Work Text:
New York City April 1964
Prologue
“Spider silk. A fascinating substance. Spun into swathing bands to trap prey, it possesses tensile strength as high as 1.75 GPa and a breaking elongation of over 26 percent. It is more than three times tougher than aramid fiber.”
Dr. Donald Simpson, Section Eight’s Research and Development Chief, clicks the slide projector’s remote control. The carousel clatters and advances to display the next slide: another complex molecular model.
Oh geez. Napoleon rubs his forehead, sighs, and glances at Illya, whose attention, of course, remains glued to the screen. Illya’s wearing a tiny grin, enjoying his partner’s struggle to focus as Simpson drones along.
“Using the molecular structure of spider’s silk as a model, we have engineered a fiber superior to DuPont’s HT-1.” Simpson turns from the screen and faces his audience, an assortment of Section II and III agents. “The tie I am wearing today is made from this engineered fiber.” Simpson seizes the end of his blue tie and gives it a jiggle. “See how it shimmers, like silk. The shimmering is due to the prism-like structure of the fiber, which allows the cloth to refract light at different angles, thus producing different colors. Rather pretty, isn’t it?”
Simpson smiles. “Don’t let the pretty colors fool you. It’s stronger than steel. Incredibly reliable. The field applications for this tie are quite exciting. Remember this, Mr. Kuryakin, the next time you forego our neckties for a turtleneck.”
More than a few agents chuckle. Illya suppresses a scowl and glances at Napoleon, who is smiling broadly. “And now, we turn our attention to spider venom.” The carousel clacks and jumps to the next slide.
Oh geez.
----
Mr. Solo shoved the gurney into the fire. Wolfgang Volpe, aka Professor Amadeus, ran after the gurney and jumped into the flames, where he perished. Perhaps it was an insane attempt to rescue Hitler’s preserved corpse. Perhaps Volpe wanted to die at his Fuehrer’s side out of blind loyalty.
Illya paused, idly running his fingers across the typewriter’s home keys, then pushed away from his desk and slouched in his chair, replaying the grisly scene in the underground laboratory. Why would someone jump into a flaming inferno after a formaldehyded Fuhrer? What did it matter? If hell existed, Volpe was burning in it now. Let the devil sort it out.
His telephone rang. Again.
Napoleon was in Mr. Waverly’s office, presenting the college students, Chuck Boskirk and Terry Brent, with Amadeus’ prized stamp collection – U.N.C.L.E.’s thank you gift for their assistance in the affair. Illya had agreed to cover internal communications until Napoleon got out of the meeting. Why was it taking so long? He suspected Napoleon was dodging what awaited him in his own office: incessant telephone calls and a mountain of paperwork in his in-tray.
Illya yanked the receiver from its cradle. “Kuryakin here.”
“Illya?” The warning note in Wanda Mae Kim’s voice brought him up straight. “Angelique is parked outside Del Floria’s.”
“Tell me you’re joking.”
“No joke. She’s just sitting there, perched on the trunk of her car.”
“Is she alone?”
“Yes. Del Floria has six men guarding the entrance. He’s ready to issue a mid-level alert if she makes a move toward the building.”
“Hold off on the alert. Have Security get out there and find out what she wants.”
“Yes, sir. Stand by.”
He thought back to yesterday’s stamp auction. Angelique’s reaction when she spotted Illya. The charade of a smile. The mockery in the delighted greeting. The venom in her eyes when she thought he wasn’t looking.
Napoleon had caught up with Illya at the refreshments table.
“How’s the punch?”
“It just went flat."
“Someone recognize you?”
"Not recognized. Greeted me like a long-lost brother. It seems Thrush has elected to join the game of philately. She just went into the auction room.”
"Angelique.”
"Some time you must tell me what it’s like romancing a woman who would kill you without a qualm if Thrush ordered it.”
“It adds spice, Illya. And besides, I flatter myself that she might have a few qualms.”
Illya frowned. Spice? Laced with arsenic, if Angelique was involved. His telephone rang. He grabbed the receiver. “Kuryakin.”
Wanda had more bad news. “Angelique wants to see Mr. Solo. She wants him to come outside.”
Was there no limit to the woman’s effrontery? “Have Security tell her he is busy. She’ll just have to wait.”
That should put her in a good mood. I’d love to see the look on her face when she doesn’t get her way.
“On second thought, I’ll tell her myself,” he said.
Illya hung up the phone and glanced at the field report. He pictured Angelique waiting out on the curb. He resumed typing, but at a deliberately slow pace. Let her wait. He described the final details of Amadeus’ scheme to bring Adolf Hitler back to life - the explosion, the fire, the professor’s death.
Report complete, he zipped it from the roller and dropped it into his out tray. He stood, stretched, put on his suit jacket, and brushed nonexistent lint from his sleeves with a meticulous hand.
She should be sufficiently hot under her mink-swathed collar by now.
He opened his top desk drawer, rummaged through his cache of tiny toys and came up with a homing device encased in a hollowed-out phony nickel. He palmed it and strolled from his office to the elevator, wondering if he was looking for trouble where there was none. He put the thought aside and headed down to Del Floria's.
She started it.
----
Outside, the late afternoon was sunny and warm. Tomorrow promised to be unseasonably hot for late April. The Corvette’s windows were rolled down.
How accommodating of her.
Angelique had arranged herself on the soft curve of the car’s rear quarter panel. Her perfectly coiffed platinum hair shimmered in the sunlight. A light breeze caught at the skirt of her dress, lifting it in a soft pouf, and she smiled, allowing the miniature parachute to float down of its own accord before smoothing it into place. When she caught sight of Illya, her smile soured.
“You’re not who I had in mind, Mr. Kuryakin,” she said as he approached.
He came to a halt in front of her. “Napoleon is busy.”
“I merely want to invite Napoleon to dinner. Nothing more.” She leaned back, leisurely crossed her legs, and said, “And, perhaps, after dinner, his favorite dessert.” She smiled, watching Illya’s reaction.
He refused to rise to the bait. “Don’t you think you’ve caused enough trouble for a while?” You could have called him instead of making a spectacle of yourself out here.”
“Oh, but it’s such a beautiful day to be out and about. Surely you can understand.” She tipped her head to one side, fixed him with an appraising look, and said in a contemplative voice, “I was telling Napoleon only yesterday how grim you are. That you should realize, even in war, enemies must occasionally negotiate. And if the emissaries become friends, what harm would there be in that?”
Illya gave her a dry smile. “And I was telling Napoleon only yesterday that you would kill him without a qualm. Napoleon prefers to think you have qualms.” He leaned against the car between Angelique and the window. She tugged the skirt of her dress away from him. He pressed nearer to her and whispered in her ear, “I prefer to disagree.” As he spoke, he backhanded the tracking device through the open car window into the gap behind the passenger seat.
She pulled away from him and brushed at her hair, as though something disgusting had rubbed off. “You are a very rude man.”
He shrugged. “And so, you and I remain enemies. What harm would there be in that?” He pushed off from the Corvette and headed back toward Del Floria’s entrance. Striding away, he said, “I’ll tell him you’re here.”
Behind him, Angelique spoke again. “He said the truth is, you’re jealous. Are you, I wonder?”
Illya scowled and bit back a sarcastic reply. Jealous of Napoleon? Over Angelique? Napoleon surely was joking. Or Angelique was lying, simply for the fun of annoying him. Either way, he would not give her the satisfaction of knowing her parting shot had hit home. It was an unsettling feeling, he realized as he retreated to Del Floria’s. She’d gotten under his skin, and he was unsure why.
He returned to his office and called the motor pool to have a car readied. While he was on the phone he picked through the gadgets in his drawer again and selected a dime-sized transmitter and a receiver disguised as a cigarette case. He pocketed the cigarette case, palmed the transmitter, and took off for Mr. Waverly’s office.
Illya didn’t begin to understand the game Napoleon and Angelique played, but he had no doubt he was breaking its unwritten rules. He didn’t care; he knew what harm would inevitably come of their so-called alliance.
----
Napoleon was all smiles, talking with Chuck and Terry. Illya brought the easy chatter to a halt with a perfunctory “Excuse me.” All three heads turned to him as he approached Napoleon. “You have a caller,” he said. “At the security entrance.”
Napoleon took in Illya’s disapproving expression and understood, although his partner had not spoken Angelique’s name. He stepped close to Illya and said in a low tone, “Now?”
Illya gave Napoleon a tiny why-do-I-put-up-with-this smile. “You’d better attend to it before the place gets a bad name.” Flat-faced, he sniffed in displeasure and strode from the room. He returned to his office, pulled the receiver from his pocket, activated it, and manipulated the tuner until he heard Napoleon’s voice, wrapping up the meeting with Chuck and Terry.
He’d slipped the bug into the pocket of Napoleon’s jacket as smooth as a pick-pocket - in reverse. An uneasy feeling stirred in his stomach. It’s neither right nor wrong, he told himself. He pushed the twinge of uncertainty aside. Planting a bug on his partner was no game. It was strictly protocol. He was guarding his partner against a formidable Thrush enemy.
Yesterday, outside the stamp-dealer’s shop, he’d watched through the window as Angelique pinned the carnation to Napoleon’s lapel. The poisonous spider crawled from it only a moment after she’d gone. It could not be construed as an assassination attempt; she’d meant it as a tease. High stakes, yes, but anything less would not have been worthy of the game she and Napoleon played.
Napoleon had reassured the stamp dealer, “Any woman that gives flowers to a man can’t be all bad.” But Illya had no doubt Angelique would kill Napoleon if she wanted to. A Russian adage came to him.
If a spider drops onto the threshold, someone will die.
Even the least superstitious of Russians knew that much. What would it take to convince Napoleon?
Illya waited until Napoleon was making his way outside to meet Angelique, then went down to Del Floria’s shop. At the windows, he fingered aside a curtain and peeked outside. Napoleon and Angelique were chatting outside her car. He fished the cigarette case from his pocket and hit the device’s switch. Their voices came clearly through the receiver’s speaker.
“No spiders?”
“Just me, darling.”
“Well, since you put it that way, I guess it’s all right.”
Del Floria raised his eyebrows at Illya’s eavesdropping operation but went back to his steam press without a word. Illya caught the tailor’s glance. Napoleon knew what he was doing. Still, Angelique’s prank in the stamp shop gnawed at him. She’d planted the spider and left the shop. It was the sort of move in her deadly game that could easily go either way, and she would play along whichever way it went.
What would have happened had he not been there to intervene? A moment ago, she’d claimed she was merely asking Napoleon out to dinner. She’d probably poison the wine.
Illya watched as Napoleon and Angelique got into her car, and then he hurried to the East 46th parking garage exit. Just inside the door, a guy in mechanic overalls stood alongside a car, dangling a set of car keys.
Illya took the keys from the guy and said “Thanks, Mike.”
“Sure thing, Mr. K.” The guy walked away, heading back to the motor pool.
Illya settled into the driver’s seat and turned the receiver on.
Angelique was speaking. “–an 8:30 table at Gallagher’s.”
“On such short notice? How did you manage that?” asked Napoleon.
“I have my ways.”
“I’m sure you do. In the meantime, we have some time on our hands." Napoleon’s voice, playful.
Illya made a face.
“Yes?” Angelique purred. “Are you thinking what I’m thinking?”
No… no…
“It’s a beautiful afternoon for a drive,” said Napoleon. “We could head up the valley, maybe as far as Ossining. Take our time, enjoy the scenery and the small towns along the way.”
Yes… yes…
“Scenery and small towns? Napoleon. How boring.”
“Those small towns have some very nice art galleries and antique shops.”
“Suddenly, it seems much more appealing.”
“So, it’s a plan?”
“Yes, it sounds lovely.”
“We just have to remember to turn back in time for dinner. Unless we change our minds. We could always find a little hotel.”
No… no...
“I wouldn’t dare,” Angelique said. “Thomas would never forgive me.”
“That sounds serious. Have I got competition?”
“He’s the maître de, darling.”
“Ah. I should have guessed.”
Thank you, Thomas. Thank you very much.
The drive along the Hudson River Valley was indeed boring. Illya stayed well back as Napoleon and Angelique wound through the miles of spring-green countryside. From their conversation, Illya knew when they were stopping along the way and pulled over when they did, maintaining his distance.
By eight o’clock they were back in Manhattan, inside Gallagher’s, being greeted by Thomas.
Illya pulled into a parking garage down the street and wound his way to the top level to ensure good reception. He cranked his window open. The cool, fresh air felt good. Following them had been uneventful, but he had a brutal headache from listening to their unceasing flirtations.
----
Two tortuous hours later, they were still at it.
“Are you in the mood for dessert?” Napoleon asked.
“Why, yes.”
“The coffee panna cotta is very good.”
“Actually, I was actually thinking of something else. Something not available here.”
“You want to go somewhere else for— ahh.”
Angelique laughed quietly. “Your place? Or mine?”
“Mine. I’ve got some nice Dom Perignon tucked away.”
Illya groaned and rubbed his forehead. He was getting another headache thinking about the U.N.C.L.E. security protocols being flung to the wind. He started the car and gave them a five-minute head start.
They were already inside Napoleon’s apartment by the time Illya found a parking space. He settled in behind the driver’s wheel, listening.
A champagne cork popped. Bubbly poured. Glasses clinked. Sweet talk accompanied by Frank Sinatra music from the hi-fi in the background. By the time the record ended, so had the chit-chat. Nothing but rustling sounds and murmurs of— Illya turned off the receiver. His stomach felt sick. He told himself it was because he’d missed dinner.
After more time than Illya wanted to contemplate, the tracker’s signal came to life. Angelique’s car was on the move. Illya followed and drove past her as she parked in front of her apartment building. He shut down the homing signal and headed home.
When he arrived, Angelique’s Corvette was parked outside his apartment. Somehow, she’d managed to sneak off and beat him back to his place. He pulled to the curb behind her car, cursing her and whatever malignant cosmic force was responsible for her existence.
In unison, they got out of their cars and advanced on each other, stopping beneath a sprawling chestnut tree planted between the sidewalk and the street.
“What do you want?” Illya asked.
Angelique didn’t reply. Her gaze flickered to something behind Illya. He grabbed for his pistol, but as he drew it from the holster something sharp bit the back of his neck. He slapped it with his free hand. A Thrush dart.
Icy fire tore through Illya’s veins. His arms spasmed, and he lost his grip on his weapon. It fell to the sidewalk and slid toward Angelique. His legs buckled and he fell, landing hard, his hip and shoulder taking the brunt of the fall, the side of his face smacking the rough pavement. He tried to get up, but his arms and legs were lifeless. He watched, helpless, as a man holding a pistol at his side emerged from the shadows and went to stand alongside Angelique.
Angelique stepped to Illya and stood over his crumpled form. Something small and metallic plinked on the pavement near his head and rolled away. The phony nickel he’d planted in her car. “Subtlety is not your strength, Mr. Kuryakin.”
She stooped, picked up his gun and pointed it at him. “Why were you following us?”
His tongue was thick and numb. “Pro…c…col,”.
“Protocol? Surely it’s not following protocol if you spy on your partner without his knowledge, is it? Don’t give me those wide eyes. You know what I’m talking about. I searched through Napoleon’s clothing while he was in the bathroom and found a listening device in his pocket. Imagine his dismay when I showed it to him. He swore he knew nothing about it, and I believed him.” She paused, watching Illya’s face. “You didn’t know I found the bug? You stopped eavesdropping too soon. How shortsighted of you.” She said to her Thrush man, “One more.”
He aimed at Illya and fired, point blank. The weapon made a muffled pop, and Illya’s veins again burned with ice.
“Don’t play games with me, Mr. Kuryakin.” Angelique nudged his head with the tip of her shoe. “Not until you learn the rules.” She turned and walked back to her car, got in, and sat, waiting. Her gunman waved at something farther down the street. Illya followed the gunman’s gaze. Orange swaths of light beamed through the trees along the sidewalk. The leaves blurred, turned red and dripped blood. Hallucinations, Illya realized.
From down the street, a car’s engine started up. The car pulled alongside Illya, and a second Thrush man got out. He unlocked the car’s trunk and opened it. The two men hoisted Illya by the arms and legs and dumped him into the trunk. The lid slammed closed. The men got into the car and drove away.
Inside the trunk, dim red light glowed from the taillights. The car stopped abruptly, then swerved around a corner. Illya felt nauseous. He focused on the red light to fight the vertigo. The red glow grew brighter, forming an iridescent mass of shiny, wet, dripping red leaves. Illya rose among the leaves and flew upward through the black night, higher and higher until he touched the sky and fell down, down, into a place that was no place, nowhere.
----
Victor darling red words
three o’clock in the morning who are those men purple words
sorry to disturb you but I need a red words
is that Kuryakin no no no put him back in the trunk immediately purple words
calm down only until tomorrow red words
absolutely not my granddaughters weekend no get him out of here purple words
don’t worry I’ll call Napoleon tomorrow to fetch him red words
Solo! Have you completely lost your mind I forbid purple words
owe me a favor
owe you nothing you pestiferous pea hen
something to tie him up a rope or
rope what do you take me for a cowboy
doesn’t have to be a rope
just mosey on down to the corral and
for god’s sake shut up
stop put that back
only a rug
antique sari silk rug you’re going to pay for that
promise it will be fine
will not abide this bedlam get out of my way
where are you going
my club I refuse to be involved with
what about your granddaughters
they have a nanny you ninny
red purple red purple red purple
red purple red purple red purple
blue blue blue
rolling turning spiraling spinning
black
----
He is awake. He is lying on his side. He hears nearby water making soft lap-lapping sounds. There is something cold and wet beneath his cheek. Sand. He opens his eyes. The sand slopes to the water’s edge. Across the water the horizon is washed with dawn’s peach hues. He shivers. He’s wrapped in something cold and damp. He wriggles, he thrashes, but he’s not moving. It’s all in his brain. He tries harder. It’s tiring. He is so tired.
.
.
High in the blue sky, the sun is hot on his face and neck, but he feels cold. The sand is white and sparkling. Surface waves wash, wash, wash ashore in long, soothing, silver lines. He listens to the waves. He is cocooned in a blue –
blue
antique sari silk rug
A white Adirondack chair faces the water. A white slatted side table rests in the sand alongside the chair. On the table rests a hurricane glass filled with orange liquid. In the glass is a long red straw and a tiny yellow paper umbrella. The wide floppy brim of a white hat tilts into view. A languid hand lifts the hurricane glass. The hat, the hand, and the drink disappear. The hand reappears, holding the little yellow paper umbrella and tosses it aside. Caught by the breeze, it rises, flutters, and rolls away. The hand reappears and sets the hurricane glass back on the white table. The glass is half-full of orange –
orange
blue sky sprinkled with tiny yellow umbrellas
chirping birds
The glittering water hurts his eyes. His blue cocoon has dried and shrunk in the hot sun. It is tighter than ever. His eyes sting and tear up. He tries to move, but he still can’t move. His mind floats away. Birds chirp. Water washes.
Two young girls, twins, perhaps six years of age, come into view, dancing along the shore. They wear sundresses in the colors of tropical—
orange blue red green yellow
shimmering
prism-like structure
different angles different colors
rather pretty isn’t it
The little girls chirp in sing-song non-words and wave at a fluffy white cloud drifting in the blue sky. Their downy feather strawberry hair frames their sun-pinked faces in frizzled waves. They flap their little bird arms and hop on their little bird legs. Their skirts twirl, silken parasols–
silken parasol skirts flying in cobalt sky
rather pretty
rather pretty
The bird-girls plip-plop on their bird feet, come close, bend over him, chirping softly.
“Help me,” he says to the bird-girls, but no sound comes out.
“Elmie, Lucie, darlings, leave the nice man alone.” Angelique’s voice drifts to them on the breeze.
It comes to him in bits: Their cars, parked on the street in front of his apartment. Thrush sleep darts – no, something more than a tranquilizer.
The little bird-girls chitter and hop down the beach. Illya follows them with his eyes until they move beyond his line of sight and there is only white sand, silver water, and a yellow circle burning a hole in the blue—
blue sky filled with black spiders falling
spinning blue silk strands, swathing bands
swathing bands to trap prey
Angelique rises from her lounge chair and strolls across the sand to him. She stands over him. “You look good in blue, Mr. Kuryakin.”
He tries to move. “Let me go,” he says, but his voice is trapped in his head.
It is as though she has read his mind. She bends down and pulls on the blue rug. He is flushed with relief, thinking the game is over, she is going to release him. Instead, she yanks at the rug, finds a bit of slack and secures it beneath the dead weight of his body.
“Snug as a bug in a rug,” she says. She leans down, takes Illya’s chin in hand and turns his head to face her. “A kiss goodbye.” She kisses him on the mouth and makes a disgusted face. “I don’t know what Napoleon sees in you.” She looks up and calls, “Girls, come along. Nanny is waiting to take you to town for ice cream.”
Plip, plop, plip, plop, the bird-girls approach.
“Tante Angelique?”
“I am not your—never mind. What is it, Elmie?”
“Why is that man—”
“Don’t worry, darling. It’s just a little game he and I are playing.”
“Did you win?”
“Yes.” Angelique says and throws a thin, satisfied smile at Illya. “I won.”
She stands, brushes sand from her white linen trousers and strides away with the little bird-girls chirp-chirping behind her, taking giant steps so their feet land in her footprints.
You twisted— how can you allow two innocent little girls to see this? He hopes the girls are too young to realize they are abandoning him to the mercy of the blazing sun, and heat stroke, or worse.
He’s alone. There’s no sound of people. Nothing but gentle water sounds. The sun is a blinding white pinwheel spinning in the sky. He closes his eyes. His face, defenseless against the sun, is on fire. High-pitched buzzing inside his head explodes. Red hot wires stab his brain.
wound tight
swathing bands
turned rolled spun trapped
can’t move
let me go
any woman who gives a man flowers can’t be all bad
all bad
.
.
here you are orange words
you’re burning up orange words
he is freezing
turned unrolled unwound
free free free
Napoleon kneels in the sand with Illya’s head in his lap and brushes the sand from his eyes, his cheeks, his nose, his mouth. He lifts Illya and drags him from the beach. A gust of wind catches the blue rug. Illya watches it skip away, across the sand toward the water.
----
paralytic with a psychotropic component green words
Dr. Simpson
Illya can you hear me Illya orange words
Napoleon
.
.
He hears the steady tick-tick of a clock. He is lying in a bed. He opens his eyes. He is in a dimly lit room with a black window.
The door to the room whispers open, then closes. Soft footsteps approach his bed. A nurse, he thinks.
“You’re awake. How delightful. I thought you’d be asleep.” She leans over him, sees him watching her.
Angelique. He speaks her name, but it comes out as garbled, meaningless syllables.
“Babbling like an idiot. How apropos,” she says, and sits on the bed. “Have you learned your lesson, Mr. Kuryakin?”
Around her neck she wears a long, pale, silken scarf. She removes it and trails one end of it across Illya’s forehead and cheeks in a lazy caress. He struggles to turn his face away, but his neck muscles refuse to comply.
“Napoleon told me you’re jealous. I don’t think he understands.” She tilts her head, curiosity in her eyes, and watches Illya watching her. She threads the scarf beneath his neck, then crisscrosses it in front. “But you… somewhere in your tiny little brain, you know.” She pulls the ends of the scarf tight and smiles at the cakk-cakk sounds it elicits from Illya. “You’re jealous of me, not him. You don’t want to share him. I wonder when you’re going to finally admit it to yourself.”
A noise in the hall gives her pause. She glances at the door, then refocuses on Illya. She pulls the scarf tighter.
Do something! Move! His brain shouts at his useless arms and legs while his ears fill with the choking sounds he’s making.
Somewhere outside the room a telephone rings, once, twice. Angelique frowns and stops pulling on the scarf. She jerks it loose, strips it free. “I could have killed you. Remember that,” she says, her voice soft, poisonous. She backs away, draping the scarf around her neck “This isn’t finished.”
She slips through the door, leaving no trace of her visit save the friction burns on his neck. He watches the door. He listens to the steady ticking of the clock.
----
“Are you awake?” Napoleon’s voice. No more orange words. Just his voice.
Cool air brushes Illya’s face. His eyelids are too heavy to open. The bedside monitor makes a steady beep, beep sound. The bed sheet is cool and smooth. He rubs it between his thumb and forefinger. I can move my fingers.
Napoleon chuckles. He’s using his flirty voice. Flirty voice?
Illya opens his eyes. The hospital room is awash in pink and gold from the early morning sun shining through the window. He closes his eyes against the bright sunlight.
“I couldn’t sleep.” Napoleon’s speaking in a soft, low tone. “No. He’s still out.” Another soft chuckle. “At least one of us can sleep. They gave him something to counteract the drugs. He’s still sleeping it off.”
Illya tilts his head a fraction of an inch in the direction of Napoleon’s voice. I can move my head. He cracks one eye partially open, enough to see Napoleon lounging in the bedside chair, angled away from Illya, talking on the telephone, legs crossed, smiling, listening to—
Angelique. It adds spice, he said it adds spice.
Silk scarf, throttling his neck—
He lifts a shaky hand to his throat. He coughs, a hoarse, grating noise.
“He’s waking up. I have to go.” The telephone receiver clicks softly into the cradle. “You’re awake.” Napoleon lifts Illya’s hand away from his neck, frowns, runs his fingers along the irritated skin of Illya’s throat. “This looks like ligature marks.”
“A—” Illya’s throat closes. He tries again. “An—”
“Angelique?”
Illya’s eyes fill with anger. “How—" His voice is reed-dry and raspy, and he struggles to clear his throat. “How can you sit there and laugh with her?”
“Laugh with—” Napoleon’s face stills. “I was talking to Wanda,” he says.
Illya blinks. “Wanda? I thought—"
Napoleon cuts him off. “I know what you thought.” After a couple of beats he says, “Those drugs must have really scrambled your brains.” He smiles, but it’s an empty smile, and he stands and goes to inspect the view from the window. When he turns back his eyes are empty, too. “I think I’ll get some coffee. See you in a bit,” he says, and walks out.
A patch of clouds drifts across the window, throwing the sunny room into shadow. Wispy and white, it slowly gains mass and darkens until it is thick and grey. It stalls and hangs there, heavy, leaden.
After a long while, well after he’s decided Napoleon is not coming back, the door opens, and Napoleon comes in, gingerly holding a cardboard coffee cup by the top and bottom rims. He sits in the bedside chair, takes a tentative sip of coffee, and says, “I can take care of myself, Illya.”
“I have my doubts,” Illya rasps, and breaks into a fit of dry-coughs.
Napoleon sets his coffee on the window sill, raises the bed so Illya is sitting up, then pours a glass of water from the pitcher in the bedside table. “Angelique and I called a truce.” He lifts the glass to Illya’s mouth and holds it steady while Illya drinks, then returns it to the table.
Illya clears his throat and decides it’s in working order. “Some truce. What about the poisonous spider she planted in the flower at the stamp shop?”
Napoleon shakes his head. “She was playing. And you know it.”
“One day she’s going to decide she doesn’t want to play anymore.”
“It’s you she doesn’t want to play with, Illya. She wanted to teach you a lesson.”
“She left me to broil in the sun like a rolled roast. It was 86 degrees yesterday.”
“She told me where you were,” Napoleon says.
“She tried to kill me.”
Napoleon frowns, shakes his head. “Come on, Illya. She wasn’t trying to kill you. She was getting back at you for spying on us.”
“Last night. She paid me a visit. She tried to strangle me.”
“Last night.” Napoleon touches Illya’s neck. Says nothing for a moment. “Sometimes I think the two of you deserve each other.” He glances at his watch. “I have a meeting with Mr. Waverly. And you do, too, later today. He wants to see you as soon as they release you.” He moves to the door, opens it, then turns back, his eyes troubled. “I still want to know why you feel the need to interfere.”
“I’m not interfering. I’m watching your back.” Illya sees the doubt on Napoleon’s face and looks away. The door closes.
----
Illya sat, resignedly listening to the tiny sounds punctuating Mr. Waverly’s pointed silence: The turn of a page. The steady tick of his wristwatch. He followed the second hand for a full minute while several more pages rustled. The ligature wounds on his neck itched, and he regretted his choice of shirt and tie over a soft turtleneck. He resisted the urge to run a surreptitious finger beneath his collar. It was long past dinner time. His stomach rumbled. Waverly did not react, although he’d no doubt heard it.
At last, Alexander Waverly looked up from his reading. “An interesting comment in your report, Mr. Kuryakin. What was Professor Amadeus’ motivation to throw himself into the inferno? Was it insanity? Or blind loyalty to his cause?” He regarded his agent. “I find myself wondering the same about you. What motivated you to spy on your partner without his permission?” Waverly’s eyes drilled into Illya’s. “Something has blinded you to your own lack of judgement. I doubt it was insanity. Was it loyalty?” Waverly closed the file and set it aside. He paused, his furrowed brow leveling as he swiveled in his chair and turned his gaze to his office windows. “Or something else, perhaps.”
Illya followed Waverly’s stare; the three black rectangles framing the glowing lights of the UN and the Chrysler Building. “She’s playing with him. He’s—”
“Mr. Solo is quite skilled at playing Angelique’s games.” Waverly put a hand in his pocket, produced his pipe, and examined its blackened bowl. He glanced up at Illya. “You, on the other hand– tread carefully, Mr. Kuryakin. Angelique wants to drive a wedge between Mr. Solo and U.N.C.L.E. And you are her pry bar.”
“Napoleon would never let her–”
“She enjoys stirring up trouble between the two of you. What is her goal? Does she hope to lure Mr. Solo away from U.N.C.L.E.? She’s said as much.” Waverly reached for his humidor, removed its lid and delved into its depths with his pipe. “Two can play that game.” Waverly tamped tobacco methodically into the pipe bowl while he mulled something over. When his pipe was filled, he pushed the humidor aside and returned his attention to Illya. “It’s time you know: Mr. Solo is attempting to lure Angelique away from Thrush.”
“What? I doubt even Napoleon can charm her into doing that,” said Illya.
“She trades favors and forms alliances, not necessarily aligned with Thrush,” Waverly countered. “The challenge is to compromise her, to gain enough leverage to make her cooperate. I want to make her an asset.”
“So, this is the plan? Napoleon has been romancing Angelique because you are trying to turn her?”
“Yes.”
“How long has this been going on?”
“You sound like a jealous husband.”
“Jealous? I am not –” Illya shook his head and spoke urgently. “Sir, when she realizes he’s playing her - and she will - she’ll wrap him in her black widow’s cocoon and kill him without a second thought. You’re deliberately putting him at risk.”
“How is that different from any mission I send him on?”
Chagrined, Illya sat back in his chair.
Waverly was not finished. “Angelique is not the only one spinning a cocoon around Mr. Solo. What about you, Mr. Kuryakin? Stop interfering. That’s an order.”
Illya gave a defeated sigh. “Yes, Sir. I’ll leave them alone.”
Waverly frowned. “I want you to stop interfering with Mr. Solo. However, you mustn’t treat that woman any differently than you ordinarily would. She would suspect something and bolt.”
Illya nodded. “Understood.”
Waverly rattled his box of wooden matches, opened it, and selected a match. He pressed a button on his console, and the door to his office slid open. “A cab is waiting for you outside Del Floria’s. Report back to me first thing tomorrow morning.”
As the door closed behind Illya, Waverly lit his pipe and took a slow, contemplative puff.
----
Traffic was snarled, and the cab driver was smoking a cigar. When they arrived at his apartment building, Illya’s head was throbbing.
As he climbed the two flights of stairs to his apartment his legs grew shaky, and by the time he stepped inside, what little energy he possessed had drained away. He went to the sofa, dropped onto it, kicked off his shoes and looked around the empty apartment. His stomach growled. He was too tired to do anything about dinner. Instead, he flopped onto his back and lay, unmoving, letting the soft cushions ease his tired body.
His gaze settled on a cobweb running from the ceiling in the far corner to the bookcase beneath. A dragline spun by a spider, then abandoned, dust motes settled along its length. Last week a spider had lodged itself up there, not moving for days. Now it was gone. He wondered if it was still alive, waiting in the shadows, waiting to bite him while he slept. Like Angelique, in his hospital room, in the dark. It hadn’t even occurred to him to think how she had gotten in, unchecked. He remembered the revulsion he felt when he swept the spider from Napoleon’s carnation. He scanned the edges of the ceiling. Where the hell was that spider?
He thought about prybars and cocoons. And Angelique, spinning webs to trap enemies and allies alike to suit her needs. And Mr. Waverly, spinning a web of his own, dangling Napoleon as the bait to lure Angelique. And Napoleon, dangling, willingly.
You sound like a jealous husband, Waverly had said. Not jealousy. Protectiveness. He curled onto his side and closed his eyes.
If you will recall, we walked into a building, climbed two flights of stairs, went into an office and through a door. We entered an elevator, descended three flights, opened a wall, passed through several corridors, rode an elevator up two stories, and here you are.
He climbs the uncarpeted stairs. The gunmetal doors slide open. There are more stairs. Napoleon is not there. He climbs the stairs to another set of grey steel doors. More stairs. Another door. Stairs. Doors. The grey steel doors open before he reaches them. Napoleon stands there. Napoleon turns away. The grey steel doors close.
Here you are
Here you are
He awoke before dawn, roused by the unrelenting chirping of robins. He put his pillow over his head. No good. He got out of bed, still tired, moved unseeingly through his morning routine, and took a cab to Headquarters.
----
His stomach is jumpy. He’s nervous about seeing Napoleon. He is still unsteady on his feet. He could have used another day of rest, but Mr. Waverly was waiting. Del Floria smiles at him as he passes through the tailor’s shop into the fitting booth and turns the coat hook. In Reception, Wanda smiles as she affixes his Security badge to his lapel. Behind her, the door swishes open.
In the corridor, Napoleon stands, waiting. He’s wearing one of Dr. Simpson’s ties. Napoleon’s smiling. “Here you are,” he says.
Illya takes in the warmth in his partner’s eyes.
Don’t let the pretty colors fool you. Stronger than steel, and incredibly reliable.
“And here you are,” Illya says and smiles back. It’s contagious. It’s a relief. And just like that, Napoleon has him by the arm and is leading him through the door.
“About yesterday,” Napoleon says. They pass a couple of beaming secretaries who are all eyes for Illya.
“You don’t have to say anything. I know I’m a blockhead,” Illya says, and glances back at the secretaries. They are peeking over their shoulders at him. They catch him looking and turn away, giggling.
Illya stops walking. “Napoleon, look. If you want to see Angelique, I’m not going to get in your way. It’s none of my business.”
Napoleon laughs. “Nice try. I know Mr. Waverly filled you in. And that he told you to stop interfering with our – ah- strategy.”
“But I am still permitted to annoy her. Provoke her. Irritate her. Aggravate—”
“Okay, okay. Got it.
“Napoleon, how long have you been at this?”
“Well, it began as a mutual flirtation a year ago, in Paris. A playing-with-fire sort of thing. Mr. Waverly had me over the coals for it. Then he proposed the plan." He breaks into a grin. “Sorry. I can’t help myself.”
Illya’s eyes narrow.
“Why is everyone smiling at me?”
Napoleon reaches out and taps Illya’s cheek.
“Ouch. How could I forget? Just how red is my face?”
“Think tomato. A very ripe tomato.”
Illya has a good laugh. He doesn’t care. It’s good to be back at Napoleon’s side. They head down the steel gunmetal corridor, to the elevator, and up to Section II.
----
Epilogue
Dinner at Mama Lin’s was hot, spicy, and delicious. Napoleon sipped his tea while Illya plucked the last pork dumpling from the platter and took a bite. He frowned and lowered his chopsticks to his plate.
“Napoleon, what nice a surprise.”
Napoleon turned. “Angelique.” He blotted his mouth and stood.
Angelique placed a white-gloved hand on Napoleon’s arm. “Such lovely manners.” She kept her back to Illya, who had remained seated.
“Would you like to join us?” Napoleon asked.
Illya half-choked into his napkin.
“No, no. I’m meeting a friend in the private dining room,” she said.
“The dim sum is excellent today.”
“I’ll remember that. It was lovely to see you, Napoleon.” She turned slowly to Illya. “Unfortunately, I can’t say the same for your sullen Russian here.”
Illya merely stared at her. After a moment, he said, deadpan, “You have lipstick on your tooth.”
Her hand flew to her mouth. She lowered it, glanced at its unblemished whiteness, and made a face. She tossed her chin at him. "Si puéril." She stalked away.
Napoleon watched Angelique disappear into the depths of Mama Lin’s. “That was childish, even for you.”
“She told me, ‘This isn’t finished.’” Illya grinned. “I’m just getting started.”
The End