And now the plot thickens.
Chapter Five
The music was hot jazz. The women smoldered in satin and silk. The men wore suits from a bygone era. It was the hottest jazz club in Chicago. It was dark and smoky and sexy, the place to go and be seen.
Smoke drifted like clouds, surrounding the beautiful woman who sat center stage atop a piano. She glistened, dazzled, mesmerized. She seduced the audience with her voice. She was the Silver Doll, named for the color of her hair and her penchant for always dressing in silver. Her beauty grabbed the eye, but it was her voice that grabbed the soul.
Illya Kuryakin was on bass, the only instruments needed for this rendition of Cry me a River. Julie London would be jealous.
This was the Satin Doll nightclub, a unique venue in a sea of seedy go-go joints and topless bars. It offered music from the past, songs that penetrated the heart, sought the soul, soothed the mind. The crowds pulled up in limousines, stood in line for hours, just to get a glimpse of her as she breezed in. Now they sat huddled at tables and intimate booths surrounding the stage. Candlelight caught the glimmer of diamonds as Illya let his eyes wander through the crowd.
He was looking for one person who may be in disguise. Perhaps even now they were looking back at him. Perhaps he'd already missed it—this tale-tale sign of subterfuge.
The song ended. He rose, bowing as the audience applauded. None of it was for him which suited him. He meant to be invisible and had disguised himself to that end.
Illya stepped down from the stage as Jason Grier took a seat at the piano. The applause once again rang out, and then her smoky voice demanded attention.
Illya quickly made it to the back room and observed the audience from a two-way mirror. The club had been built for one person—a person who'd obviously ignored the siren-song invitation he'd sent out. He sat down at the long table in front of the mirror and sighed. They were running out of time. He was frustrated. He spent his days staring at the façade of the club, and his nights sitting on the stage or the backroom. Jason was frustrated. The ex-football player had planned for a career with UNCLE. But now he was a piano player and part-time bouncer. There were others, UNCLE agents pretending to be waiters, dishwashers, cooks. They were all frustrated because the mission was a resounding failure.
How long before Waverly put an end to it?
The set ended and Jason and the Silver Doll stepped down from the stage. A drunk man attempted to intercept them, reaching for her. Jason quickly put an end to that, blocking him with a body that was pure muscle. The man saw his mistake and staggered away. Illya watched as a few UNCLE agents helped the drunk man out the door.
Now, if only the food would hurry up and get there. He was hungry, but didn't want the five-star meals offered at the club. He had had nearly two months of the fancy stuff and just wanted plain old greasy spoon.
The door behind him opened and an agent stood there with a large paper bag, handing it to him. Illya inhaled the wondrous scent of food that could harden the arteries while bringing a smile to the face. He thanked the agent and watched as he left the room. Then he turned back to the audience.
By now, Jason had taken up his position at the door. He was the bouncer now and gave an almost imperceptible nod in his direction. Illya first worked with him when he'd been assigned to guard Waverly while he was in hospital with that nasty brain mission. The man was tough and efficient. Illya had been lucky to get him for the assignment. In fact, he was lucky to get every agent assigned to him. They all had a vested interest in seeing an eventual success.
Every day, Illya became more and more aware that he was letting everyone down. It should have ended weeks ago, especially when you considered the amount of money poured into the radio and newspaper advertising for the place. It didn't make sense. Where else would you go if you wanted sophisticated entertainment?
"Anyplace but here," Illya whispered.
Disappointment had become his constant companion, and yet he had been optimistic in the beginning.
He'd gone to Waverly's office. He'd convinced his superior of his plan. The club was established in a matter of days. By the time he arrived in Chicago, he expected to be back on the plane to New York within days. Now time was running out and he was spending his nights playing in a band and his days pretending to be part of a married couple.
He didn't turn around when the door opened.
"Oh, good, the food is here. Really, I couldn't stand another bite of fillet mignon."
Illya was already sinking his teeth into a fry as he watched her remove her wig.
"Why take it off? You can't go out without it?"
"It's horrid. Too tight on my head to keep the thing on. I can't eat like that, Illya. It's bad enough this dress won't let me breath." She wiggled in a dress that looked painted on. "You guys have it easier."
His disguise consisted of a dark mustache and a cap that covered his blond locks. He'd colored his eyebrows too. He was unrecognizable.
Illya smiled as he handed her a burger which was still wrapped in paper.
She sat down. "All this waiting is getting to me.
He removed two cans of soda from the bag and handed one to her as she unwrapped a burger and took a bite.
"It can't be much longer," he said. He meant it. Much longer and Waverly would call them back. Much longer and he would have to make the ultimate decision because he wasn't going back.
Lots of people are going to miss this place when it closes, you know," she said.
"They won't miss the place. They will miss you."
"I'm not that good."
"You are that good."
"Why, thank you, Illya. You're not bad yourself."
Both bit into their burgers.
"I won't miss the smoke either," Illya said.
"If I recall, I've seen you with one or two yourself."
"But that was when I was young and stupid."
This was rewarded with laughter, which Illya was grateful to hear. It broke the tension.
Illya's eyes were drawn to Jason who suddenly seemed tense. A couple was standing at the door and the dark-skinned man was clearly on alert, his eyes scanning the couple.
"This could be it," Illya said, putting his burger down.
They both rose as the couple came closer.
The man was short with greying hair, the woman slender and much younger than the man.
"I don't think so."
"Could be a disguise," he said hopefully.
"Illya, it's not…"
"I know."
Illya dropped back into his chair and stuffed a fry into his mouth.
"So disappointing," she said.
"Yes," Illya answered as April Dancer took the seat next to him.
MFU*MFU*
The months and days were counted by the chime of the clock. It sounded once a day. Always the sun remained, probing their bodies with its hot claws.
It had to be at least one-hundred and thirty degrees now. He'd touched the window once. It had been so hot that he'd jumped back in excruciating pain. It was like touching the inside of an oven.
At one time, hope had burned bright in his mind. He believed that an opportunity to escape would come soon. Someone would have to bring food. Or someone would have to question them. Or someone would come in to torture them. Either way, he would be waiting to jump them. Then they would be outside, taking down whatever had been erected to keep their rescuers out.
But no one came. Not a single soul in the entire time they'd been held there.
He was still fighting, but there was no one to fight.
Now, a deep sense of dread washed over him. They had been left to die. He was scared. Scared like he'd never been before because he was losing April. She was giving up little by little, seeing the end of them with her psychic gift. Maybe she was right, but he couldn't just sit back and watch her die. He had no problems with his own death. It was inevitable, wasn't it? Especially with his recent missions. He was alive due to luck, Solo's luck. But now it appeared to have run out.
It came down to this—April needed him. So, he made up his mind to live because he was sure as hell wasn't leaving her alone. So, how to get away when the very laws of nature were being tossed on its head? There was no way to explain a sun that never sets. No way to explain a fireplace with burning logs that never went out. Then there was the water thing—how it appeared out of nowhere.
He'd been asleep the first time it happened. He woke up to see a pitcher of ice water on the table with two glasses.
"I never went to sleep," April said numbly. "I turned my eyes to see if the fire had gone out and when I turned around that was there."
Napoleon had used some of the water to try and extinguish the fire. It didn't work.
Meanwhile, items continued to appear. One day there was a cool basin of water which they used for bathing. The next a tall pitcher of lemonade complete with ice. Always they made their appearance on the little table by the window. They spent hours staring at that little table, but nothing ever happened. It was as if an unseen force brought things there. They quickly learned to turn away if they hoped to receive food and water.
It had been two weeks since they had food. He'd done everything to conjure it up—closing his eyes, turning his head away from the table. He'd even called out for it like a magician a few times. But they'd been living off water. How long before that stopped? He was rationing it just in case. He was rationing for April, going without himself.
He'd found an old flower vase and stored water there, returning the pitcher and glasses to the table. Whenever his supply was nearly depleted, the pitcher would fill with water. He lived in fear that one day it wouldn't happen at all, and they would die an agonizing death.
"How…how long?" April asked weakly. She was lying on the sofa. Napoleon had pulled it away from the fireplace and closer to the entry door where it was cooler.
He handed her a glass of water. "I'm getting us out of here. It doesn't matter how long we've been here."
"How long?" she asked again, sitting up and taking a sip from the glass.
He couldn't lie to her. She didn't deserve it. She was an enforcement agent, the same as him. She deserved to know the truth. "A little over three months." He sat down next to her.
She stared at him, the unanswered question hanging between them. Where were their rescuers? They knew where to find them. They were expendable, but that applied only when there was no choice. The mission always came first. But this was different. They had sat and waited three months for rescue. Three months and UNCLE knew where to find them.
And Illya. Napoleon knew him well enough to know that he wouldn't just give up and leave them to rot. So, where was he? Maybe he had been ordered not to come, but that wouldn't stop the Russian. If Illya could, he would be there. Only death would keep him away.
Napoleon pushed that thought away. Illya was alive. He could feel it. There were times when he felt like the Russian was sitting right next to him.
"Scott," April said weakly. "He could have done something to prevent anyone from reaching the island. Maybe that's what his invention does."
"I was thinking the same thing," he said.
Three months and they hadn't seen a single bird in the sky. No airplanes either. And Bob and Brad had stopped patrolling the outside almost from the beginning.
"There's a way out," he said.
"But how," April sighed. "We've tried the door and windows. There's no escaping this room. Even if we managed to get out the window, we've got a thousand-foot drop to the bottom." She sighed. "Napoleon, face it. We're as good as dead." April pulled her hair away from her face. "I'm hot. I'm going to admit to being scared."
Napoleon stared at her. And then he saw it. Another odd thing to add to a list of odd things—April's hair was still black. She was a natural redhead. There should be new growth by now.
She hadn't lost weight either. Yet, he could count the number of meals they received in their captivity. He'd lost a considerable amount of weight. He was using pins to keep his shorts from falling down.
He touched his face, feeling the soft beard.
Why hadn't he noticed?
"April, we've been here three months. We've had water, but not much food."
"And…" she said, taking a sip of water, then handing the rest to him.
"We're hot and weak, but all this time without food and you haven't lost a pound."
She shrugged. "Neither have you."
"Don't you see that's impossible."
She stared at him.
Napoleon took her chin in his hand. "April, how do I look to you?"
"What do you mean?"
"How do I look? Describe me."
She smiled in spite of their situation. "As handsome and debonair as ever. Most of the women at UNCLE would kill to see a shirtless, short wearing Napoleon Solo. I still haven't figured out how you're managing to shave."
The heat had made them strip most of their clothes off. April wore only a half slip and bra. He was wearing shorts, his chest bare.
Napoleon pulled in a shaky breath and let it out slowly. "We've been here all this time and neither of us has changed. We both see each other the way we looked when we came here."
April started shaking. "Oh, no…no…how…it can't be true. What's happening to us? Why don't they just kill us and get it over with?"
She was becoming hysterical. He did the only thing he could think of—he grabbed her, pulled her to his chest and just held on as she cried. Her sobs were deep, agonizing, cutting through him like a knife. Finally, she pulled back, wiping tears from her face. "Sorry," she said. I don't know what got into me. So much for being a tough enforcement agent. I'm gonna set my sex back a hundred years."
He took her hand. "Don't. You never have to pretend with me. You know that."
"And you. You've been carrying this on your own," she touched his hand. "The hero coming to the damsel in distress rescue. But that's not who I am. I'm an enforcement agent. I don't want you carrying the burden of getting us out of here by yourself.."
"I can't help it," Napoleon admitted. "I know you're capable, but I can't help being protective of you," he smiled. "Maybe it's a little old-fashioned."
"Then maybe you should take your own advice," she said slowly. "And not pretend with me. The man you described is the man that you are." She looked away. "Have I ever told you that I love you?"
"Many times, just not in words," he said.
She met his eyes, a slight smile crossing her lips. "In a sort of platonic brotherly way."
Napoleon smiled. "Well, I'm not the brotherly type except with you."
April dropped her head on his shoulder. After a while, they both slept.
MFU*MFU*
April had been staring out the window when Illya came out of the bedroom. He grabbed his binoculars from the dining room table and took the chair next to her.
"Waverly is getting restless," he said.
He'd spoken to him a few minutes ago and had been regaled with words of disappointment at their lack of progress. He'd disconnected after a few minutes, knowing their time in Chicago was quickly coming to an end.
April put her binoculars down and looked at him. "What are we going to do?"
Illya looked across the street at the club. They had a perfect view of it, along with the street. This was a neighborhood of addicts, prostitutes, pimps and alcoholics. But in a few hours, they would be replaced as limousines carrying the affluent arrived. This magical transformation was accomplished with the aid of a battalion of police, provided by the mayor.
"Waverly is not going to let us stay here much longer," April said.
"I'm working on a plan," Illya said. "I just can't think of what that will be." He pulled up his binoculars, sighting a woman with a cart struggling down the street. It was a longshot his quarry would appear this early, but they'd selected the location of the club based on the availability of the three-flat apartment building across the street.
They lived on the second floor. They were posing as husband and wife and took shifts watching the streets. There were other agents planted inside the club even at this early hour, but Jason occupied the apartment on the first floor.
"How far are you willing to go if Waverly calls us back?" April asked, keeping her eyes on the street below.
Illya kept his eyes straight ahead as he observed the bag lady turn the corner at the end of the block. "Need it be put it into words?"
It took a few minutes for April to respond.
"Then we are in agreement," She finally said.
Illya pictured a future on the run, searching for the person who would end this nightmare. They wouldn't be able to resign like normal people. Resigning meant detraining—virtually a memory wipe. It wasn't Capsule B, but it would still be detrimental enough to hamper them.
"You know what happens If we resign," April said. "We'll be shut out. We won't be able to get information once that happens."
"I've taken that into consideration," Illya replied after a few moments.
The entire conversation was taking place without either of them taking their eyes off the street below.
"Are you certain?" April said. "You'll pay a higher price if we're captured."
"I heard the weather is much improved in Siberia," Illya replied.
He was on loan from the Soviet Union. Once his tenure with UNCLE ended, he would be recalled, and duly punished for disobeying orders, which he perfectly intended to do.
"That's good," April said. She met his eyes. "But what say we try for someplace warmer. I've never been fond of cold climates. Not even for my closest friends."
And there it was. They were going the distance. They would not give up, even if it meant disobeying a direct order.
Illya aimed his binoculars at the street and so did April. Later they would take turns taking a nap and wait for another evening at the hottest jazz club in Chicago.