The Consequence of Loyalty - Expanded File Affair 13/11/2015
Not entirely certain where this one was going although I do have a few of the later bits in my head. Mostly I just had this scene so any opinions would be welcomed. :)
The Consequence of Loyalty
Illya walked out of the restaurant and immediately spotted the black sedan idling on the other side of the street, its tinted windows giving nothing away, the license plate carefully obscured by mud. Terrific. His grip tightened on the paper bag pressed against his chest, and the smell of delicious Chinese food set his stomach growling. Dinner was going to need to wait for a bit; hopefully Napoleon would forgive him. Hmm. Was it reasonable to blame Napoleon for all this? If it wasn't for his sprained ankle and his subsequent attempt to 'milk it' for all it was worth, including calling Illya to pick up dinner, then he wouldn't be here being menaced on this otherwise pleasant evening. So, yes. On the whole, there was something satisfying about laying the blame at his partner's feet.
Not that this was the time to consider blame. Abruptly, he set off walking up the street, ignoring the fact that he was heading away from Napoleon's apartment building. If the car was waiting for him, it was going to need to do a three-point turn against the traffic if it wished to follow him...which it promptly did.
He quickened his pace; the car kept just behind him, crawling along. And now he was approaching the end of the block and he could see another identical black sedan screech round the corner and half go onto the sidewalk.
Alright. Well, he had absolutely no plans to go quietly.
Quickly, he darted down the alley to his left, breaking into a sprint, only to be confronted by a van blocking off the other end of the alley, and when he turned back it was only to see the black sedan with three men piling out the front of it.
Ah. He recognised the first of them Pitor Zarubin. They'd worked together while Illya had been studying in Paris, Zarubin had been the cultural attaché at the embassy. And KGB, although that almost went without saying. There might be a cultural attaché somewhere who was not a spy, but Illya certainly hadn't met them. And the others....muscle. Clearly. Big walking slabs of muscle. He recognised a common tattoo from the Soviet navy on one of their arms. Probably sailors, it was a slightly easier way to get into the country.
So. This wasn't THRUSH, which was good. And no one was going for guns, and although the van was still behind him, it appeared empty and the doors were facing away from the alley. In other words, this probably wasn't an execution or a kidnapping. Which didn't mean it was going to be pleasant.
Well, he should have expected this. That affair in East Berlin might have been completely necessary, but it had left several KGB officers severely embarrassed. And then there had been the Project Strigas affair with the floor wax a few months ago, and there must be whispers about the possible reappearance of Dr Gerasimov. Nothing that would outright spell disloyalty, nothing that would make it worth disrupting the status quo or losing face by recalling him, but enough that someone wanted him brought to heel.
The choice of venue said as much; he travelled all over the world and could often be found in many places where the KGB could reach him easily, but they had chosen here, in the middle of New York, a block and a half from Napoleon's apartment, as though to remind him that nowhere was safe.
He still had absolutely no plans to go down quietly. Or easily.
“Wait,” he said in Russian, holding a hand up authoritatively.
They paused, Zarubin looking at him curiously.
He smiled humourlessly. “We are all good communists here, are we not? So let me put the food down at least. None of us would wish to see it go to waste.”
Zarubin gave a bark of laughter. “Go ahead.”
Carefully, he laid the bag down at the side of the alley, and as he stood, he seized a dustbin lid and threw it, discus style, at the one with the tattoos. It caught him squarely in the stomach, leaving him doubled in pain, but Zarubin and the other charged immediately.
He fought, silently and efficiently, using every trick at his disposal - or, rather, every trick except going for his gun. No matter that it was loaded with darts, if he shot a fellow...if he shot a KGB officer he knew matters would escalate beyond his control very quickly.
The fight was bloody. He got several good punches in - Zarubin lost a tooth, he was sure, and the other sailor's nose was broken - but it came to an end when the first sailor recovered enough to get behind him, grabbing his arms and holding him still for Zarubin to hit.
He did it with methodical precision, aiming for kidneys, diaphragm, all the soft targets that would hurt the most. “You've been very naughty, you know. People are beginning to wonder just where your loyalties lie.”
“Anyone in particular?” he gasped out between punches, because if he knew who he had offended he could do something about it.
Zarubin smiled. “Now, that would be telling, wouldn't it?” He looked at Illya critically. “Enough, I think. You've grown soft, Illya Nickovitch. It's all this Western living.”
He stood back and nodded to the muscle to release him, and Illya kept his balance through sheer stubbornness, regarding him scornfully. “We are both far from home,” he pointed out. “At least I am working to defend our country along with the rest of the world. What are you defending?”
“Our country's soul,” Zarubin returned, and if it wasn't for the twinkle in his eye he might have sounded like a true believer. “No doubt I will see you again.”
Illya certainly hoped not. He watched as the three backed cautiously out of the alley, pleased at least that even when he could barely stand, they still regarded him as too much of a threat to turn their back on.
When the car roared away, he let his battered body slump to the ground. Well, then. With a sigh, he pulled the bag of food over and morosely ate a dumpling. He wondered what the chances were that he could hide this from Napoleon?
The Consequence of Loyalty
Illya walked out of the restaurant and immediately spotted the black sedan idling on the other side of the street, its tinted windows giving nothing away, the license plate carefully obscured by mud. Terrific. His grip tightened on the paper bag pressed against his chest, and the smell of delicious Chinese food set his stomach growling. Dinner was going to need to wait for a bit; hopefully Napoleon would forgive him. Hmm. Was it reasonable to blame Napoleon for all this? If it wasn't for his sprained ankle and his subsequent attempt to 'milk it' for all it was worth, including calling Illya to pick up dinner, then he wouldn't be here being menaced on this otherwise pleasant evening. So, yes. On the whole, there was something satisfying about laying the blame at his partner's feet.
Not that this was the time to consider blame. Abruptly, he set off walking up the street, ignoring the fact that he was heading away from Napoleon's apartment building. If the car was waiting for him, it was going to need to do a three-point turn against the traffic if it wished to follow him...which it promptly did.
He quickened his pace; the car kept just behind him, crawling along. And now he was approaching the end of the block and he could see another identical black sedan screech round the corner and half go onto the sidewalk.
Alright. Well, he had absolutely no plans to go quietly.
Quickly, he darted down the alley to his left, breaking into a sprint, only to be confronted by a van blocking off the other end of the alley, and when he turned back it was only to see the black sedan with three men piling out the front of it.
Ah. He recognised the first of them Pitor Zarubin. They'd worked together while Illya had been studying in Paris, Zarubin had been the cultural attaché at the embassy. And KGB, although that almost went without saying. There might be a cultural attaché somewhere who was not a spy, but Illya certainly hadn't met them. And the others....muscle. Clearly. Big walking slabs of muscle. He recognised a common tattoo from the Soviet navy on one of their arms. Probably sailors, it was a slightly easier way to get into the country.
So. This wasn't THRUSH, which was good. And no one was going for guns, and although the van was still behind him, it appeared empty and the doors were facing away from the alley. In other words, this probably wasn't an execution or a kidnapping. Which didn't mean it was going to be pleasant.
Well, he should have expected this. That affair in East Berlin might have been completely necessary, but it had left several KGB officers severely embarrassed. And then there had been the Project Strigas affair with the floor wax a few months ago, and there must be whispers about the possible reappearance of Dr Gerasimov. Nothing that would outright spell disloyalty, nothing that would make it worth disrupting the status quo or losing face by recalling him, but enough that someone wanted him brought to heel.
The choice of venue said as much; he travelled all over the world and could often be found in many places where the KGB could reach him easily, but they had chosen here, in the middle of New York, a block and a half from Napoleon's apartment, as though to remind him that nowhere was safe.
He still had absolutely no plans to go down quietly. Or easily.
“Wait,” he said in Russian, holding a hand up authoritatively.
They paused, Zarubin looking at him curiously.
He smiled humourlessly. “We are all good communists here, are we not? So let me put the food down at least. None of us would wish to see it go to waste.”
Zarubin gave a bark of laughter. “Go ahead.”
Carefully, he laid the bag down at the side of the alley, and as he stood, he seized a dustbin lid and threw it, discus style, at the one with the tattoos. It caught him squarely in the stomach, leaving him doubled in pain, but Zarubin and the other charged immediately.
He fought, silently and efficiently, using every trick at his disposal - or, rather, every trick except going for his gun. No matter that it was loaded with darts, if he shot a fellow...if he shot a KGB officer he knew matters would escalate beyond his control very quickly.
The fight was bloody. He got several good punches in - Zarubin lost a tooth, he was sure, and the other sailor's nose was broken - but it came to an end when the first sailor recovered enough to get behind him, grabbing his arms and holding him still for Zarubin to hit.
He did it with methodical precision, aiming for kidneys, diaphragm, all the soft targets that would hurt the most. “You've been very naughty, you know. People are beginning to wonder just where your loyalties lie.”
“Anyone in particular?” he gasped out between punches, because if he knew who he had offended he could do something about it.
Zarubin smiled. “Now, that would be telling, wouldn't it?” He looked at Illya critically. “Enough, I think. You've grown soft, Illya Nickovitch. It's all this Western living.”
He stood back and nodded to the muscle to release him, and Illya kept his balance through sheer stubbornness, regarding him scornfully. “We are both far from home,” he pointed out. “At least I am working to defend our country along with the rest of the world. What are you defending?”
“Our country's soul,” Zarubin returned, and if it wasn't for the twinkle in his eye he might have sounded like a true believer. “No doubt I will see you again.”
Illya certainly hoped not. He watched as the three backed cautiously out of the alley, pleased at least that even when he could barely stand, they still regarded him as too much of a threat to turn their back on.
When the car roared away, he let his battered body slump to the ground. Well, then. With a sigh, he pulled the bag of food over and morosely ate a dumpling. He wondered what the chances were that he could hide this from Napoleon?