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section7mfuChapter 1 here. Chapter 2 here. Chapter 3 here.
Illya waited at a table in the dark, oak-paneled room at the back of the Plaza. The hum of multiple conversations filled the bar, accented by the tinkling of ice against glass and the occasional outburst of laughter. A mural on the nearby wall held his attention—Central Park shrouded in mist on a winter night. Illya liked it. It reminded him of home.
He turned away from the painting as Michael Leary took the seat opposite without greeting or preamble. Leary's closed lips rested in an upward curve, and Illya was relieved not to face that skeletal grin. It resurfaced briefly as the waiter took his order for a Gibson and another vodka for Illya, but disappeared when he began to talk.
"Firstly, I am your patron," Leary announced, no apology in his tone. "For reasons of my own, I have preferred not to reveal that until now."
He brought a mint from his pocket, unwrapped it, and placed it in his mouth. "We discussed earlier how we both have our jobs. Yours is still fashion. Mine is how to introduce your designs to the world. Do you agree, Vanya?"
Illya nodded. Leary was observing him carefully, and Illya hoped his reactions were the ones he wanted.
"Good. As long as that remains clear, our relationship will proceed smoothly." He completely ignored the waiter as he delivered their drinks. Illya gave him a slight nod.
"Now, my first priority is to get your clothes seen immediately. Once a demand is created we will discuss financing a full collection." Leary sipped his drink, and Illya tried not to imagine the Gibson colliding with wintergreen.
"And how are my designs going to receive this attention?"
His dead grin flashed. "It's pathetically simple. Your previous difficulties arose when your customers wanted to compromise your inspirations. What you needed was an atmosphere where the sheer power of a design from your hand would overcome any thought of tampering.”
"Tampering or not, how do I rival Pierre Cardin?" Illya ventured.
Leary’s eyes flashed with satisfaction. "By introducing your clothes into an atmosphere of high competition and desperate rivalry. A place where appearance is everything and those not at the forefront are ruthlessly left behind."
Illya was intrigued. "Do you know of such a place?"
"As a matter of fact, I do. Vanya, have you ever heard of the Show and Tell?"
"Napoleon?" Madeline Colbourne simpered, her warm breath tickling his ear.
The U.N.C.L.E. agent held her close as they maneuvered their way around the dark dance floor. This was their third stop of the evening, after the piano bar and restaurant, and he had learned little of any interest. He looked down at the small, soft hand in his grasp and thought of the diamond ring snug in its velvet bed. How deep a game was she playing? And how did a certain journalist figure in her amusements?
"Yes," he answered, turning her swiftly to avoid a couple with more enthusiasm than grace.
"Why haven't I ever read your magazine?"
He suspected she would search for a copy. "I exaggerated a bit when I said Beau Monde was a fairly new publication. The truth is we are a completely new publication. My story is the feature for our very first issue."
"Were you embarrassed to tell me?" she asked, searching his face.
Napoleon pretended to avoid her gaze. "I didn't want to admit we were unknown."
In an effort to comfort or reassure, he assumed, she held him closer. He could almost hear her mind churning. "What you need is a patron."
"What I need is a story."
"Exactly. You need someone to show you where the good stories are."
"I thought you were going to let me write about your experiences in Europe?"
"You will. But for your first issue you need something sensationnel."
Not entirely feigning his anticipation, Napoleon guided them off the dance floor. "Madeline, what are you saying?"
She slid up against him in their booth. Napoleon could see the pulse at her throat fluttering rapidly.
"You need me, Napoleon." She caressed the cleft in his chin with her thumb, her gaze proprietary. "I can give you a story that will ensure your little journal will be in the hands of people all across the world."
Despite his disappointment that it did not contain the words 'fashion' or 'Michael Leary,' Napoleon was intrigued by her next question.
"Have you ever heard of the Show and Tell?"
"Have you ever heard of the Show and Tell?" Napoleon asked his chief the next morning.
"No, Mr. Solo, I have not." Mr. Waverly preceded his operative down the gunmetal corridors, his measured pace oblivious to the steel doors whistling open before them and closing efficiently in their wake.
"And I must say," he continued, as the doors of their destination hissed open inches from them, "I had hoped your investigation would produce something more substantial than the latest nightclub, even with such a provocative name as the Show and Tell."
"The Show and Tell?" Illya echoed from his perch at the edge of the center table. Faustina was seated in a chair next to him. "What about it?"
"I've been invited to attend this evening."
"It seems they're letting anyone in these days," Faustina replied, a wide smile taking the sting from her words.
"We also have been invited," Illya clarified, as the three men took their seats.
"Were you, Mr. Kuryakin? Well now, this is getting interesting,” Mr. Waverly said. "Mr. Solo's young lady would not give him much information on it, preferring him to have the full experience when he arrived. May I hope you were more enlightened?"
"Leary wants us to attend with him tonight. He claimed its superficial atmosphere would be a perfect place to display Vanya's designs. Other than that, he was more concerned with establishing our working relationship.” Illya glanced at Faustina, giving credit where it was due. "Faustina supplied the rest of the information I know."
"It isn't anything substantial, sir. Mostly based on hearsay," she qualified, but Mr. Waverly gestured for her to carry on. "The Show and Tell is a floating club for the young and far-too-wealthy that began less than a year ago. Attendance is by invitation only. The name refers to the practice of members patronizing an unknown artist. They meet periodically across Europe to show off their protégés."
"Now we know why Leary was searching for someone to sponsor,” Illya added. “Although why he wanted a fashion designer is still not clear. Intelligence is putting together dossiers on the club’s founders. Perhaps we can establish a connection to THRUSH.”
"Very good. I suppose this Show and Tell provides the link between Leary and those other, ah...jet-setters, Mr. Solo."
Napoleon coughed. "In more ways than one. Leary and Miss Colbourne are both residing in the same Plaza hotel room, which I imagine wouldn't be welcome news to her unknown fiancé.”
Mr. Waverly shook his head. "Everything you have managed to learn has only raised more questions. This club seems the most likely place to find answers."
Faustina’s fingers tapped a restless tattoo on the table. "I'm the meantime, sir, I’d like to reexamine the file on Leary's THRUSH activity. I can't help but feel I've missed something relevant.”
"It sounds as if you will all have a full morning’s reading, if Intelligence is prompt with those dossiers. I suggest you get to it."
Thirty minutes later, Faustina stood in the Communications room. In her hands were the Leary file and another just provided by Intelligence. She smiled at the name she saw in it.
"Can you get me Sicilian headquarters?" she asked the girl at the console.
"Right away, Miss Pemberley. Is there anyone in particular you want to speak to?" The girl's fingers flew, flipping switches and turning dials.
"Arsene Coria."
There was a short wait while a similar Communications room halfway around the world patched her through to their agent.
"Buon giorno, Faustina." Arsene's familiar voice came clearly through the speaker. "Dare I hope this is a social call?"
"Sorry, my dear, this happens to be business," she told him, slipping into Italian. She consulted the report in her hand while juggling the microphone. "It’s about that raid near the Austrian border five weeks ago."
"Fairly routine. We neutralized a twelve-man complement and took the villa. What do you need to know?"
"I'm not sure. Did you find anything unusual?"
"Actually, we found a vault of Nazi records. Apparently they used the villa during the war. THRUSH had been through them though and probably removed anything they thought would be of use."
"Are you sure that's all?” she asked in disappointment.
He laughed. "Yes, unless you ask me something specific. Can I know what this is about?"
"It's about Michael Leary, Arsene.” She briefly summarized the affair to date. “His last services for THRUSH were at that villa. I was hoping you could tell me something that might help us figure out what he's up to."
Arsene cursed eloquently. "You be careful, my dear Faustina. We both know how dangerous he is."
"Yes, we do. Can you get me a copy of your report on that villa?"
"Certainly. I am sorry I could not be of more help. I'll make it up to you with dinner next time you are in Sicily." After a few more effusive Italian pleasantries, Arsene signed off.
Faustina looked up from the dossier in front of her and frowned. "Nothing. Marcel Séverin is clean."
She closed the file and added it to the small pile of failures, including two other Show and Tell bigwigs Intelligence had dug up. "Not a Thrushie in sight."
Napoleon took a long drink of his coffee. "Nothing on our infamous J.D. either. This may be a case of the direct method being the best."
"Miss Colbourne, would you be so good as to tell us the name of your betrothed? His initials are J.D. and not M.L., if that helps you narrow it down." Illya performed a credible imitation of Napoleon's suave tones.
"I'd hope to be a bit more subtle than that." Napoleon smiled benignly at his partner. "Tonight's soirée should be quite the event. How's your proletarian blood holding up?”
“Boiling nicely, thank you.”
“Planning to foment a minor revolution?”
Illya chuckled and removed his black-rimmed glasses. “Only in fashion.”
Faustina perked up. "What am I wearing tonight? The gold dress?”
"No, you haven't seen this one."
"Really? What's it like?" she asked excitedly.
He did not lift his gaze as he wiped his lenses with his handkerchief. "You'll see."
"Illya,” she protested.
He liked the way she pronounced his name. Her Russian was more St. Petersburg than Kiev, but he could overlook that. And he had no plans to tell her a thing about the dress before she saw it. A slight smile curved his lips, and his blue eyes twinkled. "I said you'll see."
"Illya!"
From the corner of his eye, Illya could see Napoleon watching their exchange, his face screwed into a mask of distaste. That was—what was the expression? The frosting on the cake.
Illya waited outside the workroom door, his foot tapping with impatience. LaSalle's had finished the dress in a day, working from the sketch he had provided, and Faustina spent the afternoon getting a final fitting. Since her return to headquarters, she had not given him the chance to see it. Leary himself had approved of a rough drawing done on a cocktail napkin. Illya hoped the dress lived up to his promises.
Why did women take so long to put on clothes? He rapped on the door. “Are you almost finished?”
“Patience,” came the muffled reply.
Finally the door beside him opened. Faustina stepped through, clad in the dress's matching wrap, a full-length cocoon of crimson taffeta.
"How did it turn out?"
Instead of letting him view his creation, she swept past him, her wrap rustling against the smooth floor. "You'll see!" He could feel her wicked grin.
Since he could hardly pull her to a stop in the middle of U.N.C.L.E.'s corridor and demand she disrobe, he reluctantly followed. Illya was striking in a blue Nehru jacket, a distinct departure from his normal dark suit or turtleneck. Their progress through headquarters caused many heads to turn.
Seated in the back of a taxi, the two agents practiced the details of their story, in case conversation turned to how Vanya and his model had met. When they were a block from their destination, he could no longer contain his impatience. "Are you happy with the dress?" he demanded.
She made a show of considering the question. "It's missing something."
"What would that be?”
"Wings.”
Illya leaned back in relief. It sounded as if the dress had turned out perfectly.
Chapter 4
"Have you ever heard of the Show and Tell?"
"Have you ever heard of the Show and Tell?"
Illya waited at a table in the dark, oak-paneled room at the back of the Plaza. The hum of multiple conversations filled the bar, accented by the tinkling of ice against glass and the occasional outburst of laughter. A mural on the nearby wall held his attention—Central Park shrouded in mist on a winter night. Illya liked it. It reminded him of home.
He turned away from the painting as Michael Leary took the seat opposite without greeting or preamble. Leary's closed lips rested in an upward curve, and Illya was relieved not to face that skeletal grin. It resurfaced briefly as the waiter took his order for a Gibson and another vodka for Illya, but disappeared when he began to talk.
"Firstly, I am your patron," Leary announced, no apology in his tone. "For reasons of my own, I have preferred not to reveal that until now."
He brought a mint from his pocket, unwrapped it, and placed it in his mouth. "We discussed earlier how we both have our jobs. Yours is still fashion. Mine is how to introduce your designs to the world. Do you agree, Vanya?"
Illya nodded. Leary was observing him carefully, and Illya hoped his reactions were the ones he wanted.
"Good. As long as that remains clear, our relationship will proceed smoothly." He completely ignored the waiter as he delivered their drinks. Illya gave him a slight nod.
"Now, my first priority is to get your clothes seen immediately. Once a demand is created we will discuss financing a full collection." Leary sipped his drink, and Illya tried not to imagine the Gibson colliding with wintergreen.
"And how are my designs going to receive this attention?"
His dead grin flashed. "It's pathetically simple. Your previous difficulties arose when your customers wanted to compromise your inspirations. What you needed was an atmosphere where the sheer power of a design from your hand would overcome any thought of tampering.”
"Tampering or not, how do I rival Pierre Cardin?" Illya ventured.
Leary’s eyes flashed with satisfaction. "By introducing your clothes into an atmosphere of high competition and desperate rivalry. A place where appearance is everything and those not at the forefront are ruthlessly left behind."
Illya was intrigued. "Do you know of such a place?"
"As a matter of fact, I do. Vanya, have you ever heard of the Show and Tell?"
"Napoleon?" Madeline Colbourne simpered, her warm breath tickling his ear.
The U.N.C.L.E. agent held her close as they maneuvered their way around the dark dance floor. This was their third stop of the evening, after the piano bar and restaurant, and he had learned little of any interest. He looked down at the small, soft hand in his grasp and thought of the diamond ring snug in its velvet bed. How deep a game was she playing? And how did a certain journalist figure in her amusements?
"Yes," he answered, turning her swiftly to avoid a couple with more enthusiasm than grace.
"Why haven't I ever read your magazine?"
He suspected she would search for a copy. "I exaggerated a bit when I said Beau Monde was a fairly new publication. The truth is we are a completely new publication. My story is the feature for our very first issue."
"Were you embarrassed to tell me?" she asked, searching his face.
Napoleon pretended to avoid her gaze. "I didn't want to admit we were unknown."
In an effort to comfort or reassure, he assumed, she held him closer. He could almost hear her mind churning. "What you need is a patron."
"What I need is a story."
"Exactly. You need someone to show you where the good stories are."
"I thought you were going to let me write about your experiences in Europe?"
"You will. But for your first issue you need something sensationnel."
Not entirely feigning his anticipation, Napoleon guided them off the dance floor. "Madeline, what are you saying?"
She slid up against him in their booth. Napoleon could see the pulse at her throat fluttering rapidly.
"You need me, Napoleon." She caressed the cleft in his chin with her thumb, her gaze proprietary. "I can give you a story that will ensure your little journal will be in the hands of people all across the world."
Despite his disappointment that it did not contain the words 'fashion' or 'Michael Leary,' Napoleon was intrigued by her next question.
"Have you ever heard of the Show and Tell?"
"Have you ever heard of the Show and Tell?" Napoleon asked his chief the next morning.
"No, Mr. Solo, I have not." Mr. Waverly preceded his operative down the gunmetal corridors, his measured pace oblivious to the steel doors whistling open before them and closing efficiently in their wake.
"And I must say," he continued, as the doors of their destination hissed open inches from them, "I had hoped your investigation would produce something more substantial than the latest nightclub, even with such a provocative name as the Show and Tell."
"The Show and Tell?" Illya echoed from his perch at the edge of the center table. Faustina was seated in a chair next to him. "What about it?"
"I've been invited to attend this evening."
"It seems they're letting anyone in these days," Faustina replied, a wide smile taking the sting from her words.
"We also have been invited," Illya clarified, as the three men took their seats.
"Were you, Mr. Kuryakin? Well now, this is getting interesting,” Mr. Waverly said. "Mr. Solo's young lady would not give him much information on it, preferring him to have the full experience when he arrived. May I hope you were more enlightened?"
"Leary wants us to attend with him tonight. He claimed its superficial atmosphere would be a perfect place to display Vanya's designs. Other than that, he was more concerned with establishing our working relationship.” Illya glanced at Faustina, giving credit where it was due. "Faustina supplied the rest of the information I know."
"It isn't anything substantial, sir. Mostly based on hearsay," she qualified, but Mr. Waverly gestured for her to carry on. "The Show and Tell is a floating club for the young and far-too-wealthy that began less than a year ago. Attendance is by invitation only. The name refers to the practice of members patronizing an unknown artist. They meet periodically across Europe to show off their protégés."
"Now we know why Leary was searching for someone to sponsor,” Illya added. “Although why he wanted a fashion designer is still not clear. Intelligence is putting together dossiers on the club’s founders. Perhaps we can establish a connection to THRUSH.”
"Very good. I suppose this Show and Tell provides the link between Leary and those other, ah...jet-setters, Mr. Solo."
Napoleon coughed. "In more ways than one. Leary and Miss Colbourne are both residing in the same Plaza hotel room, which I imagine wouldn't be welcome news to her unknown fiancé.”
Mr. Waverly shook his head. "Everything you have managed to learn has only raised more questions. This club seems the most likely place to find answers."
Faustina’s fingers tapped a restless tattoo on the table. "I'm the meantime, sir, I’d like to reexamine the file on Leary's THRUSH activity. I can't help but feel I've missed something relevant.”
"It sounds as if you will all have a full morning’s reading, if Intelligence is prompt with those dossiers. I suggest you get to it."
Thirty minutes later, Faustina stood in the Communications room. In her hands were the Leary file and another just provided by Intelligence. She smiled at the name she saw in it.
"Can you get me Sicilian headquarters?" she asked the girl at the console.
"Right away, Miss Pemberley. Is there anyone in particular you want to speak to?" The girl's fingers flew, flipping switches and turning dials.
"Arsene Coria."
There was a short wait while a similar Communications room halfway around the world patched her through to their agent.
"Buon giorno, Faustina." Arsene's familiar voice came clearly through the speaker. "Dare I hope this is a social call?"
"Sorry, my dear, this happens to be business," she told him, slipping into Italian. She consulted the report in her hand while juggling the microphone. "It’s about that raid near the Austrian border five weeks ago."
"Fairly routine. We neutralized a twelve-man complement and took the villa. What do you need to know?"
"I'm not sure. Did you find anything unusual?"
"Actually, we found a vault of Nazi records. Apparently they used the villa during the war. THRUSH had been through them though and probably removed anything they thought would be of use."
"Are you sure that's all?” she asked in disappointment.
He laughed. "Yes, unless you ask me something specific. Can I know what this is about?"
"It's about Michael Leary, Arsene.” She briefly summarized the affair to date. “His last services for THRUSH were at that villa. I was hoping you could tell me something that might help us figure out what he's up to."
Arsene cursed eloquently. "You be careful, my dear Faustina. We both know how dangerous he is."
"Yes, we do. Can you get me a copy of your report on that villa?"
"Certainly. I am sorry I could not be of more help. I'll make it up to you with dinner next time you are in Sicily." After a few more effusive Italian pleasantries, Arsene signed off.
Faustina looked up from the dossier in front of her and frowned. "Nothing. Marcel Séverin is clean."
She closed the file and added it to the small pile of failures, including two other Show and Tell bigwigs Intelligence had dug up. "Not a Thrushie in sight."
Napoleon took a long drink of his coffee. "Nothing on our infamous J.D. either. This may be a case of the direct method being the best."
"Miss Colbourne, would you be so good as to tell us the name of your betrothed? His initials are J.D. and not M.L., if that helps you narrow it down." Illya performed a credible imitation of Napoleon's suave tones.
"I'd hope to be a bit more subtle than that." Napoleon smiled benignly at his partner. "Tonight's soirée should be quite the event. How's your proletarian blood holding up?”
“Boiling nicely, thank you.”
“Planning to foment a minor revolution?”
Illya chuckled and removed his black-rimmed glasses. “Only in fashion.”
Faustina perked up. "What am I wearing tonight? The gold dress?”
"No, you haven't seen this one."
"Really? What's it like?" she asked excitedly.
He did not lift his gaze as he wiped his lenses with his handkerchief. "You'll see."
"Illya,” she protested.
He liked the way she pronounced his name. Her Russian was more St. Petersburg than Kiev, but he could overlook that. And he had no plans to tell her a thing about the dress before she saw it. A slight smile curved his lips, and his blue eyes twinkled. "I said you'll see."
"Illya!"
From the corner of his eye, Illya could see Napoleon watching their exchange, his face screwed into a mask of distaste. That was—what was the expression? The frosting on the cake.
Illya waited outside the workroom door, his foot tapping with impatience. LaSalle's had finished the dress in a day, working from the sketch he had provided, and Faustina spent the afternoon getting a final fitting. Since her return to headquarters, she had not given him the chance to see it. Leary himself had approved of a rough drawing done on a cocktail napkin. Illya hoped the dress lived up to his promises.
Why did women take so long to put on clothes? He rapped on the door. “Are you almost finished?”
“Patience,” came the muffled reply.
Finally the door beside him opened. Faustina stepped through, clad in the dress's matching wrap, a full-length cocoon of crimson taffeta.
"How did it turn out?"
Instead of letting him view his creation, she swept past him, her wrap rustling against the smooth floor. "You'll see!" He could feel her wicked grin.
Since he could hardly pull her to a stop in the middle of U.N.C.L.E.'s corridor and demand she disrobe, he reluctantly followed. Illya was striking in a blue Nehru jacket, a distinct departure from his normal dark suit or turtleneck. Their progress through headquarters caused many heads to turn.
Seated in the back of a taxi, the two agents practiced the details of their story, in case conversation turned to how Vanya and his model had met. When they were a block from their destination, he could no longer contain his impatience. "Are you happy with the dress?" he demanded.
She made a show of considering the question. "It's missing something."
"What would that be?”
"Wings.”
Illya leaned back in relief. It sounded as if the dress had turned out perfectly.
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Date: 2015-11-18 01:06 am (UTC)