaking session, "burning off that chocolate cake," he'd quipped, at which she'd laughed merrily.

"SHADO's financial analysts reckon it could be anywhere between five and ten billion dollars, possibly more," he replied.

She whistled. "That's hardly pocket change even by SHADO's standards, is it?"

"No, it's not. We could really use that money."

"Hmm...are the other players professionals?"

"Professional poker players, you mean?" He shook his head. "No, they're doing this just for fun, would you believe, and just because they can. But we've established that this is an entirely home-grown event; the Aliens had nothing to do with it as far as we can tell."

"Well, that's good, isn't it?"

"Mmm, yes. The man who first proposed it to the others, not Shostakovich, is a bit of an egotist - he wants to set a world record that won't be beaten for years. Mind you, he's right; up to now the record pot for a poker game was 'only' $300 million, in a game played at Monte Carlo - the European Poker Tour Grand Final of 2021. That wasn't planned," he smiled, "no-one set out to break the world record - two players formed an unofficial team against the others and got a bit carried away when things started going well for them.

"They've all played before, so they're experienced...but this is just a game to them, not a profession; they doubtless don't care that much about losing, even with so much money at stake, for the simple reason that they can afford it. Not that it'd matter if they were pro players," he grinned, "'cause I'd still take 'em."

"You seem very confident of that," she noted curiously.

"I am," he returned simply. "I'm a little embarrassed that I didn't think of this. Seriously, though, they're all out of their league, though they don't know it yet. My knowledge of psychology, kinesics and body language will enable me both to read their tells and to disguise my own, or show them only what I want them to see. Believe me when I say I could out-bluff my own mother if I wanted to. The money's as good as ours, honestly." He sobered. "And that's why your part in this is more important...because it'll be a lot harder."

At that point a question occurred to her; she was mildly annoyed it hadn't done so earlier, as it was very important: "How much risk is involved? To you and me, I mean?"

She'd hit home there; he sighed deeply. "I wish you hadn't asked that, because I honestly don't know. As per usual with the damned Aliens, we don't know much. Best-case scenario is that we're wrong about Shostakovich and they're not involved at all, because in that event it's just a question of winning the money...plus you get the bonus of wearing a killer dress, looking fabulous for a couple of nights - it's a two-day bash - and getting off with a gorgeous young thing like Natalia." She chuckled saucily, and he continued:

"Medium-case: they're involved, but neither Shostakovich nor Natalia knows that and they think they're dealing with human beings, so we won't be in any danger from those two, at least. Worst-case...well." He gazed into her eyes. "Look, I can't pretend there's no risk; it wouldn't be fair to you if I did. I just don't know how much risk. But it's not as if we'll be going in naked; like any self-respecting secret agents, we will be equipped with precautionary measures. For one thing, the dress we're going to put you in will be bulletproof."

"That'll hardly be elegant," she quipped, putting on a French accent for the last word, making the t silent.

"Oh, it won't be like a bulky bulletproof jacket," he assured her, "it's a brand new material composed of carbon fibre nanotubes and synthetic spidersilk." He grinned proudly. "Our lab boys finally cracked it last year; scientists all over the world have been trying for decades to duplicate or at least imitate it - with some success, admittedly - but we've done it!"

"Sorry, I'm not clear on why that's so important," Jennifer admitted.

"Weight for weight it's stronger than steel," he explained; she raised an eyebrow, impressed. "There are all kinds of applications - such as, say, bulletproof clothing which doesn't look bulletproof. It's not just a fibre which has similar properties to spidersilk, like the Adidas bio-fibre; it really is spidersilk, every bit as versatile - spiders use the same base fibre to spin a variety of types of silk, depending on what they need it for: catching prey, protection, attracting a mate, whatever." He grinned. "There's even a video clip of a spider actually weaving a cast for its own broken leg!"

"Oh, I see. Is that one of the new materials the general mentioned?"

He nodded. "As is the case with all the research done on spidersilk, it still needs a little work to make it commercially viable, i.e. mass production, but the magnates' investment will take care of that. The lab boys have assured me it definitely can be done - it's just a question of a little more time and money. The trickiest part, in fact, is actually weaving the stuff, not its synthesis per se. We're planning to issue new uniforms made from it; that should drastically cut down on field operative casualties," he remarked with feeling, having been one himself.

"And where's this record-setting poker game happening?"

"You're not going to believe this - Casino Royale, in Montenegro."

She burst out laughing. "You mean there really is one?!"

"Though Ian Fleming never played there as far as I know, and anyway the novel's set in France. The casino's on the 10th floor of the Hotel Splendid."

"Also mentioned in the film," she recalled, still chuckling.

"Yeah, Nicholas Holt - the bloke who started all this - is a keen 007 fan, so it appealed to him on that basis; for a business tycoon he's got quite a romantic, boyish streak."

"Which he can afford to indulge, of course, because he's rich," she readily pointed out.

"True," Kelly conceded. "Listen, can I count on you to do as Henderson suggested?"

She gave him a seductive if impish smile and kissed him. "Knock 'em dead, you mean? Well, I think I could manage that. It will need to be a killer dress, though, as you say. Come to think of it, won't you need an outfit as well?" she suggested, and gave him an impish grin. "Obviously a dinner jacket or a tuxedo - I mean, what self-respecting secret agent would be seen dead in anything else?"

"Quite right," he grinned back, "a tuxedo will definitely be robe de nuit. As to your dress being killer: it definitely will be, I promise," Kelly told her in a more serious tone, "as I've received official clearance to take you anywhere in the world to have the dress tailored. Paris, Rio, New York, doesn't matter - any designer, price no object. We want - need - you to pull out all the stops and look absolutely stunning, even more so than you already do."

"Smoothie," she chortled, while appreciating the compliment.

"The rationale is that several of these people are the very richest in the world, so naturally they'll expect to see nothing but the very best from each other. To that end we'll be putting together a team of the world's top fashion experts to meet you at your designated designer locale, and they are going to give you the makeover of your life!"

"Ooh, I like the sound of that," she enthused, as keen on looking her best as the next woman while not being vain. "Um...could we go to New York for this, please? I've always wanted to go there, I nearly had the chance once, but I've never actually been," she appealed.

"Like I said, wherever you like," he smiled. "In fact, I've got a bit of good news for you: Henderson suggested we take Sophie with us."

"Sophie? Why?!"

"As protective colouration," he explained, frowning slightly at her strident, worried tone. "The very best cover stories are the ones which are mostly true. Since you really are my lover, and Sophie really is your daughter, what better cover than to take her with us? Even though it's just a game, these people still like to win, so they'll be watching each other beforehand so as to get a clearer picture of whichever opponents they haven't already met. With Sophie being there, we can fool them into thinking we're just a family with more money than sense. She'll add verisimilitude."

"Oh, you don't mean taking her on the mission? Oh, I'm sorry, I misunderstood," Jennifer gasped, relieved beyond measure.

"Hell, no, not on the mission, just on the shopping trip," he assured her, laughing gently at her faux pas. "You'll need a complete ensemble, of course - dress, shoes, jewellery and so on. Why not have Sophie help you out with that? I bet she'd love it."

"Oh, she would," Jennifer eagerly agreed, "especially as she's never been abroad before! She'll be in heaven, Kelly! Oh, thank you!" She kissed him enthusiastically. "You know, I think you've earned another session for that!"

"So you are a whore," he quipped - and yelped when she indignantly pinched him, hard.

He still got the sex, though...

Sophie's bedroom

The next day

"Shopping in NEW YORK?!" Sophie squealed, her eyes lighting up. "Oh, Mum! We've never been abroad together before! In fact, I've never been abroad! Oh, thank you!" She hugged her mother tightly.

"It'll be a pleasure, sweetheart," she happily told her daughter. "You know I've always wanted to take you abroad somewhere, but...well, you know how it is."

"It's okay, I understand," Sophie nodded, and squealed again: "NEW YORK!"

Jennifer had to hold back tears of joy on seeing her daughter's ecstatic expression; she couldn't remember the last time Sophie had looked so happy.

Unless she counted the day she got back from Moonbase and Sophie realised her Mum and her new Dad had declared their love for one another...

Jennifer's home

The next night, when Kelly's off duty

They picked two episodes of The Big Bang Theory at random by drawing from a shuffled deck of cards, and came up with episode 6 of season 11 and the last episode of season 9, neither of which Jennifer had seen but quickly got the gist of even without Kelly's summary, explaining the hilarious premise of the series ("Sheldon and his friends all have degrees, and Penny...doesn't," he finished, and she laughed). It occurred to her that she and Penny were similar in some ways, being involved with a brilliant man while not quite being up to par in that department, but doing well enough anyway (plus Jennifer's hair colour was natural!). Being an Amazon Prime subscriber, she streamed it on her laptop.

SID being SID, the satellite (providing security at Kelly's behest by installing SHADOSEC, which immediately picked up on and destroyed a virus, dodgy cookies and several spambots - "Thanks, I thought it was running a bit slow") queried the unusual activity on her laptop, which made her laugh at the incongruity ("It's The Big Bang Theory, not a prelude to the Aliens invading!"), but Kelly just chuckled and instigated an override which would cause SID and SHADOSEC to ignore any such activity in the future as being benign.

"So I can stream Harley Quinn, Picard and Lower Decks, too?" she quipped. He laughed, as she'd intended.

They both loved the episodes; in the first, the gang were discussing the death of Professor Proton:

Amy said to Howard, "Don't make jokes, he meant a lot to Sheldon."

"Me, too," Leonard agreed, "I grew up watching his show. He's one of the reasons I became a scientist."

"Oh, I thought you did it just to get girls," his wife Penny quipped, to laughter from the studio audience.

"Joke's on you. It worked." Both laughed.

They laughed again when Sheldon's mother and Leonard's father spontaneously hooked up, and both men were at first baffled by their parents' lack of response - and Penny, the non-genius, got it before they did.

"She's still not answering," Sheldon said, still puzzled.

Leonard reported, "My father's not texting me back."

Penny answered the conundrum in a sing-song voice: "'Cause they both turned their phones off!"

Kelly and Jennifer joined in the audience's laughter, and Jennifer giggled, "See, women's intuition does exist!"

He conceded she'd won the long-standing humorous debate, and sighed, "And it only took The Big Bang Theory to prove it."

Jennifer laughed again, kissed him and (as usual) things went on from there, interrupted only once, to further hysterical laughter, by Sophie calling merrily down the stairs, "I can hear you..."