Irae blew into the airport with an overnight bag and carry on case, heading directly for the correct counter to pick up a ticket for Jamaica. She smiled at the young man behind the counter before scanning the area for Solo and Kuryakin. Neither was in evidence. Her bag checked through, she grabbed her ticket and dashed for the boarding gate. With fifteen minutes to spare, she settled into a shadowed corner and realized her quarry was not present. They were experienced travelers and not inclined toward being late for flights. Where were they?
She glanced out the windows to see a flight boarding on British Airways. Just starting up the stairway, in the middle of the crowd of three piece suits and floral adorned hats, were two bare heads she recognized. British Airways? She scooted downstairs to take a look at the flight postings. The only British Airways leaving now was headed to England, to Heathrow. What the hell?
Irae glared at the postings before pulling out her communicator and requesting an open line to Mr. Waverly.
"Miss Chase?"
"Solo and Kuryakin are boarding a flight to Heathrow. The flight to Jamaica is boarding in a few moments. I don't think they're going to Jamaica, sir. I think they may have been compromised somehow."
"Indeed. It would seem that your concerns have become legitimate. Follow them."
"Yes, sir. On it." She scanned the area and located a solitary woman who was walking away from the airline counter looking dejected. "Excuse me, ma'am. Were you looking at a flight to Jamaica?"
The woman regarded her suspiciously. "I was wanting to go, but there are no seats."
"You're in luck, then. I have a ticket I can't use. It's round trip, five days. And this is my hotel reservation. I'll contact them and tell the hotel to expect you. Now," she put the ticket and hotel information in her hands. My name's Helena Chase. If you'd be so kind as to collect my bag when you arrive, I'd appreciate it. Just leave it at the hotel when you leave." The intercom blared around them with boarding information. "I'd run, if I were you. Have a good trip."
The woman gaped at her for a moment before clutching the ticket hard and scurrying for the boarding lounge.
"Well, that's taken care of. Now, how do I follow them when the next flight isn't for hours?" She scrutinized the board and realized there was nothing to do until seven in the evening. A charming smile and inquiry at the British Airway's counter produced the information that the seven pm flight was the earliest one they had departing from La Guardia, or any of the other airports around New York. Damn. She found another secluded area to check in again. "Open Channel D. This is Chase, again."
"You've encountered an issue?" Waverly's voice answered her.
"Flights, Mr. Waverly. There's no way to get there in time … well, not in time to intercept them at the airport and send them in the correct direction, sir. I may have a way to keep them under surveillance, but I can't get there myself for another …" she consulted her watch. "Fifteen to sixteen hours depending on the flight. UNCLE London?" Irae asked, truly annoyed at the situation and her own helplessness.
"Come back in, Miss Chase. We'll look at what we can do from here and check with the London office. At least, we have some idea where to start looking. Waverly out."
She folded the slim pen sized communicator and stuffed it in her pocket. As she waived down a taxi to take her back into town she had another thought. She needed to get in contact with Diamene and let her know that things had gone awry.
MFUMFUMFUMFUMFUMFUMFU
Onboard the British Airways flight, Napoleon and Illya were seated together which felt a little odd. On duty they were never together, generally not even on the same flight. Illya settled in for a long technical manual read while Napoleon flirted with the trim blonde flight attendant. Whoever decided to have stewardesses on airlines certainly had his vote. They were so much more pleasant on the eyes than the equally well dressed stewards. He ordered a drink and confirmed lunch and dinner for both of them.
"I could order my own dinner," Illya pointed out.
"I know," Napoleon agreed, plugging in the earphones and choosing a classical station to listen to from the three supplied by the airline. "Hmm, Swan Lake. Not bad music."
They were both fiddling with the volume when the Captain came on the intercom to greet people and do his beginning of flight spiel. Neither man caught the change of destination from the one they thought they were headed for.
Seven hours later, both men awoke from a refreshing sleep to look out the window of the airline at a very gray day.
"Napoleon. It's raining."
Solo looked at the practically monsoon water pouring down on the tarmac. He frowned at the rain. Wasn't the weather for Jamaica supposed to be clear and sunny? And where were all the friendly, smiling people with dark skins and dreadlocked hair? And beauties in bathing suits?
Slowly, he drew his itinerary from his inside pocket and opened it. New York to Heathrow to Blackpool. What the hell? He handed the itinerary to Illya without a word. "Napoleon …"
"Something is very, very wrong," Solo agreed as they stood, stretched and followed other passengers off the airplane.
They passed quickly through customs and caught a taxi to a hotel so they could sit down and discuss the situation. Neither of them was comfortable with discussing it in public. While Illya was checking the room for surveillance devices, Napoleon ordered room service for jet-lagged travelers. Lunch and dinner on board the BOAC flight had been good, better than the usual, but Napoleon felt the need for a snack and a drink.
"Clear." The Russian turned his attention to his partner. "What happened?"
Napoleon searched the room for visual clues that weren't there. He'd taken the tickets from Miss Chase, tucked them in his pocket and gone home for the evening. "I transferred the tickets to my coat this morning, picked you up and absolutely nothing happened between my apartment and the airport to … Wait a minute. I looked for the flight number, but not the destination."
"You looked at the tickets," Illya added.
"But I didn't really look at them, just checked the departure time and the flight number."
"It did not strike you as odd that we were flying British Airways?"
Solo's gaze met his partner's as a knock sounded at the door. He took the three steps to answer the knock. Most of his thoughts fled his mind for a moment as he took in the woman delivering the trolley with their food and drink on it.
"Good Morning, sir," she greeted him in a voice just as lush and distracting as her tailored wait staff uniform made her body. "May I?"
He stood back to allow her to enter, watching her nod pleasantly to his partner before setting the order on the small table between two chairs by the window. Ice, bourbon and a bottle of champagne in a cooler completed the arrangements before she presented him with the bill to sign.
"Will there be anything else?" she asked with a quite suggestive up and down glance.
"No, thank you," Illya answered for him as he tried desperately to kick his brain back into gear. "Napoleon," the Russian addressed him with a sigh.
"Too good to be true," he muttered under his breath and stared at the food wondering if it was worth it to actually eat now. His stomach rumbled mildly. "Jet lag. Shall we?"
"You're going to trust it?"
"Yes. The lady was alluring, definitely sending the 'come hither' with her looks, but …"
Illya nodded in response, sitting and digging into the breakfast Solo had ordered. "Tarantula. Tickets. Someone wants us someplace other than Jamaica. I wonder why." It wasn't really a question.
Napoleon shot him a quick grin. "Who have annoyed lately?"
"THRUSH."
"Which is not new."
They ate in silence for a while, Illya shoveling food from his plate swiftly while Napoleon took a more relaxed attitude. The latter opened the bourbon and poured a goodly amount into the glass, adding ice and sitting back to swirl the deep brown liquid around the glass, chilling it swiftly before taking a sip. He frowned at the champagne, reached out and turned it in the bed of ice surrounding it.
"I didn't know they made champagne in Romania."
"What?" Illya took a look at the label, pulling the heavy bottle out of the ice. Castle Drakoci. The silence deepened as they stared at each other and tried to pull their thoughts into some coherent line of logic.