MFU Fanfic: Black Sapphires
The first part of this story started out this spring as an Easter Egg at MFUWSS entitled Blue Diamonds and then was posted with a continuation a little later on MUNCLE.
This is a further development of the situation and doesn't stand alone. (Also, posted on MUNCLE).
Title: Black Sapphires
Author: saki101
Fandom: Man from UNCLE
Genre: Slash
Rating: NC-17
Word Count: 5848
Disclaimer: Don't own MUNCLE and no money is being made.
Excerpt:
Like his private in-flight movie, the surveillance tapes kept replaying in Napoleon's head during the trip back to New York.
Black Sapphires
Like his private in-flight movie, the surveillance tapes kept replaying in Napoleon's head during the trip back to New York. He glanced over at his sleeping partner. I can well imagine that you need to catch up on sleep, my friend, Napoleon thought sullenly to himself. How many nights have I spent in similar exertions and never given a thought to what you were doing? But for the past few nights it had been all Napoleon could think about. Illya turned towards the window and murmured a word Napoleon couldn’t catch. The sound was one stimulus too many. Napoleon unbuckled his seat belt and headed down the darkened aisle of the plane to find some privacy.
**************
"Ah, Mr Kuryakin, here you are," Mr Waverly said when Illya stepped through the door of his office.
"It took a bit longer to dismantle the apparatus Kittridge seized than I expected," Illya explained, moving towards the conference table. Someone sitting on the couch in the corner stood.
As Illya turned, Mr Waverly said, "I believe you and Mr Agincourt already know one another."
"Yes," Illya replied, his expression composed as he extended his hand. "We met in London," he added, knowing Mr Waverly had read his reports.
"Quite," Mr Waverly agreed as Illya and Anton shook hands and took seats at the table. He set the table in motion and two files circled towards them.
***************
"I don't need to tell you, Mr Kuryakin, that involving an untrained individual like Mr Agincourt in our plan is a risky strategy, but Mr Hawthorne and I both think the prize is worth it. Mr Agincourt's reputation and connections are crucial to this deception. If you succeed, Mr Kuryakin, in bringing Mr Agincourt through the affair alive we may be able to use him again." Mr Waverly paused to take up his pipe and Illya scanned the first couple pages of the file. Out of the corner of his eye, Illya noticed that Anton was not doing the same, but was, instead, watching him.
Mr Waverly continued, "For the places requiring them, reservations have been booked or invitations arranged in Mr Agincourt's name; the full itineraries are in your files. For the others, use your discretion, but the point is to be seen around New York over the next few days by whoever is watching. When you arrive in London, continue in the same manner. Appointments have been made, including ones with tailors, shirtmakers, jewellers, etc. Mr Agincourt's purchases will be to his personal accounts and they will be lavish. You, Mr Kuryakin, will accept those that are made on your behalf with whatever attitude you think will best make the impression that we need to cultivate. You are to convince the THRUSH Central members that the main reason Mr Agincourt was willing to join their meeting in Piccadilly was because he wanted to be in London while you attended the physics conference at Imperial College."
Illya looked up. "We offered Prof. Birgisson a generous research grant in exchange for his excusing himself at the last minute from moderating the panel on quarks. The panelists' papers are in the back of your file, Mr Kuryakin." Illya couldn't help smiling. He had been following the research of two of the scientists on the panel very closely.
"So, I'm being set up as a target," Illya said.
"We want THRUSH to think you will have to be included in any arrangement they come to with Mr Agincourt. Obscuring whether you are crucial to him professionally or personally, we hope will confuse them. Whether they decide to try to abduct, bribe or kill you we cannot predict, of course."
Illya turned to the second page in their itinerary. "57, Broadway?" he snorted.
"Bertram and I weren't sure if choosing to hold a reception for one of their charity fronts there was meglomania or a stroke of genius," Mr Waverly commented. Illya raised both eyebrows and shook his head.
"None of the London agents will make open contact with you there, of course," Mr Waverly said, glancing at Mr Agincourt. "Your loyalties remain questionable, you understand, Mr Agincourt." Anton nodded.
"Which is another reason why you and Mr Kuryakin will remain inseparable from now until the conclusion of this affair," Mr Waverly stated. Illya looked up from his reading. "You'll be staying at Mr Agincourt's suite at The Plaza, Mr Kuryakin, until you leave for London. If you need anything from your apartment, you can go now and bring it back here," Mr Waverly said.
"I have a suitcase packed in my office," Illya replied.
"Oh, you won't need your own clothes," Mr Waverly clarified. "You'll find an appropriate wardrobe at the hotel. And suitable luggage."
"Then I have everything else I need here," Illya said.
"Very well, Mr Agincourt, I leave you in Mr Kuryakin's capable hands." Illya closed his file and rose. Anton followed suit. "Good day, gentlemen," Mr Waverly said.
******************
When they reached Napoleon and Illya's office, it was empty. Napoleon wasn’t due back from the Philippines for more than a week. Agincourt remained silent for a minute after the door closed, glancing around the featureless steel walls. “So this is what you do,” he said. “And you are actually a nuclear physicist?”
“Quantum mechanics,” Illya replied. He gestured towards Napoleon’s chair but Anton chose to sit on the edge of Napoleon’s desk instead. Illya perched similarly on his and they regarded one another for a moment across the small space between the two grey metal pieces of furniture. “It’s very dangerous what you’ve agreed to do.”
“Yes,” Anton responded.
Illya was pleased that he did not try to make light of it. His understanding of the danger would make Illya’s job of protecting him easier, but neither it, nor anything else, could guarantee that Anton would come out of the affair alive. “What sort of deal did Hawthorne offer you?” Illya asked.
“In return for sharing information I already had about THRUSH operations, protection from THRUSH should they appear to suspect me and no involvement by police or other government agencies.” Illya nodded and Anton continued speaking as his gaze wandered about the small room, taking in the mundane evidence of the bureaucratic side of promoting world peace. “In return for participating in this operation to penetrate THRUSH Central, he offered me you as a partner.” Anton returned his eyes to Illya’s and they remained for a moment, silently assessing.
“I go with whom I please,” Illya said in a level voice.
“But you’ve chosen to go where and with whom UNCLE dictates.” Anton kept studying Illya’s face. “You’ve lent them your will because you believe in what they do,” he concluded.
****************
"Do you like any of these?" Anton asked, his arm extended with several silk ties suspended from it.
Illya turned his eyes away from the mirror in which he had been following the tailor's adjustments to his tuxedo trousers. "The silvery one would look well with your light grey suit," he commented and returned his eyes to the mirror.
The tailor's hand ran up the inseam. "You dress to the left?" he enquired around several pins he was holding between his lips.
"Yes," Illya replied.
"And the royal blue one for you?" Anton pursued, plucking a tie off his arm and holding it so Illya could see the watered silk without moving at all.
"Hmm, maybe," Illya answered.
The tailor looked up at Anton as he pivoted towards the counter and raised his eyebrows slightly.
"The tuxedo will be ready by this evening?" Anton asked the sales clerk.
"Yes, sir. We'll deliver it to your hotel by six pm. The other suits won't be ready until tomorrow evening, however."
"That's fine," Anton replied.
"Shall we deliver these with the tuxedo?" the sales clerk asked, his hand hovering above a shimmering pile of ties, handkerchiefs and cummerbunds.
"Yes, please," Anton replied. He turned back in Illya's direction and leaned against the counter as the clerk behind him began coccooning his purchases in tissue paper. Anton's attention was drawn to the tailor's hands testing the fit of Illya's trousers at the waist and in the seat. Illya held his arms away from his body. As the tailor worked, he glanced in the mirror and saw Anton's brows draw together. Suddenly, the tailor dropped to his knees and focussed his attention on the fall of Illya's trouser legs.
****************
The view from the grand tier box suited Illya, the costumes and sets were lavish, but he closed his eyes to focus on the music. He wanted to let the sounds predominate, to even let go of the words for a while so the notes could play directly on his emotions. This was difficult because Iolanthe was being sung in Russian. He'd noticed the choice. Anton was striving to please in every way. As they'd dressed for the evening, he had laid a long, narrow box on top of Illya's cummerbund. There had been a set of black studs and cufflinks inside. When he'd put them on, the light had fractured into stars across their rounded surfaces. Anton had waited to see Illya's reaction.
"Asterism is caused by something being trapped inside the gem," Illya commented, fastening the last of the studs into his shirt front. "In some stones, it's considered a flaw."
Anton looked at Illya, "Depends what's trapped inside, I suppose."
Illya shifted slightly in his seat; the slide of the fine cloth of his shirt against his skin momentarily distracted him from the music. Napoleon's taunts about his clothes, his apartment came to mind. "It's not that I don't appreciate fine things," Illya had told him. "It's that I don't think most of them are worth the trouble of acquiring or preserving. And if you have to flee, you can't take them with you. Better to furnish the mind. That you can take with you when you run." The lyrics were intruding. Illya opened his eyes. He thought about the deception that had been played on the heroine. How she didn't even know there was a sense she was lacking. That the world wasn't dark for everyone.
**************
The April night being mild, Anton and Illya had strolled from the opera house back to the Savoy. They had gone about halfway without much conversation, Illya humming snatches of the music and Anton's arm occasionally bumping against his shoulder as they headed down the hill towards the Strand, when they reached an area where the street lamp was out. Anton's arm reached around Illya's waist, pulled him into a tiny alley and pressed him into a doorway. "Did you hear something?" Illya asked before Anton bent down to kiss him. For a few seconds Illya simply permitted it, then he let the feel of Anton's hands sliding greedily up his back beneath his jacket affect him and he parted his lips. The change in Anton's respiration that small concession produced, was almost amusing. Illya raised a hand to Anton's waist, slid it further around and then down over the curve of his buttock. Anton's arms crossed behind Illya's back and crushed him against his chest, but he drew his mouth away.
"We need to get to the hotel," he whispered. He kissed Illya once more and stepped back. Their pace was rapid and less than ten minutes later they were in their room.
"Well, that will give our tail something to report back to his superiors," Illya said, slipping off his jacket and his shoes, then loosening his bow tie.
Anton had done the same before he looked over at Illya and moved. It was a tackle and for a moment Illya was hanging over Anton's shoulder and then he was tossed on the bed and Anton was over him on all fours, panting lightly and looking down at him. "You're heavier than you look," he remarked.
Illya looked up at Anton's flushed face and black eyes and raised one knee; when it reached Anton's garments, he rubbed it slowly back and forth. "I'm not sure I like your having that much of a weight advantage over me."
Anton tilted his head back for a moment and pressed himself against Illya's knee. When he leaned forward again, he looked down into Illya's glittering eyes. "Oh, I think you do," he said.
************
The first round of negotiations had gone well Illya thought. Three THRUSH representatives had put forward their proposal and he and Anton had outlined their counter proposal, then the THRUSH had withdrawn to confer and consult their superior who should be a member of THRUSH Central.
Anton poured two snifters of cognac from the bar in the corner of the oak-panelled room and carried them over to the table where Illya had spread out a blueprint for one of the new devices they'd agreed to sell if THRUSH met their terms. Illya had based his design on a piece of communications equipment he'd seen in a science fiction movie and a toy he'd seen a child playing with in Central Park. If THRUSH agreed, he had a prototype waiting in a safety deposit box at Coutts. Depending on what fluid he used to fill it, it could do a fair amount of damage and he thought it could be helpful if they had to leave the premises at short notice after their demonstration and disable any pursuers. Just in case THRUSH stole the designs, he had built in a flaw which would make the whole machine fall apart if the lever identified as the power switch was engaged. The actual power switch was concealed on the prototype and missing from the blueprint.
Anton set down the glasses next to the papers and asked Illya about the function of one part of the machine, tapping the schematic. Illya leaned down to examine the exact part, closer to Anton than he needed to be. Illya could smell Anton's cologne; he liked the scent.
Illya turned away so rapidly that Anton realised it from the lack of heat against his arm rather than anything he saw or heard. When he looked, Illya had his right arm wrapped around the back of a THRUSH agent's neck, his hand holding a long, thin knife to the THRUSH agent's throat, while his left hand had a tight grasp of the man's testicles. The man's face was still registering his surprise when Anton first looked. The pain and the fear came an instant later. His gun clattered to the floor. Anton moved behind Illya to bend down and pick it up.
"It doesn't seem very hospitable to creep up on your guests with a drawn gun, Mr...?" Illya said quietly to the man in his arms.
"Smith," the man squeaked. Anton was patting him down and removing articles as he located them about Mr Smith's person.
"Of course," Illya said. "And why might you be violating all the rules of hospitality, Mr Smith?"
Mr Smith's eyes flicked to the papers on the table.
"Were you to retrieve these?" Illya asked even more quietly.
Mr Smith remained silent for a moment and then he yelped. Anton looked over from examining the items he had confiscated from Mr Smith. He put the two switchblades in his pocket and held up what looked to be a communicator. Illya nodded and Anton clasped his hands around the device.
"And the gun, Mr Smith? What were you to do with that?" Mr Smith's eyes widened. "Were you to bring us somewhere against our will? Mr Smith made no sound. "Were you to shoot us?"
Mr Smith whispered, "Yes."
"I think Mr Smith needs to rest," Illya said.
Anton undid his tie tack and pressed the pin into the exposed side of Mr Smith's neck. Within a few seconds his eyes closed and Illya lowered him into the nearest arm chair. Illya reached out a hand towards Anton and he passed him the communicator. Illya used his knife to pry open the back. He nodded to himself, put the device down on the table and adjusted a few connections inside using the tip of the blade. When he turned the knob in the front, voices emerged. Illya smiled. "With a little help, it does work both ways," he murmured, his thumb covering the microphone.
"What's taking him so long?" a voice they recognised as Mr Austen asked.
Illya made a scooping gesture and Anton started folding the plans. He slipped them into a leather case and zipped it up. Illya deposited all the items on the table in his pocket and tilted his head towards the French doors leading into the garden.
He took the THRUSH communicator as far as the next block where he reached behind the palings of a fence and untaped the communicator he had left there. "Open Channel D, please," Illya said. "Kuryakin here. Identify the frequency of this transmission, please," he said and held the THRUSH device near the pen. He tilted his head to better hear the tinny THRUSH voices.
"Well, they've left."
"That's rather obvious," an exasperated voice said. "Where's...oh. Is he dead?"
Mr Austen answered, "No, drugged, it seems."
"I thought we had them searched. Can't anyone do anything right anymore?" the exasperated voice said.
"They've taken everything with them," the first voice observed.
"Wouldn't you?" the exasperated one asked. "We'd better be concerned with what they may have left behind. And give that one something to bring him 'round. He might have something useful to tell us."
Illya smiled again. He was fairly sure they'd never find the bugs he'd hidden, at least not all of them. The surveillance team parked nearby should be picking up transmissions already. He handed Anton the THRUSH communicator and walked several steps away with his own. "Were you able to get the frequency?" He listened. "Good. Thank you, Alison." Illya waved to Anton and sprinted towards the bus waiting at a traffic light a few metres away.
They sat down in the back seat on the upper deck, examined the rest of Mr Smith's items more carefully, and continued listening to the THRUSH chatter.
"How was I to know he was his body guard?" Mr Smith asked. "I thought he was his little sweetheart."
"Little, maybe," Mr Austen allowed.
"But definitely not sweet," Mr Smith said, drawing in a sharp breath.
Anton caught Illya's eye and raised an eyebrow. Illya smirked and continued dropping the other items from Mr Smith's pockets out the bus window. None of them had appeared useful except a bit of paper with a telephone number on it. Illya pocketed that.
Three stops later they got off. They left the THRUSH communicator under the bus seat with the volume turned off. The last exchange they heard had been in the garden of the house.
They hailed a taxi going in the opposite direction for the rest of their journey. "I wonder what their next move will be?" Anton asked.
"I think we'll find out at the reception tomorrow evening," Illya replied.
***************
Gradually, he was rising towards wakefulness. He felt no danger pulling him up quickly from the depths of sleep. He was almost too warm. There was a body curved around him, radiating heat. He could feel a head, the face probably, against the crown of his head. There was a broad hand resting on his hip, the heel against the ridge of his pelvic bone, the fingers draped over it, the arm diagonal across his chest. His face was close enough to the chest to feel the heat vary with its rise and fall. It was fragrant in that nook beneath the neck.
He took a deep breath. They had showered before sleeping. Strong hands had lathered and caressed him until he came the first time, his back pressed against a broad chest, the hot water streaming over them. Then he'd perched on the ledge of the large bath, letting shampoo be massaged into his scalp and rinsed thoroughly away, his head tipping forward and back to let the water reach everywhere until a mouth had shielded part of him. He had sat back against the cool tiles as the waves of sensation had swept through him and into that warm mouth, his muscles so relaxed then he couldn't stand unaided at first and had to lean against the wall for support when the body attached to that mouth finally sought its own pleasure inside him. And that had aroused him, too.
He didn't want to open his eyes yet. The tip of his erection was brushing against the smooth underside of the forearm stretched over him and he could feel the reaction hardening against his hip.
"This is a nice way to wake up," Anton said, his voice thick with sleep.
"With a willing body to hand?" Illya asked, opening his eyes now.
Anton changed position. Illya looked up into the half-open dark eyes looking down at him and couldn't resist pushing the glossy, black hair back from where it fell across those eyes.
Anton lowered himself and Illya tilted his chin upwards for the kiss he knew was coming. When it came, he let his body respond instinctively.
*****************
From what Illya could tell from the conversations all around them, the financial institutions were well-represented among the guests at the "charity" reception, followed by lawyers, then diplomats plus a few people from the entertainment industry. Journalists seemed notably absent as far as he could ascertain. Slate was there with three other agents from London HQ, but only Slate had acknowledged him with the faintest brush of a fingertip when he passed Illya his champagne glass. They had tested the microphones under their lapels and found the sound quality good enough.
He and Anton were standing not far from the ad hoc bar set up in the foyer of the building, when he heard the voice, the exasperated one. Illya flicked a glance at Anton and could see he'd heard it, too. The deference being paid to the man by the hosts and the staff was rather obvious Illya thought. He remarked to Anton, "I think I saw a celebrity just go by."
"Who?" Anton asked conversationally.
"The name is on the tip of my tongue, but a well-known singer." Illya noticed Mark looking towards him from across the room.
"Where?' Anton asked, as though keen.
"By the stairs leading to the telephones and the toilets," he whispered, holding his champagne glass near his lips.
None of the other agents made eye contact with one another as they closed in on the location. Two of the London agents departed to circle around to the back exit of the building on an alley opening to the parallel street. Once around the corner they signalled the driver of the closed vehicle parked nearby to block the alley. Inside, another agent felt the call of nature at the same time as the THRUSH with the exasperated voice and Mark, disguised as a member of the wait staff, moved to the back of the foyer and disappeared through a service door beneath the ornate central staircase. He headed to the basement by another route, quietly incapacitating and hiding the THRUSH guard in the hallway near the toilets before the target had even reached the bottom of the front stairs. Mark's next sleep dart had made the rest relatively easy.
Illya felt the vibration beneath his lapel. It stopped, resumed, stopped, resumed again and was still. The exasperated THRUSH would be even more so when he woke up in London HQ, but for now he was sleeping as the UNCLE vehicle wove through the evening traffic to Mayfair.
Now to maintain our cover, Illya thought. Mr Austen was heading towards them, consulting a couple individuals along the way and looking disconcerted. "Give me a scorching look," Illya murmured to Anton before popping an hors d'oeuvre into his mouth. Anton fastened his eyes on Illya's mouth and let a little of the urge he felt to taste it show on his face, then he raised his eyes to Illya's. Illya met his gaze and was dabbing a bit of caviar away from the corner of his lips with his cocktail napkin when Austen reached them.
They let him stand there as Illya dropped his eyes to Anton's groin and then looked back up with a slight quirk of his lips. Finally, Austen was forced to say, "Excuse me." Illya shifted his attention to Austen first, the slight smile still there. Anton let his eyes linger on Illya's mouth another instant before presenting a cool face to Austen, all the warmth in his expression gone.
"Are matters settled?" Anton enquired, a hint of impatience in his voice. Illya regarded Austen silently.
"I haven't had an opportunity to coordinate the exact method of exchange with my superior just yet," Austen replied. "It should only be a short while longer."
Anton extended his arm to check his watch. Mr Austen flinched almost imperceptibly. "Precision timing is essential in my line of work, Mr Austen," he commented. He glanced at Illya. "When we've finished our champagne, we will be going," he added. "We expect to be here until Sunday, though I can't promise that your opportunity will last that long."
Austen flagged a passing waiter, appropriated the open champagne bottle on his tray and topped up Anton's and Illya's glasses himself. "Of course," he said and inclined his head slightly forward before taking his leave and moving towards Mr Smith who was lingering by the top of the stairs leading to the basement. Illya caught his eye and smiled before turning back to a waiter to accept another canape.
Austen watched them exit through the large, glass doors fifteen minutes later. They lingered on the top steps exchanging a few last words with the military attache from the Columbian Embassy and the managing director of Chase Manhattan. He hadn't been able to locate Sterling, the THRUSH Central member. All the members of the Central Council did exactly what they pleased. It was entirely possible that this one had decided that the transaction wasn't worth his time although that seemed hard to believe. Sterling could have been called away and simply not bothered to inform anyone. More likely Sterling thought he could arrange a way to secure Agincourt's device without giving Austen any credit for the achievement.
Agincourt and Kuryakin were shaking hands with the diplomat and the banker now and going down the steps. Sending a couple of his agents to apprehend them occurred to Austen, but if Sterling had another plan and could blame Austen's intervention in case his plan failed, he would. Austen concluded it wasn't worth the risk and turned back to his other guests. There were still deals to be made.
Anton and Illya stepped into the UNCLE agent-driven black cab that appeared as their shoes touched the pavement. Anton held the door open for Illya and slid in after him. Illya opened his communicator and reached Mr Hawthorne. After giving his report, Illya listened. "Yes, sir," he said and closed the transmission.
"We have a man we are confident is a member of THRUSH Central and his body guard. Our agents managed to get them both out of the building without being detected. Leaving no bodies behind helped our cause. Mr Hawthorne doesn't want us to come into HQ, however, nor does he want us to go straight to the airport which I thought he might. He thinks I should attend the last day of the conference tomorrow, but that we should depart directly from there rather than staying until Sunday," Illya finished.
"Splitting the difference," Anton remarked.
Illya nodded. "Not tipping our hand by leaving immediately, but not staying as long as planned. We could have other reasons to leave a day early."
"We are busy men," Anton added with a smile.
"We'll have to be very alert tonight and tomorrow," Illya continued. "Mr Hawthorne suggested dinner in our room which would be consistent with our cover...and he doesn't want us to check out of the hotel tomorrow."
"I can call from the airport right before we get on the plane," Anton suggested. "Have our things sent to my hotel in New York."
Illya nodded just before the taxi left the neon lights of Piccadilly Circus behind.
*****************
"I'm ready now," Napoleon's voice declared from the communicator. "How 'bout I come by your place and we have a drink before we go to this consulate event? You know which consulate, I take it?"
"Yes and yes," Illya said. "If I don't hear you knock, let yourself in. I might be in the bathroom."
"See you soon, then," Napoleon replied. Illya switched off the communicator and headed for the shower.
"That's new, isn't it?" Napoleon said from where he stood in the bedroom door with a glass in each hand.
"It is," Illya replied, fastening the front of his trousers, then reaching for the drink Napoleon was holding out towards him. "Thank you," he said.
"Here's to being back in one place, in one piece," Napoleon said, raising his glass. Illya raised his and drank deep.
Napoleon watched Illya clip his cuff links into place, looked Illya down and then up again. Illya wrapped his cummerbund around his waist and reached behind himself to fiddle with the hooks and eyes.
"Here, let me," Napoleon said, setting down his glass, unhooking the sash and rehooking it correctly. He ran a finger along the upper edge when he finished. "Everything you have on is new, isn't it?" Napoleon asked.
"Mm," Illya answered. "I ended up with a whole new wardrobe, and then some, after the last affair."
"That's a change," Napoleon replied. "Usually, we come back with fewer clothes than when we set out."
"Yes, these will probably all be destroyed in six month's time," Illya remarked, moving nearer to the mirror to tie his tie.
Napoleon glanced into the open closet and stepped closer. "You weren't kidding." Illya looked over at him. "About the new wardrobe, I mean," Napoleon said, running his hand over the wool and silk and linen of several jackets and dress shirts.
"Have a look through, and in the drawers, too," Illya said, turning down the wings of his collar and moving to sit on the bed to put on his shoes. "You'll appreciate it more than anyone else. See if there's anything you'd like to have."
Napoleon turned back and observed Illya lifting his dinner jacket off a nearby chair and slipping it on. He noted how it fell from Illya's shoulders, looked down to the shoes, how perfectly the trouser legs broke over them, "They wouldn't fit me; they've been tailored for you." His gaze moved upwards and saw how the trousers skimmed Illya's hips and he imagined the tailor taking the measurements, testing the fit, and his brows drew together.
"Maybe some of the jumpers," Illya said from the dresser as he tucked things into his pockets.
Napoleon turned back to the closet, reached up to the shelf above the hangers and stroked a couple sweaters. He could imagine putting his arms around Illya wearing the black cashmere one. The sensation of Illya in his arms while they danced had been returning to him for the past fortnight; the flashbacks growing more intense rather than fading with the passing days.
"Do we have someone new in accounting I should meet?" Napoleon asked. "They only give me grief about replacing my ruined clothes."
"You haven't read my report yet, have you?" Illya asked.
"I just got in this morning and fell directly into bed," Napoleon explained. Illya shook his head and put his communicator in his inside jacket pocket.
"Shopping was actually part of the cover," Illya said. Napoleon raised both eyebrows. "Packages are still arriving from London."
"Why don't I get assignments like that?" Napoleon pouted.
"You've dug fewer ditches than I have," Illya remarked.
"True..." Napoleon admitted.
"...and I was assigned this one by special request," Illya finished.
Napoleon stopped fingering the silk pyjamas in the half-open bureau drawer and focused all his attention on Illya. "Whose?" Napoleon asked.
"Read my report, Napoleon, I think you will find it entertaining," Illya said and upended his glass before walking to the bedroom door. "I'm ready now, and it's the Japanese consulate."
"At least the food will be good," Napoleon said and switched off the light. "What's the brief?"
"Head of state visiting so quite a guest list and an intercepted message that THRUSH will be in attendance," Illya summarised as he reset the alarms.
"Got it," Napoleon said as they headed down the hall.
***************
The Section Three agents outside of the consulate had managed to snare two low level THRUSH operatives with bugging equipment before the reception began. According to the UNCLE sweep, they had been on their way in as no eavesdropping devices were detected inside and Illya had supervised a second sweep before they left at the end of the evening. It was testament to Alexander Waverly’s extensive connections and considerable diplomatic skills that the Japanese security officers had been willing to let Illya oversee such a task. The fact that Illya speaks Japanese probably helped a little, too, Napoleon acknowledged.
He’d left Illya at the consulate and stopped at HQ to grab the report of Illya’s last mission. There would be a stack of reports for him to review and countersign or send back for revisions after being gone for ten days. The lights flicked on as the door to their office slid open. Napoleon hoped he could grab the file and head home before someone else nabbed him for some duty or other. He had a nine o’clock appointment with Mr Waverly and considering his jet lag he already felt tired thinking about it. Illya’s report was on top of the pile. Napoleon opened the cover and rotated the file so he could read. Two words struck him. Anton Agincourt. Napoleon groaned. He looked at the time stamp at the top of the cover page. Illya had written it this afternoon; he’d gotten back from London yesterday morning. This is what I get for being away, Napoleon thought, turning to the door, the report tucked under his arm.
Napoleon finished the scotch he’d poured for himself as soon as he got home, set the glass down next to the report and lay his head on top of the last two open pages. The images from his surveillance duty in London reconfigured themselves to match the narrative in Illya’s latest report. His brow furrowed. Smoke wreathed around the images and they began to sway to the sound of dance music. Napoleon sat up and flipped back a few pages to reread a section. Illya really can turn a phrase when he wants to as well as be brutally graphic. Too bad it’s classified. Grove Press might be interested, Napoleon thought. He stared at the neatly typed pages and narrowed his eyes. Is this a challenge?
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
A sequel, Baroque Pearls, may be read here. Please note, however, that it is still a WIP.
This is a further development of the situation and doesn't stand alone. (Also, posted on MUNCLE).
Title: Black Sapphires
Author: saki101
Fandom: Man from UNCLE
Genre: Slash
Rating: NC-17
Word Count: 5848
Disclaimer: Don't own MUNCLE and no money is being made.
Excerpt:
Like his private in-flight movie, the surveillance tapes kept replaying in Napoleon's head during the trip back to New York.
Black Sapphires
Like his private in-flight movie, the surveillance tapes kept replaying in Napoleon's head during the trip back to New York. He glanced over at his sleeping partner. I can well imagine that you need to catch up on sleep, my friend, Napoleon thought sullenly to himself. How many nights have I spent in similar exertions and never given a thought to what you were doing? But for the past few nights it had been all Napoleon could think about. Illya turned towards the window and murmured a word Napoleon couldn’t catch. The sound was one stimulus too many. Napoleon unbuckled his seat belt and headed down the darkened aisle of the plane to find some privacy.
**************
"Ah, Mr Kuryakin, here you are," Mr Waverly said when Illya stepped through the door of his office.
"It took a bit longer to dismantle the apparatus Kittridge seized than I expected," Illya explained, moving towards the conference table. Someone sitting on the couch in the corner stood.
As Illya turned, Mr Waverly said, "I believe you and Mr Agincourt already know one another."
"Yes," Illya replied, his expression composed as he extended his hand. "We met in London," he added, knowing Mr Waverly had read his reports.
"Quite," Mr Waverly agreed as Illya and Anton shook hands and took seats at the table. He set the table in motion and two files circled towards them.
***************
"I don't need to tell you, Mr Kuryakin, that involving an untrained individual like Mr Agincourt in our plan is a risky strategy, but Mr Hawthorne and I both think the prize is worth it. Mr Agincourt's reputation and connections are crucial to this deception. If you succeed, Mr Kuryakin, in bringing Mr Agincourt through the affair alive we may be able to use him again." Mr Waverly paused to take up his pipe and Illya scanned the first couple pages of the file. Out of the corner of his eye, Illya noticed that Anton was not doing the same, but was, instead, watching him.
Mr Waverly continued, "For the places requiring them, reservations have been booked or invitations arranged in Mr Agincourt's name; the full itineraries are in your files. For the others, use your discretion, but the point is to be seen around New York over the next few days by whoever is watching. When you arrive in London, continue in the same manner. Appointments have been made, including ones with tailors, shirtmakers, jewellers, etc. Mr Agincourt's purchases will be to his personal accounts and they will be lavish. You, Mr Kuryakin, will accept those that are made on your behalf with whatever attitude you think will best make the impression that we need to cultivate. You are to convince the THRUSH Central members that the main reason Mr Agincourt was willing to join their meeting in Piccadilly was because he wanted to be in London while you attended the physics conference at Imperial College."
Illya looked up. "We offered Prof. Birgisson a generous research grant in exchange for his excusing himself at the last minute from moderating the panel on quarks. The panelists' papers are in the back of your file, Mr Kuryakin." Illya couldn't help smiling. He had been following the research of two of the scientists on the panel very closely.
"So, I'm being set up as a target," Illya said.
"We want THRUSH to think you will have to be included in any arrangement they come to with Mr Agincourt. Obscuring whether you are crucial to him professionally or personally, we hope will confuse them. Whether they decide to try to abduct, bribe or kill you we cannot predict, of course."
Illya turned to the second page in their itinerary. "57, Broadway?" he snorted.
"Bertram and I weren't sure if choosing to hold a reception for one of their charity fronts there was meglomania or a stroke of genius," Mr Waverly commented. Illya raised both eyebrows and shook his head.
"None of the London agents will make open contact with you there, of course," Mr Waverly said, glancing at Mr Agincourt. "Your loyalties remain questionable, you understand, Mr Agincourt." Anton nodded.
"Which is another reason why you and Mr Kuryakin will remain inseparable from now until the conclusion of this affair," Mr Waverly stated. Illya looked up from his reading. "You'll be staying at Mr Agincourt's suite at The Plaza, Mr Kuryakin, until you leave for London. If you need anything from your apartment, you can go now and bring it back here," Mr Waverly said.
"I have a suitcase packed in my office," Illya replied.
"Oh, you won't need your own clothes," Mr Waverly clarified. "You'll find an appropriate wardrobe at the hotel. And suitable luggage."
"Then I have everything else I need here," Illya said.
"Very well, Mr Agincourt, I leave you in Mr Kuryakin's capable hands." Illya closed his file and rose. Anton followed suit. "Good day, gentlemen," Mr Waverly said.
******************
When they reached Napoleon and Illya's office, it was empty. Napoleon wasn’t due back from the Philippines for more than a week. Agincourt remained silent for a minute after the door closed, glancing around the featureless steel walls. “So this is what you do,” he said. “And you are actually a nuclear physicist?”
“Quantum mechanics,” Illya replied. He gestured towards Napoleon’s chair but Anton chose to sit on the edge of Napoleon’s desk instead. Illya perched similarly on his and they regarded one another for a moment across the small space between the two grey metal pieces of furniture. “It’s very dangerous what you’ve agreed to do.”
“Yes,” Anton responded.
Illya was pleased that he did not try to make light of it. His understanding of the danger would make Illya’s job of protecting him easier, but neither it, nor anything else, could guarantee that Anton would come out of the affair alive. “What sort of deal did Hawthorne offer you?” Illya asked.
“In return for sharing information I already had about THRUSH operations, protection from THRUSH should they appear to suspect me and no involvement by police or other government agencies.” Illya nodded and Anton continued speaking as his gaze wandered about the small room, taking in the mundane evidence of the bureaucratic side of promoting world peace. “In return for participating in this operation to penetrate THRUSH Central, he offered me you as a partner.” Anton returned his eyes to Illya’s and they remained for a moment, silently assessing.
“I go with whom I please,” Illya said in a level voice.
“But you’ve chosen to go where and with whom UNCLE dictates.” Anton kept studying Illya’s face. “You’ve lent them your will because you believe in what they do,” he concluded.
****************
"Do you like any of these?" Anton asked, his arm extended with several silk ties suspended from it.
Illya turned his eyes away from the mirror in which he had been following the tailor's adjustments to his tuxedo trousers. "The silvery one would look well with your light grey suit," he commented and returned his eyes to the mirror.
The tailor's hand ran up the inseam. "You dress to the left?" he enquired around several pins he was holding between his lips.
"Yes," Illya replied.
"And the royal blue one for you?" Anton pursued, plucking a tie off his arm and holding it so Illya could see the watered silk without moving at all.
"Hmm, maybe," Illya answered.
The tailor looked up at Anton as he pivoted towards the counter and raised his eyebrows slightly.
"The tuxedo will be ready by this evening?" Anton asked the sales clerk.
"Yes, sir. We'll deliver it to your hotel by six pm. The other suits won't be ready until tomorrow evening, however."
"That's fine," Anton replied.
"Shall we deliver these with the tuxedo?" the sales clerk asked, his hand hovering above a shimmering pile of ties, handkerchiefs and cummerbunds.
"Yes, please," Anton replied. He turned back in Illya's direction and leaned against the counter as the clerk behind him began coccooning his purchases in tissue paper. Anton's attention was drawn to the tailor's hands testing the fit of Illya's trousers at the waist and in the seat. Illya held his arms away from his body. As the tailor worked, he glanced in the mirror and saw Anton's brows draw together. Suddenly, the tailor dropped to his knees and focussed his attention on the fall of Illya's trouser legs.
****************
The view from the grand tier box suited Illya, the costumes and sets were lavish, but he closed his eyes to focus on the music. He wanted to let the sounds predominate, to even let go of the words for a while so the notes could play directly on his emotions. This was difficult because Iolanthe was being sung in Russian. He'd noticed the choice. Anton was striving to please in every way. As they'd dressed for the evening, he had laid a long, narrow box on top of Illya's cummerbund. There had been a set of black studs and cufflinks inside. When he'd put them on, the light had fractured into stars across their rounded surfaces. Anton had waited to see Illya's reaction.
"Asterism is caused by something being trapped inside the gem," Illya commented, fastening the last of the studs into his shirt front. "In some stones, it's considered a flaw."
Anton looked at Illya, "Depends what's trapped inside, I suppose."
Illya shifted slightly in his seat; the slide of the fine cloth of his shirt against his skin momentarily distracted him from the music. Napoleon's taunts about his clothes, his apartment came to mind. "It's not that I don't appreciate fine things," Illya had told him. "It's that I don't think most of them are worth the trouble of acquiring or preserving. And if you have to flee, you can't take them with you. Better to furnish the mind. That you can take with you when you run." The lyrics were intruding. Illya opened his eyes. He thought about the deception that had been played on the heroine. How she didn't even know there was a sense she was lacking. That the world wasn't dark for everyone.
**************
The April night being mild, Anton and Illya had strolled from the opera house back to the Savoy. They had gone about halfway without much conversation, Illya humming snatches of the music and Anton's arm occasionally bumping against his shoulder as they headed down the hill towards the Strand, when they reached an area where the street lamp was out. Anton's arm reached around Illya's waist, pulled him into a tiny alley and pressed him into a doorway. "Did you hear something?" Illya asked before Anton bent down to kiss him. For a few seconds Illya simply permitted it, then he let the feel of Anton's hands sliding greedily up his back beneath his jacket affect him and he parted his lips. The change in Anton's respiration that small concession produced, was almost amusing. Illya raised a hand to Anton's waist, slid it further around and then down over the curve of his buttock. Anton's arms crossed behind Illya's back and crushed him against his chest, but he drew his mouth away.
"We need to get to the hotel," he whispered. He kissed Illya once more and stepped back. Their pace was rapid and less than ten minutes later they were in their room.
"Well, that will give our tail something to report back to his superiors," Illya said, slipping off his jacket and his shoes, then loosening his bow tie.
Anton had done the same before he looked over at Illya and moved. It was a tackle and for a moment Illya was hanging over Anton's shoulder and then he was tossed on the bed and Anton was over him on all fours, panting lightly and looking down at him. "You're heavier than you look," he remarked.
Illya looked up at Anton's flushed face and black eyes and raised one knee; when it reached Anton's garments, he rubbed it slowly back and forth. "I'm not sure I like your having that much of a weight advantage over me."
Anton tilted his head back for a moment and pressed himself against Illya's knee. When he leaned forward again, he looked down into Illya's glittering eyes. "Oh, I think you do," he said.
************
The first round of negotiations had gone well Illya thought. Three THRUSH representatives had put forward their proposal and he and Anton had outlined their counter proposal, then the THRUSH had withdrawn to confer and consult their superior who should be a member of THRUSH Central.
Anton poured two snifters of cognac from the bar in the corner of the oak-panelled room and carried them over to the table where Illya had spread out a blueprint for one of the new devices they'd agreed to sell if THRUSH met their terms. Illya had based his design on a piece of communications equipment he'd seen in a science fiction movie and a toy he'd seen a child playing with in Central Park. If THRUSH agreed, he had a prototype waiting in a safety deposit box at Coutts. Depending on what fluid he used to fill it, it could do a fair amount of damage and he thought it could be helpful if they had to leave the premises at short notice after their demonstration and disable any pursuers. Just in case THRUSH stole the designs, he had built in a flaw which would make the whole machine fall apart if the lever identified as the power switch was engaged. The actual power switch was concealed on the prototype and missing from the blueprint.
Anton set down the glasses next to the papers and asked Illya about the function of one part of the machine, tapping the schematic. Illya leaned down to examine the exact part, closer to Anton than he needed to be. Illya could smell Anton's cologne; he liked the scent.
Illya turned away so rapidly that Anton realised it from the lack of heat against his arm rather than anything he saw or heard. When he looked, Illya had his right arm wrapped around the back of a THRUSH agent's neck, his hand holding a long, thin knife to the THRUSH agent's throat, while his left hand had a tight grasp of the man's testicles. The man's face was still registering his surprise when Anton first looked. The pain and the fear came an instant later. His gun clattered to the floor. Anton moved behind Illya to bend down and pick it up.
"It doesn't seem very hospitable to creep up on your guests with a drawn gun, Mr...?" Illya said quietly to the man in his arms.
"Smith," the man squeaked. Anton was patting him down and removing articles as he located them about Mr Smith's person.
"Of course," Illya said. "And why might you be violating all the rules of hospitality, Mr Smith?"
Mr Smith's eyes flicked to the papers on the table.
"Were you to retrieve these?" Illya asked even more quietly.
Mr Smith remained silent for a moment and then he yelped. Anton looked over from examining the items he had confiscated from Mr Smith. He put the two switchblades in his pocket and held up what looked to be a communicator. Illya nodded and Anton clasped his hands around the device.
"And the gun, Mr Smith? What were you to do with that?" Mr Smith's eyes widened. "Were you to bring us somewhere against our will? Mr Smith made no sound. "Were you to shoot us?"
Mr Smith whispered, "Yes."
"I think Mr Smith needs to rest," Illya said.
Anton undid his tie tack and pressed the pin into the exposed side of Mr Smith's neck. Within a few seconds his eyes closed and Illya lowered him into the nearest arm chair. Illya reached out a hand towards Anton and he passed him the communicator. Illya used his knife to pry open the back. He nodded to himself, put the device down on the table and adjusted a few connections inside using the tip of the blade. When he turned the knob in the front, voices emerged. Illya smiled. "With a little help, it does work both ways," he murmured, his thumb covering the microphone.
"What's taking him so long?" a voice they recognised as Mr Austen asked.
Illya made a scooping gesture and Anton started folding the plans. He slipped them into a leather case and zipped it up. Illya deposited all the items on the table in his pocket and tilted his head towards the French doors leading into the garden.
He took the THRUSH communicator as far as the next block where he reached behind the palings of a fence and untaped the communicator he had left there. "Open Channel D, please," Illya said. "Kuryakin here. Identify the frequency of this transmission, please," he said and held the THRUSH device near the pen. He tilted his head to better hear the tinny THRUSH voices.
"Well, they've left."
"That's rather obvious," an exasperated voice said. "Where's...oh. Is he dead?"
Mr Austen answered, "No, drugged, it seems."
"I thought we had them searched. Can't anyone do anything right anymore?" the exasperated voice said.
"They've taken everything with them," the first voice observed.
"Wouldn't you?" the exasperated one asked. "We'd better be concerned with what they may have left behind. And give that one something to bring him 'round. He might have something useful to tell us."
Illya smiled again. He was fairly sure they'd never find the bugs he'd hidden, at least not all of them. The surveillance team parked nearby should be picking up transmissions already. He handed Anton the THRUSH communicator and walked several steps away with his own. "Were you able to get the frequency?" He listened. "Good. Thank you, Alison." Illya waved to Anton and sprinted towards the bus waiting at a traffic light a few metres away.
They sat down in the back seat on the upper deck, examined the rest of Mr Smith's items more carefully, and continued listening to the THRUSH chatter.
"How was I to know he was his body guard?" Mr Smith asked. "I thought he was his little sweetheart."
"Little, maybe," Mr Austen allowed.
"But definitely not sweet," Mr Smith said, drawing in a sharp breath.
Anton caught Illya's eye and raised an eyebrow. Illya smirked and continued dropping the other items from Mr Smith's pockets out the bus window. None of them had appeared useful except a bit of paper with a telephone number on it. Illya pocketed that.
Three stops later they got off. They left the THRUSH communicator under the bus seat with the volume turned off. The last exchange they heard had been in the garden of the house.
They hailed a taxi going in the opposite direction for the rest of their journey. "I wonder what their next move will be?" Anton asked.
"I think we'll find out at the reception tomorrow evening," Illya replied.
***************
Gradually, he was rising towards wakefulness. He felt no danger pulling him up quickly from the depths of sleep. He was almost too warm. There was a body curved around him, radiating heat. He could feel a head, the face probably, against the crown of his head. There was a broad hand resting on his hip, the heel against the ridge of his pelvic bone, the fingers draped over it, the arm diagonal across his chest. His face was close enough to the chest to feel the heat vary with its rise and fall. It was fragrant in that nook beneath the neck.
He took a deep breath. They had showered before sleeping. Strong hands had lathered and caressed him until he came the first time, his back pressed against a broad chest, the hot water streaming over them. Then he'd perched on the ledge of the large bath, letting shampoo be massaged into his scalp and rinsed thoroughly away, his head tipping forward and back to let the water reach everywhere until a mouth had shielded part of him. He had sat back against the cool tiles as the waves of sensation had swept through him and into that warm mouth, his muscles so relaxed then he couldn't stand unaided at first and had to lean against the wall for support when the body attached to that mouth finally sought its own pleasure inside him. And that had aroused him, too.
He didn't want to open his eyes yet. The tip of his erection was brushing against the smooth underside of the forearm stretched over him and he could feel the reaction hardening against his hip.
"This is a nice way to wake up," Anton said, his voice thick with sleep.
"With a willing body to hand?" Illya asked, opening his eyes now.
Anton changed position. Illya looked up into the half-open dark eyes looking down at him and couldn't resist pushing the glossy, black hair back from where it fell across those eyes.
Anton lowered himself and Illya tilted his chin upwards for the kiss he knew was coming. When it came, he let his body respond instinctively.
*****************
From what Illya could tell from the conversations all around them, the financial institutions were well-represented among the guests at the "charity" reception, followed by lawyers, then diplomats plus a few people from the entertainment industry. Journalists seemed notably absent as far as he could ascertain. Slate was there with three other agents from London HQ, but only Slate had acknowledged him with the faintest brush of a fingertip when he passed Illya his champagne glass. They had tested the microphones under their lapels and found the sound quality good enough.
He and Anton were standing not far from the ad hoc bar set up in the foyer of the building, when he heard the voice, the exasperated one. Illya flicked a glance at Anton and could see he'd heard it, too. The deference being paid to the man by the hosts and the staff was rather obvious Illya thought. He remarked to Anton, "I think I saw a celebrity just go by."
"Who?" Anton asked conversationally.
"The name is on the tip of my tongue, but a well-known singer." Illya noticed Mark looking towards him from across the room.
"Where?' Anton asked, as though keen.
"By the stairs leading to the telephones and the toilets," he whispered, holding his champagne glass near his lips.
None of the other agents made eye contact with one another as they closed in on the location. Two of the London agents departed to circle around to the back exit of the building on an alley opening to the parallel street. Once around the corner they signalled the driver of the closed vehicle parked nearby to block the alley. Inside, another agent felt the call of nature at the same time as the THRUSH with the exasperated voice and Mark, disguised as a member of the wait staff, moved to the back of the foyer and disappeared through a service door beneath the ornate central staircase. He headed to the basement by another route, quietly incapacitating and hiding the THRUSH guard in the hallway near the toilets before the target had even reached the bottom of the front stairs. Mark's next sleep dart had made the rest relatively easy.
Illya felt the vibration beneath his lapel. It stopped, resumed, stopped, resumed again and was still. The exasperated THRUSH would be even more so when he woke up in London HQ, but for now he was sleeping as the UNCLE vehicle wove through the evening traffic to Mayfair.
Now to maintain our cover, Illya thought. Mr Austen was heading towards them, consulting a couple individuals along the way and looking disconcerted. "Give me a scorching look," Illya murmured to Anton before popping an hors d'oeuvre into his mouth. Anton fastened his eyes on Illya's mouth and let a little of the urge he felt to taste it show on his face, then he raised his eyes to Illya's. Illya met his gaze and was dabbing a bit of caviar away from the corner of his lips with his cocktail napkin when Austen reached them.
They let him stand there as Illya dropped his eyes to Anton's groin and then looked back up with a slight quirk of his lips. Finally, Austen was forced to say, "Excuse me." Illya shifted his attention to Austen first, the slight smile still there. Anton let his eyes linger on Illya's mouth another instant before presenting a cool face to Austen, all the warmth in his expression gone.
"Are matters settled?" Anton enquired, a hint of impatience in his voice. Illya regarded Austen silently.
"I haven't had an opportunity to coordinate the exact method of exchange with my superior just yet," Austen replied. "It should only be a short while longer."
Anton extended his arm to check his watch. Mr Austen flinched almost imperceptibly. "Precision timing is essential in my line of work, Mr Austen," he commented. He glanced at Illya. "When we've finished our champagne, we will be going," he added. "We expect to be here until Sunday, though I can't promise that your opportunity will last that long."
Austen flagged a passing waiter, appropriated the open champagne bottle on his tray and topped up Anton's and Illya's glasses himself. "Of course," he said and inclined his head slightly forward before taking his leave and moving towards Mr Smith who was lingering by the top of the stairs leading to the basement. Illya caught his eye and smiled before turning back to a waiter to accept another canape.
Austen watched them exit through the large, glass doors fifteen minutes later. They lingered on the top steps exchanging a few last words with the military attache from the Columbian Embassy and the managing director of Chase Manhattan. He hadn't been able to locate Sterling, the THRUSH Central member. All the members of the Central Council did exactly what they pleased. It was entirely possible that this one had decided that the transaction wasn't worth his time although that seemed hard to believe. Sterling could have been called away and simply not bothered to inform anyone. More likely Sterling thought he could arrange a way to secure Agincourt's device without giving Austen any credit for the achievement.
Agincourt and Kuryakin were shaking hands with the diplomat and the banker now and going down the steps. Sending a couple of his agents to apprehend them occurred to Austen, but if Sterling had another plan and could blame Austen's intervention in case his plan failed, he would. Austen concluded it wasn't worth the risk and turned back to his other guests. There were still deals to be made.
Anton and Illya stepped into the UNCLE agent-driven black cab that appeared as their shoes touched the pavement. Anton held the door open for Illya and slid in after him. Illya opened his communicator and reached Mr Hawthorne. After giving his report, Illya listened. "Yes, sir," he said and closed the transmission.
"We have a man we are confident is a member of THRUSH Central and his body guard. Our agents managed to get them both out of the building without being detected. Leaving no bodies behind helped our cause. Mr Hawthorne doesn't want us to come into HQ, however, nor does he want us to go straight to the airport which I thought he might. He thinks I should attend the last day of the conference tomorrow, but that we should depart directly from there rather than staying until Sunday," Illya finished.
"Splitting the difference," Anton remarked.
Illya nodded. "Not tipping our hand by leaving immediately, but not staying as long as planned. We could have other reasons to leave a day early."
"We are busy men," Anton added with a smile.
"We'll have to be very alert tonight and tomorrow," Illya continued. "Mr Hawthorne suggested dinner in our room which would be consistent with our cover...and he doesn't want us to check out of the hotel tomorrow."
"I can call from the airport right before we get on the plane," Anton suggested. "Have our things sent to my hotel in New York."
Illya nodded just before the taxi left the neon lights of Piccadilly Circus behind.
*****************
"I'm ready now," Napoleon's voice declared from the communicator. "How 'bout I come by your place and we have a drink before we go to this consulate event? You know which consulate, I take it?"
"Yes and yes," Illya said. "If I don't hear you knock, let yourself in. I might be in the bathroom."
"See you soon, then," Napoleon replied. Illya switched off the communicator and headed for the shower.
"That's new, isn't it?" Napoleon said from where he stood in the bedroom door with a glass in each hand.
"It is," Illya replied, fastening the front of his trousers, then reaching for the drink Napoleon was holding out towards him. "Thank you," he said.
"Here's to being back in one place, in one piece," Napoleon said, raising his glass. Illya raised his and drank deep.
Napoleon watched Illya clip his cuff links into place, looked Illya down and then up again. Illya wrapped his cummerbund around his waist and reached behind himself to fiddle with the hooks and eyes.
"Here, let me," Napoleon said, setting down his glass, unhooking the sash and rehooking it correctly. He ran a finger along the upper edge when he finished. "Everything you have on is new, isn't it?" Napoleon asked.
"Mm," Illya answered. "I ended up with a whole new wardrobe, and then some, after the last affair."
"That's a change," Napoleon replied. "Usually, we come back with fewer clothes than when we set out."
"Yes, these will probably all be destroyed in six month's time," Illya remarked, moving nearer to the mirror to tie his tie.
Napoleon glanced into the open closet and stepped closer. "You weren't kidding." Illya looked over at him. "About the new wardrobe, I mean," Napoleon said, running his hand over the wool and silk and linen of several jackets and dress shirts.
"Have a look through, and in the drawers, too," Illya said, turning down the wings of his collar and moving to sit on the bed to put on his shoes. "You'll appreciate it more than anyone else. See if there's anything you'd like to have."
Napoleon turned back and observed Illya lifting his dinner jacket off a nearby chair and slipping it on. He noted how it fell from Illya's shoulders, looked down to the shoes, how perfectly the trouser legs broke over them, "They wouldn't fit me; they've been tailored for you." His gaze moved upwards and saw how the trousers skimmed Illya's hips and he imagined the tailor taking the measurements, testing the fit, and his brows drew together.
"Maybe some of the jumpers," Illya said from the dresser as he tucked things into his pockets.
Napoleon turned back to the closet, reached up to the shelf above the hangers and stroked a couple sweaters. He could imagine putting his arms around Illya wearing the black cashmere one. The sensation of Illya in his arms while they danced had been returning to him for the past fortnight; the flashbacks growing more intense rather than fading with the passing days.
"Do we have someone new in accounting I should meet?" Napoleon asked. "They only give me grief about replacing my ruined clothes."
"You haven't read my report yet, have you?" Illya asked.
"I just got in this morning and fell directly into bed," Napoleon explained. Illya shook his head and put his communicator in his inside jacket pocket.
"Shopping was actually part of the cover," Illya said. Napoleon raised both eyebrows. "Packages are still arriving from London."
"Why don't I get assignments like that?" Napoleon pouted.
"You've dug fewer ditches than I have," Illya remarked.
"True..." Napoleon admitted.
"...and I was assigned this one by special request," Illya finished.
Napoleon stopped fingering the silk pyjamas in the half-open bureau drawer and focused all his attention on Illya. "Whose?" Napoleon asked.
"Read my report, Napoleon, I think you will find it entertaining," Illya said and upended his glass before walking to the bedroom door. "I'm ready now, and it's the Japanese consulate."
"At least the food will be good," Napoleon said and switched off the light. "What's the brief?"
"Head of state visiting so quite a guest list and an intercepted message that THRUSH will be in attendance," Illya summarised as he reset the alarms.
"Got it," Napoleon said as they headed down the hall.
***************
The Section Three agents outside of the consulate had managed to snare two low level THRUSH operatives with bugging equipment before the reception began. According to the UNCLE sweep, they had been on their way in as no eavesdropping devices were detected inside and Illya had supervised a second sweep before they left at the end of the evening. It was testament to Alexander Waverly’s extensive connections and considerable diplomatic skills that the Japanese security officers had been willing to let Illya oversee such a task. The fact that Illya speaks Japanese probably helped a little, too, Napoleon acknowledged.
He’d left Illya at the consulate and stopped at HQ to grab the report of Illya’s last mission. There would be a stack of reports for him to review and countersign or send back for revisions after being gone for ten days. The lights flicked on as the door to their office slid open. Napoleon hoped he could grab the file and head home before someone else nabbed him for some duty or other. He had a nine o’clock appointment with Mr Waverly and considering his jet lag he already felt tired thinking about it. Illya’s report was on top of the pile. Napoleon opened the cover and rotated the file so he could read. Two words struck him. Anton Agincourt. Napoleon groaned. He looked at the time stamp at the top of the cover page. Illya had written it this afternoon; he’d gotten back from London yesterday morning. This is what I get for being away, Napoleon thought, turning to the door, the report tucked under his arm.
Napoleon finished the scotch he’d poured for himself as soon as he got home, set the glass down next to the report and lay his head on top of the last two open pages. The images from his surveillance duty in London reconfigured themselves to match the narrative in Illya’s latest report. His brow furrowed. Smoke wreathed around the images and they began to sway to the sound of dance music. Napoleon sat up and flipped back a few pages to reread a section. Illya really can turn a phrase when he wants to as well as be brutally graphic. Too bad it’s classified. Grove Press might be interested, Napoleon thought. He stared at the neatly typed pages and narrowed his eyes. Is this a challenge?
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A sequel, Baroque Pearls, may be read here. Please note, however, that it is still a WIP.