Non-Challenge Fic: The Deadly in My Fashion Affair

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This is the beginning of a multi-part story I started years ago. Time to stop tweaking it and just put it out there.

The Deadly in My Fashion Affair

Somewhere in Soho, New York City

The week-long silence that hung over the loft was at last lifted by the grating of the cargo elevator making its ascent. The elevator's gate slid open with a metallic groan, and its sole occupant stumbled into the room. A sigh, followed by a prodigious yawn, echoed through the cavernous space.

Faustina Pemberley felt her way to the spiral staircase, her shins becoming reacquainted with each piece of furniture on the way. Had she really created this obstacle course? Aesthetics be damned. Tomorrow she was rearranging it all.

She could have cried in relief when her hand finally grasped a cold, curving iron handrail. Turning her thoughts from interior redecoration, she focused her last ounces of energy on reaching the bed above.

A sharp, two-tone alarm pierced through her mental fog and nearly sent her tumbling down the stairs. Her heart pounding in her ears, Faustina sat down on the nearest step to recover. She fumbled with her communicator, frustrated that exhaustion was making her clumsy, and spoke a bit breathlessly into the microphone. "Pemberley here."

"Ah, Faustina, I'm glad I could reach you." The tiny speaker transmitted Napoleon Solo's smooth tones with impressive clarity. "Are you home?"

Faustina nodded sleepily. When he repeated the question, she reminded her sleep-deprived brain that he wasn't actually in the room. “Yes,” she said warily, hoping she wasn't being assigned another mission already.

"Can you throw on something nice and be here in twenty minutes?"

"Be where in twenty minutes?"

"Headquarters. I need a boon of sorts."

Rolling her eyes, Faustina began to crawl up the stairs. "Napoleon, I have just wrapped up that business in Lisbon, which required me to play stewardess on the flight back. Over these last three days I have gotten possibly five hours of sleep. In the last twenty-four hours I haven't slept at all. At the moment, you might as well be speaking to an answering service." The clank of her communicator striking each step punctuated her words loudly and effectively.

"I'd be in your debt. An acquaintance of mine, a certain cruise ship hostess, is sailing for the Caribbean tomorrow. Unless I can provide some feminine distraction, we will spend our only evening attempting to gaze into each other's eyes around her visiting brother."

"Napoleon, I'm going to try and forget this ridiculous conversation. Go bother someone else. Janice in Legal fairly begs to do you favors."

"No good. This brother is extremely over-protective. Karen said the only thing that might distract him would be a mysterious foreigner. No girl does that better than you.”

Her response was in a foreign language but there was nothing mysterious about it.

“Please," he coaxed, undeterred. Faustina could almost see the pleading look in his dark eyes. "Your Portuguese sounds like it's in fine shape. Just smile and murmur something exotic. It doesn't have to be coherent.”

"Napoleon, I have only two things to say to you.” She was finally at the top of the stairs, lying prone on the floor. “One, remember Helsinki. Two, I know where you live. Now good-bye!"

Faustina stuffed her communicator into a drawer when she reached her bedroom. Napoleon could be very persistent. Falling face down on the bed, she was asleep before her head hit the pillow.



Across New York, above Del Floria's tailor shop, Napoleon Solo stood and pondered their conversation. "Touchy, wasn't she?" he said as he turned to face his companion in the office.

Illya Kuryakin didn't lift his head from his work as he answered. “You stay up for three days, then have someone ask you to provide a diversion for his romantic escapades, and see how you take it." He heard Napoleon's soft chuckle and asked, “What happened in Helsinki?”

Napoleon grimaced. “Classified.”

"What are you going to do now?”

"That, I.K., is a very good question. Lose him in a crowd, I suppose. I'll think of something." Napoleon smiled once again and headed for the door. Half-way there he checked and turned back, looking slightly guilty. "You don't mind if I leave?"

"I believe I owe you a 'boon of sorts,' so I suppose I could repay you by doing your share of these reports."

"If you aren't doing anything tonight?"

Illya raised his eyes to look Napoleon briefly in the face, then lowered them back to his work, silent but eloquent. "Are you in need of any money...again?"

"No, thanks," Napoleon answered from the doorway. "I'm covered. Goodnight." The door slid shut behind him.

Illya shook his blond head and got back to his night's work.



Somewhere in Paris

The young man brushed a strand of lank hair off his brow, his eyes glowing with passionate intensity. "I feel this is the best of my work. The fabric moves with a life of its own, even when the woman is standing still."

He flicked a glance towards the man at his side. He had thought this Michael Leary's smile was a good sign during the showing of the first dress. But three gowns later that strange, sepulchral grin had not budged. The couturier gestured at his model to stop moving, in an effort to demonstrate his point.

Michael Leary continued to smile as he nodded, his pale eyes observing the details of the neat, but shabby studio. His glance fell across the model, who retreated hastily into the back room. "You obviously have talent. I fail to understand why Maison Roucher does not yet rival the name of Chanel and the like."

The glow in Roucher's eyes roared into a full blaze. "They fear new ideas. But the new dawn is coming, and there will no longer be a place for their oppression."

Michael Leary recognized a fanatic in the man at his side and made his decision. He drew a mint from his pocket and placed it in his mouth, the wrapper falling unheeded to the floor. "The party I represent has also seen the--ah, first rays of your new dawn. Unfortunately, there are several designers of your caliber and neglected status, and this party can only patron one. You will hear from me when it is decided decide which of you they will stand beside to watch that glorious sunrise."

As couturier nodded energetically, Michael Leary turned and strode from the showing room. His smile had not slipped once.

The couturier ran a hand through his hair and took a moment to calm his nervous energy. There was yet another customer in the small front room. He doubted this bourgeois dog was aware of the coming dawn, but he was looking for a dress for his fiancée, and there were bills to be paid.

The bourgeois dog nodded politely when the couturier poked his head through the curtain and told him it would be just a moment. Once alone, he rose from the seat he had hastily taken when he heard the smiling man approach. He shifted the curtain gently and stepped into the empty showing room. The candy wrapper crinkled as he tucked it in his handkerchief.

His hand reached automatically for the U.N.C.L.E. Special concealed beneath his jacket when the couturier burst from the back room. It relaxed into the fluid motion of removing his cigarette case when he saw the skinny man was unarmed and only over-excited. While the couturier rambled on about the charming dress his model displayed, the agent tried to remember where he had seen the smiling man before. He could not recall anything specific, but he definitely smelled THRUSH. Idly fingering the communicator in his pocket, the agent hastily agreed to the purchase, anxious to be outside and in contact with U.N.C.L.E.'s Paris headquarters.

Section I: "Welcome to the world of high fashion."

Chapter 1
"He's a very dangerous man.”

NYC - Somewhere in the east 40's

On the third story of U.N.C.L.E.'s New York headquarters, two men sat in silence, waiting for the start of their briefing. Napoleon Solo stood by the narrow windows and looked out over the city. His mind, however, was on a cruise ship somewhere in the Caribbean. Every few moments a smile would cross his lips as he recalled his date two evenings earlier. He wondered if Karen's brother had found his way home safely. In contrast, Illya Kuryakin sat across the room at a large round table, watching Napoleon with the "You Never Change" look he reserved especially for his partner.

The attention of both men was called by the quiet sliding of the door, signaling Alexander Waverly's arrival.

"Good morning, Mr. Kuryakin. Mr. Solo." Mr. Waverly acknowledged his agents in his preoccupied manner. “Reception has just told me that Miss Pemberley has arrived, so we'll begin shortly."

"Will Faustina be joining us?" Napoleon inquired eagerly.

“Yes, Mr. Solo. I trust that won't prove a distraction for you.”

“No, sir. Not at all,” he assured his chief, even as the door slid open and Faustina entered. His gaze swept over her. Not stunning, but certainly attractive. Particularly now, with her gray eyes twinkling at him and her lips twisted into a wry grin. Apparently they were no longer at Threat Level Helsinki.

Faustina turned to smile politely at the others. "Good morning, Mr. Waverly. Gentlemen."

Napoleon smiled in return as she took a seat, while Mr. Waverly and Illya nodded their greetings.

"I trust you are fully recovered from Lisbon," Mr. Waverly said.

"Quite recovered, thank you. All I needed was a solid day's rest." Her pointed glance at Napoleon was met by a look of pure innocence.

“Good. On with the business at hand. Mr. Solo, would you please get the lights?”

As the windows shuttered and the room darkened, Mr. Waverly directed their attention to the wall. "Miss Pemberley, do you recognize the subject?"

The screen before them dissolved into the image of man in his thirties. With his classic features he might have been handsome, but pale eyes and a cadaverous smile rendered him more chilling than attractive. Ignorant as to his identity, Napoleon and Illya turned to Faustina with interest.

"His name is Michael Leary," she answered simply.

"Good. And who is Michael Leary?"

Faustina inhaled deeply. "He began his career in London as a cardsharp. Now he fancies himself an international playboy, although he has yet to gain acceptance in the exalted circles he aspires to. He has been involved in art forgery, drug smuggling, kidnapping...the list grows worse as it grows longer. By some diabolical luck, he has managed never to be caught. He has also provided minor services for THRUSH, mostly as a front-man."

Mr. Waverly nodded. "His ambition isn't merely social. For several years he has tried to gain greater authority within THRUSH, but his ideas have met with continual rejection. Then a month ago, he ceased all communication with them, as well as any activity even remotely illegal. Comments?"

"Perhaps he’s gone legitimate?" Napoleon suggested.

"Possibly," Mr. Waverly agreed. "Miss Pemberley?"

Faustina stared at the skeletal grin on the wall. "He's planning something. Something to prove his value to THRUSH."

"That is precisely what we fear. Unfortunately, we have no idea what his plans might be. His movements over the last few weeks have only raised more questions." He pressed a button, and the image on the screen changed to one of Michael Leary exiting a studio in Paris. "This was taken last week and represents an emerging pattern. Leary has visited several struggling and obscure fashion designers across Europe. In three days he will be in New York, presumably to do the same here. We would like to know why."

The image on the screen dissolved away, and the three agents turned their attention to Mr. Waverly. "I'm sorry, sir, but this seems like quite a lot of concern over a trifling amount of information," Napoleon said, moving to relight the room.

"You are correct, Mr. Solo, that we do not have anything concrete on Mr. Leary. But he is a man of many powerful connections and underworld ties. I, for one, would sleep better at night if I thought we had prevented him from assuming a position of power in THRUSH. Besides," he added, “our Rome, Hong Kong, and Oslo branches are all currently dealing with THRUSH plots. We do not need an upstart causing more trouble."

Mr. Waverly took his seat, placing a file on the table before him. "We only have one other possible lead to Leary's plans. The movements of a few people have practically mirrored his over the last weeks. None are known criminals or THRUSH members, but they bear investigating." He spun the table, sending part of the file to Napoleon. "This is everything we know on them, Mr. Solo, including the places you are most likely to find them."

"Yes, sir.” Napoleon smiled, scanning the report. Music, drinks, women, the idle rich—he could not ask for much more in an assignment. Except perhaps for a charming agent at his side. He waited in anticipation to hear the rest.

Mr. Waverly continued. "Mr. Kuryakin, it seems the best way to discover what Leary wants with unknown fashion designers is for you to become one." He spun the table again to place a sheaf of papers before Illya. "You have a small studio and three days to convince the world you are an undiscovered talent. Oh, and proceed directly to Research and Development. They are supposed to have something for you."

“Kuryakin of Paris,” Napoleon whispered from the corner of his mouth, unsurprised when Illya did not rise to the bait. Seniority did have its privileges, he thought smugly. Only one question remained. "Which one of us will work with Miss Pemberley?"

"Oh, Mr. Kuryakin, of course. She is to be his model."

Napoleon's smug smile vanished.

Mr. Waverly paused to retrieve his pipe and began filling it with fresh tobacco. "That is all, gentlemen. Mr. Kuryakin, Miss Pemberley will join you shortly."

Napoleon and Illya rose and exited the room. Illya was smiling slightly as they proceeded down the hall.

"I wonder what the idle rich are wearing this year," Napoleon voiced, pressing the only advantage left in his situation.

Illya smiled openly. "Before long, whatever I tell them."



As the door slid closed, Mr. Waverly took up his pipe, drawing with satisfaction. The comforting scent of Isle of Dogs No. 22 filled the room.

"Mr. Solo was correct in his observation regarding our lack of evidence,” he admitted. “My decision to prioritize this had much of its basis on your personal experience with Leary and his methods. I trust you have no doubts as to the potential threat he poses."

"None, sir. He's a very dangerous man."

"Whatever Leary is planning, I want the three of you at its heart to stop it cold. That will mean more familiar faces.”

Mr. Waverly gazed at her from beneath shaggy brows, his head wreathed with smoke. He looked like a character from a Dickens novel, but his eyes were shrewd and challenging. She knew what he needed to hear.

“That's not a problem. I'm not afraid of ghosts.” She smiled at him reassuringly.

He nodded in acknowledgement, but his eyes held hers. His impartiality faltered for just a moment, and the concern he revealed would have surprised Solo and Kuryakin. “I'm sure you're not. But in this case, Miss Pemberley, the ghost is you.”

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