The Trouble in Times Square Affair - Chapter 7
This chapter is also posted to AO3.
Illya sat in the front row of the darkened theater. The remaining seats were empty. This was a command performance for an audience of one.
The orchestra, ghostly shadows in the pit, began to play. A single spotlight aimed its narrow beam at center stage and illuminated a prima ballerina. Her white, spangled costume shone with a blinding brilliance. Illya squinted as his eyes adjusted to the dazzling light.
Dah-dee dah dum dah dum dah-dee-dum dah-dee-dum dah-dee-dum dah-dee-dah-dee-dum.
The Sugar Plum Fairy danced around the stage, captivating him with her graceful movements and impeccable timing. When she began a series of triple pirouettes, Illya leapt to his feet and applauded, overcome with admiration.
He remained standing until the Sugar Plum Fairy held her final pose, then clapped again wildly. Her smile vanished, and she shrieked. The Mouse King, bloodied and grisly, lurched into the circle of light. His saber slashed downwards. Scarlet droplets ravaged the pristine beauty of the ballerina’s costume. As she screamed and collapsed, clutching her leg, the Mouse King turned toward Illya. He dropped the saber and pulled a pistol from his belt. Its report was lost in a timpani barrage.
Illya felt the slam of the bullet into his gut. Cradling his abdomen, he slumped to the floor as the stage went black.
<>-<>-<>
The storm had downed the power and telephone lines, and the majority of the generator’s output was being consumed by more vital resources. Napoleon examined a wall sign in the dim emergency light. Visitors Are Requested To Refrain From Smoking. He turned with a grimace and looked across the tiny waiting area of the tiny clinic which Nick had generously referred to as ‘the hospital.’ The snowplow driver sat back in a Naugahyde armchair, his hands folded atop his large belly, and puffed on a pipe.
“Are you sure she’s good?” Napoleon asked.
Nick took the pipe from his mouth. “Of course, she’s good. And I’m not saying that because she’s my granddaughter. Best doctor for miles.”
“The only doctor for miles,” Napoleon grumbled.
Nick resumed his puffing. The hand on his belly bounced as he chuckled. “That means she’s seen just about everything, from Mrs. Jessup’s breech baby to Ben Harper darn near cutting off his own toe while chopping wood. That also includes plenty of folks banged up in car accidents.”
Napoleon frowned at the double doors through which the lovely but alarmingly young Dr. Rozhdestvo had whisked Illya minutes before. His partner’s body would tell its own tales. Napoleon wondered if she had ever seen anything like an UNCLE agent.
<>-<>-<>
Illya was chilly, and his side hurt abominably. Somewhere in the distance, a jazz album played. Duke Ellington. “Sugar Rum Cherry.” Perhaps he was in his own apartment. But why was he lying on his back on the cold, hard linoleum?
He scoured his memory. A flying car. Gunfire. Grandfather Frost. Was he drunk...or drugged?
Illya cracked open his eyes. A young woman’s face hovered above him. Her skin was pale, and her eyes were a bright, shining blue. A crown of light, like sun-struck icicles, surrounded her head.
“Snegurochka,” he whispered.
Her lips twitched. “It’s a little early for presents from the Snow Maiden. But don’t worry, Mr. Kuryakin. We’ll have you up and around in time for the New Year.”
A polyethylene mask was fitted over his mouth and nose. He heard the hiss of gas. “Sleep now,” she said. “When you wake up again, I promise you’ll feel better.”
Soft fingertips stroked his forehead. “Pleasant dreams,” she murmured.
His eyelids felt heavy. As they drifted downwards, the light grew brighter, and the music louder. When he opened them again he found himself on a stage holding his bass. The band that surrounded him was in mid-performance. Illya looked at the music on his stand. “Sugar Rum Cherry.” His fingers began to pluck his part. From behind the piano, Ellington nodded to him. A pleasant dream, indeed.
<>-<>-<>
An hour passed before Dr. Rozhdestvo returned to the waiting area. Napoleon threw aside an outdated magazine and stood. In the armchair beside him, Nick awoke with a snort.
“How’s your patient, doctor?” Napoleon asked.
“Fair.” She flipped a heavy braid as thick as her wrist off her shoulder. “He’ll be uncomfortable for several days, but he’ll recover.”
Nick laughed merrily. “Ho-ho. Didn’t I tell you Nastya was good?”
“So you did.” A suave smile curved Napoleon’s lips. “Tell me, when can I, ah, see him?”
“Soon,” the petite blonde answered. “But I should examine you first.”
Napoleon smoothed the lapels of his ruined suit. “Just bumps and bruises. I seem to have had better luck than my friend.”
Her shining blue eyes held his. “Then I presume you aren’t also recovering from a gunshot wound.”
Napoleon’s smile faltered. Nick rose to his feet. “What?”
She nodded. “And not his first, either.”
Nick stroked his white beard thoughtfully. “It seems there’s more to you boys than meets the eye. You wouldn’t by any chance be fugitives from justice, would you?”
Napoleon grimaced. “Not from justice.”
“Then there was no car accident after all,” Dr. Rozhdestvo said scornfully.
“Oh, there was, of a sort.” Napoleon’s gaze swung from the diminutive young physician to her burly grandfather. “I’ll tell you the whole story, though it’s not a jolly holiday tale. Mr. Kuryakin and I work for the United Network Command for Law and Enforcement…”
<>-<>-<>
Nick drew the red pickup truck to a stop and cut the engine. “Here it is.”
Napoleon peered out the windshield. Beyond the steady fall of heavy, wet flakes, the headlights picked out a large sign. Private Property. Trespassers will be shot. “They’re not kidding, either.”
“This is the main entrance. I found you boys down along the south boundary.”
”And you’re sure this property belongs to the Claibornes.”
“Of course. Used to be the McDougall place, the best farm in the county. When old Fred passed, those Claiborne people snapped it up before he was even in the ground.” Nick shook his head at the tangle of scrub and brambles that surrounded the sign. “No one round here’s ever laid eyes on them. They don’t farm it themselves, and they won’t rent it to those who would. But woe be it to any man who strays into those trees. I hear the property’s full of security cameras.”
“Really?” Napoleon said. “I’d like to get a closer look at that.”
“Then someone’s bound to get a look at you.”
Napoleon flashed a humorless grin. “I’ve a feeling they already have.”
<>-<>-<>
“This is an outrage,” Randall Claiborne bellowed. “It’s not enough that UNCLE’s gross incompetence led to Cathy’s death. Now you invade our private home with wild accusations about kidnapping and slavery.”
“Come now, Claiborne, I’ve said nothing of the kind,” Waverly replied calmly. His dispassionate gaze flicked from the jar of Russian caviar and open wine bottles on the bar to the staticky view screen on the far wall, then returned to the angry, frightened couple. The canny blue eyes widened, and the shaggy brows rose slightly. “I’ve merely shared a few interesting facts that have come to our attention. No one will be happier than I if you can provide us with a reasonable explanation.”
Marjorie curled her lip. “We don’t have to tell you anything. You’ll regret this. We’ll have your job. Maybe worse.” Her husband gripped her arm painfully, and she blenched. “That is, I mean…”
“We’ll press charges,” Randall interjected with a snarl. “Slander. Defamation. Criminally negligent homi-”
The telephone’s ring broke in on his tirade. The Claibornes jumped. Marjorie’s face grew ashen, and her eyes darted to Randall. He shook his head slightly.
“Doesn’t someone wish to answer that?” Waverly asked. “It might be important.”
Randall gave a sharp, dismissive wave of his hand. “They’ll call back.”
When the ringing finally ceased, Waverly said, “Where were we? Oh, yes. You were saying something about homicide, Claiborne.”
With a sound like a whimper, Marjorie moved to the bar and poured a glass of wine with trembling hands. Randall followed and squeezed her shoulders. “Our daughter is dead,” he said tightly, “and your agents are responsible. The law will hold them accountable.”
“The law will have a difficult time with that unless they’re found. I sent them out to keep their appointment with you and haven’t seen them since.”
“Neither have we,” Marjorie stammered defiantly. “The cowards never kept that appointment.”
Behind the couple’s backs, the static on the view screen resolved into an image. The face of Napoleon Solo, snow-flecked and grimacing, cocked from side to side. Waverly’s shoulders relaxed as one untamed brow shut upwards. “Are you quite certain?” he asked, staring intently at the picture.
The Claibornes turned to look at the far wall. Marjorie’s wine glass slipped from her fingers and shattered on the floor. “Randall,” she shrieked as the telephone rang again.
“Answer that, would you, please, Mr. Adams?” Waverly said to his agent. “I wish to speak to whoever is on the line.”
Illya sat in the front row of the darkened theater. The remaining seats were empty. This was a command performance for an audience of one.
The orchestra, ghostly shadows in the pit, began to play. A single spotlight aimed its narrow beam at center stage and illuminated a prima ballerina. Her white, spangled costume shone with a blinding brilliance. Illya squinted as his eyes adjusted to the dazzling light.
Dah-dee dah dum dah dum dah-dee-dum dah-dee-dum dah-dee-dum dah-dee-dah-dee-dum.
The Sugar Plum Fairy danced around the stage, captivating him with her graceful movements and impeccable timing. When she began a series of triple pirouettes, Illya leapt to his feet and applauded, overcome with admiration.
He remained standing until the Sugar Plum Fairy held her final pose, then clapped again wildly. Her smile vanished, and she shrieked. The Mouse King, bloodied and grisly, lurched into the circle of light. His saber slashed downwards. Scarlet droplets ravaged the pristine beauty of the ballerina’s costume. As she screamed and collapsed, clutching her leg, the Mouse King turned toward Illya. He dropped the saber and pulled a pistol from his belt. Its report was lost in a timpani barrage.
Illya felt the slam of the bullet into his gut. Cradling his abdomen, he slumped to the floor as the stage went black.
<>-<>-<>
The storm had downed the power and telephone lines, and the majority of the generator’s output was being consumed by more vital resources. Napoleon examined a wall sign in the dim emergency light. Visitors Are Requested To Refrain From Smoking. He turned with a grimace and looked across the tiny waiting area of the tiny clinic which Nick had generously referred to as ‘the hospital.’ The snowplow driver sat back in a Naugahyde armchair, his hands folded atop his large belly, and puffed on a pipe.
“Are you sure she’s good?” Napoleon asked.
Nick took the pipe from his mouth. “Of course, she’s good. And I’m not saying that because she’s my granddaughter. Best doctor for miles.”
“The only doctor for miles,” Napoleon grumbled.
Nick resumed his puffing. The hand on his belly bounced as he chuckled. “That means she’s seen just about everything, from Mrs. Jessup’s breech baby to Ben Harper darn near cutting off his own toe while chopping wood. That also includes plenty of folks banged up in car accidents.”
Napoleon frowned at the double doors through which the lovely but alarmingly young Dr. Rozhdestvo had whisked Illya minutes before. His partner’s body would tell its own tales. Napoleon wondered if she had ever seen anything like an UNCLE agent.
<>-<>-<>
Illya was chilly, and his side hurt abominably. Somewhere in the distance, a jazz album played. Duke Ellington. “Sugar Rum Cherry.” Perhaps he was in his own apartment. But why was he lying on his back on the cold, hard linoleum?
He scoured his memory. A flying car. Gunfire. Grandfather Frost. Was he drunk...or drugged?
Illya cracked open his eyes. A young woman’s face hovered above him. Her skin was pale, and her eyes were a bright, shining blue. A crown of light, like sun-struck icicles, surrounded her head.
“Snegurochka,” he whispered.
Her lips twitched. “It’s a little early for presents from the Snow Maiden. But don’t worry, Mr. Kuryakin. We’ll have you up and around in time for the New Year.”
A polyethylene mask was fitted over his mouth and nose. He heard the hiss of gas. “Sleep now,” she said. “When you wake up again, I promise you’ll feel better.”
Soft fingertips stroked his forehead. “Pleasant dreams,” she murmured.
His eyelids felt heavy. As they drifted downwards, the light grew brighter, and the music louder. When he opened them again he found himself on a stage holding his bass. The band that surrounded him was in mid-performance. Illya looked at the music on his stand. “Sugar Rum Cherry.” His fingers began to pluck his part. From behind the piano, Ellington nodded to him. A pleasant dream, indeed.
<>-<>-<>
An hour passed before Dr. Rozhdestvo returned to the waiting area. Napoleon threw aside an outdated magazine and stood. In the armchair beside him, Nick awoke with a snort.
“How’s your patient, doctor?” Napoleon asked.
“Fair.” She flipped a heavy braid as thick as her wrist off her shoulder. “He’ll be uncomfortable for several days, but he’ll recover.”
Nick laughed merrily. “Ho-ho. Didn’t I tell you Nastya was good?”
“So you did.” A suave smile curved Napoleon’s lips. “Tell me, when can I, ah, see him?”
“Soon,” the petite blonde answered. “But I should examine you first.”
Napoleon smoothed the lapels of his ruined suit. “Just bumps and bruises. I seem to have had better luck than my friend.”
Her shining blue eyes held his. “Then I presume you aren’t also recovering from a gunshot wound.”
Napoleon’s smile faltered. Nick rose to his feet. “What?”
She nodded. “And not his first, either.”
Nick stroked his white beard thoughtfully. “It seems there’s more to you boys than meets the eye. You wouldn’t by any chance be fugitives from justice, would you?”
Napoleon grimaced. “Not from justice.”
“Then there was no car accident after all,” Dr. Rozhdestvo said scornfully.
“Oh, there was, of a sort.” Napoleon’s gaze swung from the diminutive young physician to her burly grandfather. “I’ll tell you the whole story, though it’s not a jolly holiday tale. Mr. Kuryakin and I work for the United Network Command for Law and Enforcement…”
<>-<>-<>
Nick drew the red pickup truck to a stop and cut the engine. “Here it is.”
Napoleon peered out the windshield. Beyond the steady fall of heavy, wet flakes, the headlights picked out a large sign. Private Property. Trespassers will be shot. “They’re not kidding, either.”
“This is the main entrance. I found you boys down along the south boundary.”
”And you’re sure this property belongs to the Claibornes.”
“Of course. Used to be the McDougall place, the best farm in the county. When old Fred passed, those Claiborne people snapped it up before he was even in the ground.” Nick shook his head at the tangle of scrub and brambles that surrounded the sign. “No one round here’s ever laid eyes on them. They don’t farm it themselves, and they won’t rent it to those who would. But woe be it to any man who strays into those trees. I hear the property’s full of security cameras.”
“Really?” Napoleon said. “I’d like to get a closer look at that.”
“Then someone’s bound to get a look at you.”
Napoleon flashed a humorless grin. “I’ve a feeling they already have.”
<>-<>-<>
“This is an outrage,” Randall Claiborne bellowed. “It’s not enough that UNCLE’s gross incompetence led to Cathy’s death. Now you invade our private home with wild accusations about kidnapping and slavery.”
“Come now, Claiborne, I’ve said nothing of the kind,” Waverly replied calmly. His dispassionate gaze flicked from the jar of Russian caviar and open wine bottles on the bar to the staticky view screen on the far wall, then returned to the angry, frightened couple. The canny blue eyes widened, and the shaggy brows rose slightly. “I’ve merely shared a few interesting facts that have come to our attention. No one will be happier than I if you can provide us with a reasonable explanation.”
Marjorie curled her lip. “We don’t have to tell you anything. You’ll regret this. We’ll have your job. Maybe worse.” Her husband gripped her arm painfully, and she blenched. “That is, I mean…”
“We’ll press charges,” Randall interjected with a snarl. “Slander. Defamation. Criminally negligent homi-”
The telephone’s ring broke in on his tirade. The Claibornes jumped. Marjorie’s face grew ashen, and her eyes darted to Randall. He shook his head slightly.
“Doesn’t someone wish to answer that?” Waverly asked. “It might be important.”
Randall gave a sharp, dismissive wave of his hand. “They’ll call back.”
When the ringing finally ceased, Waverly said, “Where were we? Oh, yes. You were saying something about homicide, Claiborne.”
With a sound like a whimper, Marjorie moved to the bar and poured a glass of wine with trembling hands. Randall followed and squeezed her shoulders. “Our daughter is dead,” he said tightly, “and your agents are responsible. The law will hold them accountable.”
“The law will have a difficult time with that unless they’re found. I sent them out to keep their appointment with you and haven’t seen them since.”
“Neither have we,” Marjorie stammered defiantly. “The cowards never kept that appointment.”
Behind the couple’s backs, the static on the view screen resolved into an image. The face of Napoleon Solo, snow-flecked and grimacing, cocked from side to side. Waverly’s shoulders relaxed as one untamed brow shut upwards. “Are you quite certain?” he asked, staring intently at the picture.
The Claibornes turned to look at the far wall. Marjorie’s wine glass slipped from her fingers and shattered on the floor. “Randall,” she shrieked as the telephone rang again.
“Answer that, would you, please, Mr. Adams?” Waverly said to his agent. “I wish to speak to whoever is on the line.”