Mysterious
By
M. Willow
What it's not: This is not a death story.
Chapter 1
A storm swept through U.N.C.L.E headquarters. It was not one of wind and rain. It was made of heartache, grief, guilt. It was acid, eating through flesh and bone, a sort of pain without end.
Arden Kirk was dead. Another woman Napoleon had cared for gone in an instant. It was his fault.
Napoleon stared straight ahead as Waverly gave him the news.
"She stepped right in front of the car. I am sorry, Mr. Solo."
Waverly's voice was an echo in his head, beating like a drum, becoming louder, the phrase repeating itself, cutting through him like a knife.
She stepped right in front of the car. She stepped right in front of the car.
Napoleon could barely hold onto thoughts. His hands were clinched in a tight fist, hidden from view because they were shaking. He needed to get out of there, before he completely broke down and revealed the darkness in his soul.
She stepped right in front of the car; the car; the car.
"Mr. Kuryakin saw it. He is certain it was an accident. Most unfortunate." Waverly said. "Most unfortunate, indeed." His voice was going in and out like some sort of mad person working the volume on a radio.
Napoleon was aware of April's presence. She didn't belong there, but she gave him comfort, so he held on, letting her soothe his mind, even though she hadn't moved from the chair next to him. He couldn't look at her.
"She is dead, Mr. Solo, and for that I'm very sorry."
But sorry was knowing that he would never hold her again, never tell her how he felt.
Arden Kirk was dead. She'd stepped right in front of a car.
"It is most unfortunate that she died before the information could be imparted to Mr. Kuryakin," Waverly said. And April reached out and touched his hand and he pulled away. He was undeserving of pity.
Waverly's voice trailed off, carried away like leaves on the wind. Napoleon's mind shattered as he went along with it, letting sorrow grip him, taking him down into darkness where his soul waited.
Arden was dead. She'd stepped right in front of a car, but she was dead because of what he had failed to do.
"We must complete this mission, Mr. Solo. It must be done. We must always keep in mind that we are expendable. The safety of the world is at stake. That must take precedence over our personal feelings."
But It should have been me who stepped in front of the car.
He pictured the final moments of Arden's life. She'd wanted to make a deal—information about her lover's invention in exchange for a position in Section Two. She'd never given up on her dream, despite what Napoleon had told her. Arden had wanted her life to matter. How dare he take that chance away from her? But he had. He'd done it with words as sharp as knives.
You will never be an enforcement agent, Arden.
He'd said those words to free her from a dream that would never be realized. She was meant to move on, make other plans concerning her future. Instead, she'd stood staring at him with tears in her eyes, a wounded bird unable to fly. And he'd said nothing. He'd stood there watching her as she walked out the door.
What had she done to deserve this cruelty?
"Miss Kirk was unsuitable for the job," Waverly said as if in answer to his question. "But to her credit, she remained loyal to this organization. The minute she discovered Mr. Scott's intention, she contacted me. And now, we must finish the job. This invention must not be let loose on the world."
He felt eyes on him, Arden's eyes. But no, she was dead and the woman sitting next to him was April.
"It's a shame what happened to her," she said softly.
Did anyone know the woman who handed out badges at the front desk? Did anyone take the time to know her, to like her, to love her?
"Indeed, Miss Dancer. Indeed," Waverly said, his voice tinged in sadness. He looked upset, but Napoleon knew they were all expendable. He'd never known the flesh and blood Arden. He'd never known how soft and feminine she was. How she smelled of lilacs, how she believed in the good in people and believed all could be reformed. This is what made her unsuitable as an enforcement agent. An enforcement agent had to be willing to accept evil. They had to be able to look it in the face and do what needed to be done. There was no time for second chances.
In short, Section Two was not for women like her, and neither was he. He had been relieved when she walked away.
April touched his hand. This time he didn't pull away. He needed the comfort of human touch. He felt quite inhuman. But his best friend clearly saw his humanity. She could read his mood as easily as she could read a book. They were psychically connected, bonded in a way unfamiliar to him. He wished he could find a way to block her mentally. She didn't need to see this side of him. He was ashamed. Mortified, really. He'd treated Arden as he'd treated no other woman.
"The young woman was late," Waverly said. "She was in such a hurry that she didn't see the oncoming car. Most unfortunate."
But hadn't Waverly said that already? And hadn't Napoleon sat and listened to him say it a thousand times more?
"She was so young," April said. And Napoleon turned his face from her, wanting to disappear, but he was still there, still in the pain of knowing that he would never see Arden again. Still in the pain of knowing that he had caused her death.
Napoleon let his mind wander back. A year? Maybe two? Maybe it didn't matter. He traveled back and then forward. Arden was late. She had to have the right look. This look would have been conservative. No clingy red dresses that showed ample cleavage, no short silver hair scented with lilacs.
In his mind's eye, he saw her as she must have been on that day, makeup artfully applied, bangs that emphasized almond shaped eyes. She was wearing a grey suit, standing in front of a mirror admiring herself. She was a chameleon, shaping herself into the woman she needed to be, so she slipped into a suit that hid her curves. She slipped on shoes that were sensible. And she headed out to die.
Napoleon closed his eyes as pain ripped through his head. The room was filled with her. He could smell her perfume, feel the soft silkiness of her skin. And yet she was walking down a street, heels clicking against pavement, on her way to die. And then the car made a turn and she was there, stepping into its path.
Napoleon jumped to his feet, heart hammering in his chest. It was all too much. He just wanted to go back in time, stop the car from hitting her, take her in his arms and never let go.
It's too much. It's too much. I can't do this. Need to get out. Get away. Find someplace to hide. I need to make this different.
He could smell Arden, taste her. He was a man lost in time, moving backwards and forward, his guilt the driver of his inadequacy.
Napoleon pulled in a shaky breath and discovered he was still in his chair. He had never left it. And Waverly went on as if he hadn't noticed anything unusual. But April was holding on with a death grip. She wouldn't leave.
Am I losing my mind?
"It is impossible for anyone other than you, Mr. Solo," Waverly said. The Old Man was stirring sugar into a cup of tea. "You knew her best."
Napoleon struggled to understand. He hadn't been paying attention. What had he missed in his fugue state?
"I'm sorry, sir," he said, realizing there was no point in trying to fool Waverly.
"Postpone your grief Mr. Solo," he said sternly. "There will be time for that when this is all behind us."
"Yes, sir," he replied.
She stepped in front of the car," Waverly said, repeating the statement as if the meeting had just begun.
Napoleon turned his head to look at April who sat tensely beside him. He met her eyes, allowing himself to take in the compassion she offered. He would need her soon, but for now there was the mission, so he joined the meeting.
MFU*MFU*
"I knew her well. She didn't see it. Coming. Didn't see the car. She was always late, so she was probably in a hurry." Napoleon was grateful his voice hadn't cracked, but he was fooling no one. Waverly was looking at him as if assessing his mental state. After a while, he looked somewhat satisfied and went on with the meeting.
"Miss Kirk was involved with a man named Robert Scott. He made a fortune with a patent for a talking doll and used the money to start his own toy company. Now, he is one of the richest men in the world. Arden met him shortly after resigning her position with UNCLE."
Waverly's knowledge of Arden was incomplete. Napoleon knew so much more.
Arden and Scott had dated for nearly a year. There had been speculation they would marry. But Scott ended up breaking the relationship and withdrew from the social limelight. Meanwhile, Arden's life spiraled out of control, and she started seeing disreputable men, men who worked for Thrush and other sundry types. Soon, she'd earned a reputation. If she had been a man, she would have been envied, called a playboy, but there were names for women like her. None of them complimentary. She had sealed her fate. No decent man would have her. She was no longer the woman you took home to mother.
By the time Scott came back, he wanted only one thing—her contacts with Thrush.
So, why didn't I call her? Why didn't I pick up the damn phone and ask her if she needed help? If she needed me?
As CEA, Napoleon had been apprised of the situation the minute she had been seen with a Thrush operative. It was eventually determined that Arden's involvement with these men posed no threat to UNCLE. She had been detrained-her memory erased of anything pertinent to the security of UNCLE. And Scott—he was a harmless toy maker. What right did Napoleon have to interfere?
Now this harmless toy maker had invented something that could change the course of mankind. And this harmless toymaker had enough money to fund a thousand inventions. And Arden died trying to stop him.
My fault, my fault, my fault. My fault because I couldn't give her what she needed.
Napoleon knew Arden was alone in the world. No family, as she was adopted. No friends because she had only made friends at UNCLE, and they had walked out of her life the minute she resigned. Then, Scott walked away, leaving her alone. Maybe afraid. She'd turned to men as a cry for help. She was asking Scott to come back to her. It was a classic move to make him jealous. And maybe, she was asking Napoleon to save her, but he didn't, and Scott didn't care. And so, she continued, moving from man to man, becoming more desperate as time passed.
Then Scott reappears. Only, he wants nothing from her. If there was ever love between them, it had disappeared under a haze of lovers.
In the end, Rome burned, and Napoleon did nothing to stop it.
A thousand times he would wonder why. It was unlike him to be so cruel.
Wanda walked into the conference room carrying some file folders. She gave Napoleon a sympathetic look before handing Waverly the folders. Then she left the room, her eyes straight ahead.
No one spoke as Waverly handed them folders. Napoleon opened his to a photograph of April. He'd never seen her with black hair. The eyes were different too. They were blue, but April had brown eyes.
"What is this?" April asked incredulously.
Napoleon looked at her. Like him, The female agent was looking at the picture in the folder, but she looked confused.
"I never took this picture. It can't be me. I would remember having black hair."
It was a headshot, and Napoleon could have sworn it was April.
"You are correct, Miss Dancer," Waverly said. "You did not take this picture, but you shall impersonate the woman in this picture."
Napoleon and April exchanged a brief look before turning to Waverly.
"The picture you're looking at is of Arden Kirk, approximately one week before her death."
Napoleon pulled in a breath at once seeing the truth. He looked down at the picture, paying close attention to the eyes, eyes the color of the sea. Arden, but her hair was no longer honey blonde, and she wore it long.
"Plastic surgery, Mr. Solo," Waverly explained. "Extensive plastic surgery from the looks of it." He picked up his pipe and twirled it absently in his hand before placing it back on the table. "Miss Kirk mentioned she'd done it to get Mr. Scott back. She admired Miss Dancer and modeled herself after you."
"It's unbelievable," April said slowly, shaking her head. "If I didn't know better, I would swear this was me. Only the hair and eyes are different."
"Identical, I dare say." By now, Waverly had lit his pipe and blue smoke swirled in the air. Napoleon felt like he was falling into a cloud.
"You, Mr. Solo, will be Thomas Kent, Miss Kirk's Thrush paramour. Mr. Scott had hoped to meet with this man to make, as they say, a deal."
April shrugged. "Why bother? Surely, he has enough money to fund it a million times over."
"That is something Ms. Kirk had planned to share with us," Waverly said.
Napoleon looked up from the picture and faced Waverly.
"The resemblance is remarkable," Waverly said. "And it will serve our purpose most efficiently. I'm certain Mr. Scott will be unaware of the switch. You will simply meet with him, and he will hand over his invention without the slightest hesitation. The exchange will occur in a matter of minutes, and you will both be on your way."
In his career with UNCLE, Napoleon noticed few missions ended with the ease Waverly expected.
"Miss Dancer, what do you know of Miss Kirk?"
April settled back in her chair, one hand lightly tapping the table. "Not much. We used to have lunch occasionally, went to a few concerts, the theater, that sort of thing. Mostly girl's night out, but we Double dated a few times," She looked at Napoleon thoughtfully for a moment. "She became…obsessed with being an enforcement agent. I came to believe she wasn't really interested in a friendship with me. She just wanted to know how I became the first female agent in Section Two. It became…uncomfortable, to say the least, so I stopped socializing with her."
Waverly cleared his throat. "We've done a thorough background check on Miss Kirk. There are no indications that she planned to do anything nefarious with her change in appearance. The fact that she colored her hair black and not red proves that much. I believe she admired you, Miss Dancer. That's all."
April blushed.
"Are we sure it was an accident, sir?" Napoleon wanted to know. A car hitting her just before the meeting with Illya seems just a little too convenient.
"Mr. Kuryakin witnessed it and spoke to the driver afterwards. No one could have stopped at that distance. The young woman stepped right into traffic and died instantly. The driver is quite devastated by what happened and is being cared for by our team of psychiatrist."
Which meant the driver was safely tucked away, far from the prying eyes of Thrush. And Arden's death had been expertly concealed.
"Perhaps she did it intentionally, sir." April offered, glancing at Napoleon for confirmation. "Her lover had left her. Maybe…"
Napoleon shook his head before April could complete the statement. "She wasn't the type. She loved life too much to end it."
"I agree, Mr. Solo," Waverly added. "And she certainly would have no reason to contact us if that had been her ultimate goal." Waverly took a puff from his pipe, letting the smoke settle in the air. He shook his head. "No. It was just an unfortunate accident. However, now we must move beyond the past. We have Mr. Scott and Thrush to consider. That must take priority over any curiosity we may harbor."
A knife was twisting inside Napoleon's head. Nothing felt real. A kick to his ankle brought him back to reality. He gave April a grateful smile then turned his attention to Waverly.
Waverly narrowed his eyes. "I'm aware of your…your friendship with Miss Kirk," he said, clearly uncomfortable with such a personal subject. "Your knowledge of the young woman will prove invaluable on this mission. "Nevertheless, I am concerned that you are too distracted to possibly be of use. Perhaps I should call Mr. Kuryakin back from vacation."
"No, sir," Napoleon answered quickly. "That will not be necessary. I've adjusted to the situation."
"Good," Waverly said, watching him for a moment, then turning his attention to April. "Miss Dancer, as Miss Kirk had blue eyes and black hair, you will see our ophthalmologist for a proper fitting of contact lens. See to the hair as well. I'm sure our beautician will do an excellent job."
"Yes, sir," April replied, subconsciously running a hand through her dark red hair.
Waverly sat back in his chair. "There is considerable buzz in the intelligence community about this invention. Time is not a commodity we possess. We must move fast, and we must move decisively. We cannot afford even the slightest error."
So far, Waverly hadn't given any details on what they were looking for. Normally that would have been the primary topic of the briefing. There would be pictures, maps and diagrams too.
Napoleon opened his folder, leafing through it quickly, thinking he may have missed it, but he found only pictures of Arden and some papers with writing that seemed to swim on the paper. He closed the folder.
"Sir, there's nothing here on the device."
"Your assessment is quite correct, Mr. Solo."
April was still flipping through her own folder, looking just as perplexed. "No clues, sir?" April asked.
Waverly sat forward, both hands on the table. He spoke quickly. "I expect you to reach the island immediately. Mr. Scott is expecting Miss Kirk to come with her paramour, Mr. Thomas Kent. You will act accordingly. The young woman informed me that her relationship with Mr. Scott was no longer romantic in nature. He reached out to her solely for a partnership with Thrush. This should make your meeting with Mr. Scott unproblematic, Miss Dancer."
"Yes, sir." April looked relieved.
Waverly sat back in his chair, steepling his fingers. "Now, in answer to your question, Miss Dancer. No."
It took a moment for Napoleon to realize what Waverly meant. Then it hit him. They had just been informed that nothing was known about Scott's creation. It could be large enough to fill the conference room, or small enough to fit in their pocket.
"But how would we…without knowing what to look for?" April asked.
Waverly splayed his hands. "I fully expect Mr. Scott will turn over his invention immediately. He will have no reason to suspect you and will be anxious to start his partnership with Thrush." Waverly drew in a breath and let it out slowly. "I cannot stress the importance of your visit remaining brief. The longer you stay in Mr. Scott's presence, the more likely you will be discovered. You have two days to get ready." He looked at April. "Miss Dancer, your knowledge of Miss Kirk is invaluable. You know her mannerisms, how she speaks, the way she walks. The more intimate details will be provided by Mr. Solo." He sighed. "Everything we know about Mr. Scott has been provided to you. Study it. But it is not enough. Ultimately, you seek an object without description. You will not know what it does or its approximate location. And yet, we must have it. We must have it."