Hello all. Chapter Fourteen at last. I hope it is worth the wait...

Chapter Fourteen

UNDERCOVER

April was led through the large house, up several flights of stairs and shown into a room just under the eaves with a view of the street at the front of the property. She looked round the room itself. It was a reasonable size and very much in the style of a rich girl's boudoir, with lace and silken draperies, fluffy rugs underfoot and a fancy dressing table with everything a girl might want seemingly already in place. April sniffed.

"Rather extravagant isn't it? What will the owner of all this say when she comes back?"

"She won't be back. Believe me she won't. Now there are clothes in the wardrobe that should fit you fine. Anything you need let Jackson know."

"Jackson?"

"Until you earn our trust, he is your minder. He will make sure you toe the line, and he will see that you have everything you need to fulfill your new role with us."

April nodded.

"So which of you is Jackson?"

Suddenly, a massive figure filled the doorway, and Jackson entered. He was six and a half feet tall, and built like a quarterback. His handsome face was marred by a scar that ran down his left cheek, puckering the skin around his eye giving him a permanent frown. His black hair was cut very short, army style, and he was dressed entirely in black. Black trousers, black shirt, black tie, black jacket, black shoes and socks. Somehow, April received the impression his underclothes would also be all in black. The overall impression was of efficiency and sheer presence.

Her `captors' vanished leaving April standing in the middle of the room with Jackson in the doorway staring at her. She removed her jacket and opened the wardrobe door. The clothes should fit fine, as she had been told, but the styles were more in line with hooking than anything else, she surmised. There must surely be something here that would say `attractive masseuse' without throwing out the `come and get it' message that these outfits presented. Mini-skirts were not really her thing, although she had frequently worn them in the line of duty; but these looked more like belts than skirts. She shook her head. None of these clothes would be any good for the role she was being asked to fulfill here. She would have to complain.

"Excuse me, Jackson?"

"Yuh?"

"They said I was to tell you if something was wrong. These clothes look like they belong to a prostitute. I can't wear anything here. I don't wish to be rude, but everything here is brassy and trashy and far too revealing. I am a masseuse, not a hooker."

"So what do you want?"

"Something rather more attractive and slightly less revealing. The idea is to throw a hint of promise, not to give everyone a complete eyeful."

"I'm locking your door while I go downstairs. I'll be back in five minutes."

He left the room, and sure enough, he locked the door after himself. April sat at the dressing table and looked at her new face in the mirror, still hardly believing that it was really herself looking back at her. What would they make of her rejection of the entire wardrobe? Ungrateful? This room was as over-the-top as the clothes themselves. The room of someone hoping to lure and seduce. The room of a high-class hooker. So where was she now?

Within five minutes, Jackson was back, and this time his face wore a slightly warmer expression than before. He held the door open for her and led her downstairs to a large room on the first floor. This room was clearly a treatment room of sorts. Almost like a doctor's treatment room with the high, cushioned trolley with the raised head-section, a table with two chairs, a full length mirror, a sofa and a cabinet. A door along the right hand wall led to a room in basic green décor, with a single sized bed, a bedside table painted white and a wardrobe. This time the clothing was modern and attractive, still slightly shorter than her own usual style, but modest and discreet. She nodded and turned to Jackson with a disarming smile on her face.

"This is more like it!" she said with feeling. "This is the room and style of a masseuse. Thank you. If you don't mind, I'll change right away into something less restrictive than this thing I'm wearing. Then we'll see what I can do to earn them."

Jackson did not move and she turned to him with her blouse undone, her bra peeping through the gap.

"Do you really intend to stand there and watch me changing my clothes? Because if so, perhaps you ought to return to minding the owner of that decadent room upstairs."

Jackson's eyes twinkled.

"I'll be right outside your bedroom door." He told her, and vanished, closing the door behind him.

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After knocking a second time, the door opened a crack and a melancholy eye and a nose peered through the crack, framed by wavy dark hair. Napoleon listened as Illya gabbled away in Ukrainian, nodding slightly, and then spoke again, gesturing earnestly. The single eye was joined by a second, and presently the door opened wider to reveal an untidy woman of uncertain years clutching in her hands what looked like a small tablecloth. The woman shook her head, and gabbled away again. Napoleon heard his partner give a sigh and the woman ducked her head politely and closed the door. Illya closed his eyes for a moment, looking to Napoleon as though he were attempting to control some powerful inner emotion before he looked up. When he finally met Napoleon's eye, he was every bit the ice prince of reputation.

"That woman was a neighbour. She regarded Izolda Ivanovna as a close friend. She is the one who found the body Napoleon. It turns out that Izolda Ivanovna is dead. She died yesterday."

"And the child?"

"She believed I am Mikhail. She told me that my friends came by the night before and picked up the child as per my instructions. She says she was with the old lady when they came. She showed me the letter they gave the old lady putting the child into their care. It was signed, apparently, by Mikhail."

"Did it look like his signature?"

"Identical."

"Would he hand his own daughter into the care of someone else?"

Illya shook his head.

"I would never believe it of him…but then I would never have believed he was capable of recommending my execution."

"Illya, would the Mikhail you knew have voluntarily handed his child over to someone else to raise?"

"No. Definitely not."

"Could it have been a faked signature?"

Illya frowned.

"I suppose it could, but why fake a signature to steal a child? What good would a child be to anyone?"

"I don't know Illya. THRUSH might be interested in your brother's child. But if they know Mikhail is alive, why steal her from him?"

Illya looked at him.

"Leverage?"

"Why, if Mikhail was already theirs? Unless…"

"Unless they had a suspicion that Mika was not theirs after all? Napoleon, Moran started off wondering if Mikhail Kuryakin was dead. As far as they were concerned he had been missing ever since that base was destroyed, so they thought he had died with it. Suddenly, he reappears in Moscow, being chased by UNCLE. Moran contacts THRUSH Central, telling them the good news that Mika is alive and well, and had been posing as his brother in order to infiltrate UNCLE. Now, say THRUSH were already slightly suspicious of Mika, something he has said, or done unconsciously perhaps; now his reappearance causes a concern. They decide the best way to control him would be…"

"To kidnap his daughter!"

Illya nodded. Napoleon frowned.

"If we are right, then the letter they showed the old lady was a fake. If that was a fake, then the other might have been a fake as well."

"So you think…just in case I got wind of any of this…a letter from my brother condemning me to death would be enough to keep me away and stop me from investigating?"

The two men stared at each other. Illya looked down at himself, and then at his partner's new rotund form. Napoleon grinned at him.

"Well my dear Mikhail, perhaps a spot of infiltration might be in order for the pair of us after all?"