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section7mfuChapter 1 here. Chapter 2 here. Chapter 3 here. Chapter 4 here. Chapter 5 here.
“Was that a renewal of hostilities?” Napoleon asked. “I thought you two signed an Entente Cordiale.”
Faustina laughed. “Oh, we have. That was just war games.”
“Well, for the record, I’ll go out on maneuvers with you anytime,” he said smoothly.
The night was clear and cool with a gentle breeze that rustled the hair. Faustina refused Napoleon's jacket when offered, the slight chill refreshing after the stuffiness of the penthouse. They leaned against the balustrade, shoulder to shoulder. Far below, streetlights traced the lanes of Central Park. Late night traffic was light on Fifth Avenue, and at the Plaza only a few rooms were lit. It was all very peaceful from their height.
Napoleon turned toward Faustina. “Were they for the benefit of your admirer on the landing?”
She pulled an “I'm impressed” face, and he responded in kind. She hesitated, then said, “He seemed like he might make a scene. We didn't need that complication.”
“Your evening was fraught with well-dressed complications. That was some of the finest broken field running I've seen outside a stadium.”
Faustina looked at him in confusion.
“You know—football.” Napoleon gestured as if throwing a pass. “Didn't you go to football games in school?”
“Not at the Elsinger Academy for Young Ladies. Lucerne was as far from football players as my parents could send me.”
“Sounds like there's a story there.” Napoleon glanced through the windows and took out his notepad. Inside the penthouse, Madeline stood on the landing with Faustina’s admirer. “Care to share it with our readers?”
“I'm saving it for my memoirs,” she said archly. “Did you learn anything tonight?”
He flipped a page. "I learned that the Honorable Elliot Ramsey is forty-fifth in line for the British throne and that Charlotte Abbot's necklace has been in her family for two hundred years. Did you know that?”
"Nothing about J.D.?"
"Only that he’s older and Austrian. She got very nervous when I casually brought her engagement into the conversation.”
"Austria. It keeps coming back to that.” She shook her head. “Illya’s better with patterns. We can only hope he learned something useful. I'm curious about this house party.”
The terrace doors opened. Madeline joined them. She did not look pleased at how close Faustina and Napoleon were standing. "Pardon the interruption, but everyone else has left." She placed herself firmly between them. "And Miss Leigh needs to get to her studio. You've kept her long enough."
Madeline took Napoleon by the arm, leaving Faustina to follow. They returned through the terrace doors to discover penthouse was not entirely deserted. A handsome, grey-haired man stood on the landing.
"Jurgen!" Madeline gasped.
Before Napoleon could react, a beefy hand twisted his arm painfully behind him and its sweaty mate clamped over his mouth. A second intruder subjected Faustina to the same treatment.
"What are your men doing, Jurgen? These are my guests." Madeline met him at the foot of the stairs.
"I've been found out, my dear,” he said curtly, his accent Viennese. “Somehow someone learned who I am."
"I haven't told anyone, Jurgen. You know I wouldn't."
"Yes, I know." He gazed at her regretfully, his glance taking in her ringless left hand. "But your pillow talk has never been discreet."
Madeline gasped and bit her lip. She cried, "Oh, Jurgen. I—“
"Enough. I have not come to chastise you, but to take you with me. If they know about me, they know about you. That means you're in danger."
"’They, they.’ Jurgen, who are these people?"
"I did not stop to ask. Several men came to the house and tried to take me. My only thoughts have been to reach you." He flicked a glance at the captive agents. "It seems I am just in time."
A third man appeared from the hall. "The servants have gone home, Doctor. There's only one other man asleep in a bedroom, drunk from the smell of him."
"Fine, Karl. Search these two."
Madeline tugged his lapel. "Jurgen, this is Mr. Solo. He is writing a magazine article about the Show and Tell. And that girl is a model."
"Ah, my dear. So naive."
Karl chose Faustina first, smiling slightly as he ran his hands down her body. She flinched away from him, and her captor twisted her arm until she gasped in pain.
"Hey, Doctor." Karl pulled up the skirts of her dress, revealing the knife strapped to her thigh. Madeline gasped, her eyes darting between Faustina and Napoleon in dawning horror.
Finding nothing else, Karl moved reluctantly to Napoleon. Within moments he had relieved him of his Special, formerly concealed by the tailoring of his tuxedo.
"Jurgen, I had no idea—“ Madeline stammered in fright.
"Silence. We have to leave. Their friends could be on their way as we speak."
"What will you do with them?" She could not look at the agents.
"Don't concern yourself with that. Get your coat and purse."
Madeline scampered away. Jurgen quietly addressed the two goons holding Faustina and Napoleon. "Give us time to get out of here, then dispose of them. You know where to meet us." He glanced at each agent, his eyes burning with contempt, before turning on his heel and heading up the stairs. Karl followed dutifully behind.
Hauled like sacks of meal, the agents were taken to a guest room and dumped on one of the single beds. Sweaty-Hands and Bone-Snapper took position on either side of the door, Napoleon's Special and Faustina's knife in hand.
The agents assessed their situation. Their eyes met in silent agreement.
"Brilliant work, Nappy!" Faustina smacked Napoleon in the chest with the back of her hand.
"I've told you not to call me that," he responded, slapping her hand away.
"U.N.C.L.E.’s top man, in the bedroom and out,” she spat. “Wrong on both counts.”
"If I only had myself to worry about, I'd have been out of here already. But I have to consider how to rescue you too."
"Talk, talk, talk.” She jammed a finger into his chest with each word. “That's all it ever is with you. Why can't you be a man of action?"
"It's hard to be a man of action when you could get frostbite being in the same room with you."
Sweaty-Hands cracked a smile.
"Are you calling me frigid?" she hissed.
"I am."
"Obviously you don't know the difference between being cold and being revolted." Both goons were grinning now.
"Really. Do you know that the only reason I brought you here tonight is because someone bet me I wouldn't?"
With a shriek, Faustina leapt at Napoleon, claws extended. They tumbled between the beds, Napoleon landing on top on her. Drawing his hand back first as a warning, he swung it sharply at her face. She turned away from the worst of the slap, but it looked and sounded full strength.
Concerned the commotion might awaken the drunk snoozing in the next room, the two goons stepped forward to break them up. As Sweaty-Hands leaned over, Napoleon struck out and up with his leg. He caught Sweaty-Hands in the solar plexus, smashing him back into his partner. The Special dropped to the carpet and skipped under the bed.
The agents sprang to their feet. As Sweaty-Hands caught his breath, Bone-Snapper advanced, knife in hand. Faustina rolled across the bed, grabbed the bedspread, and flung it over him. As he struggled to extricate himself, she swept his legs and sent him crashing to the floor. The desk chair splintered into pieces as she smashed it over him. Still wrapped in his cocoon, Bone-Snapper shuddered, then went limp.
Trapped between the beds, Napoleon felt like a rodeo clown as Sweaty-Hands charged forward. He caught the agent around the waist, slamming him onto the mattress. While Napoleon dodged his ham-sized fists, Faustina retrieved the Special. She stood and fired two darts into Sweaty-Hands’ back. They barely fazed him. With surprising agility, he turned and used one powerful arm to back-hand her over the end of the bed. The swing freed Napoleon’s legs, and he hammered his patent shoes into Sweaty-Hands’ jaw. Following with a left and a right, Napoleon encouraged the goon to join his partner in dreamland.
A hand grasping a Special planted itself on the other bed. Faustina’s face rose after it. She blew a fallen curl out of her eyes.
Napoleon gingerly explored his jawline, wincing at a long scratch near his mole. "I think I left part of my face under your nail."
“R&D will be delighted.” She pulled herself up and displayed her manicure, pristine despite their encounter. “I'm field-testing a new formula. Won't chip, won't break, guaranteed to draw blood.”
She rubbed the aching ribs where Sweaty-Hands' swinging fist had landed. "Oh, no. He’s torn the dress,” she cried.
Napoleon examined his tuxedo. “I’m in one piece.”
“Well, the night’s not over.”
She fired a single dart into Bone-Snapper as a precaution, before handing Napoleon his weapon and moving to carefully retrieve her knife. Napoleon holstered his Special and watched in appreciation as Faustina sheathed the slim blade.
Sighing as her skirts descended, Napoleon headed for the door. "I'll go see if the doorman heard where Jurgen and party headed."
Checking that Bone-Snapper and Sweaty-Hands would remain out for a while, Faustina joined him. "My communicator's in my handbag. I'll get a team up here to collect these two."
Napoleon stepped off the elevator and into the deserted lobby. He crossed to where the doorman lounged at his station, a white cord connecting his left ear to a small radio. He looked only slightly interested at Napoleon's arrival.
"Did you see a lady and two gentleman leave here a little while ago?"
"Huh?" the doorman grunted.
Napoleon yanked the plug from his ear. "Hey!" the irate doorman cried. "Hey," he repeated more quietly as Napoleon held his U.N.C.L.E. identification card an inch from the doorman's nose.
Napoleon repeated his request.
"Yes, yes, I saw 'em out." His accent was Brooklyn desperately trying to be Park Avenue.
"Did they get in a cab?"
"Naw. Big black sedan." Brooklyn was winning. "You some kinda cop?"
"Some kinda," Napoleon agreed. He folded his arms and leaned against the counter on one elbow. "Tell me exactly what you saw."
The doorman rubbed his jaw. "I start to to hail 'em a cab, like they ask. That's when this black car pulls up. A guy gets outta the back seat and says that he's their ride.”
"Did the lady or gentlemen say anything?"
"Naw. They was real quiet."
"Which way did they head?"
"East."
"And did you hear anything else? Anything at all?"
"I think I heard someone talkin' about some kinda bird.”
"THRUSH?" Napoleon asked, already knowing the answer.
"Yeah, that's it. They some kinda nature lovers?"
"Well, they weren't the Audubon Society."
Illya had a very bad feeling. Michael Leary was positively chipper, and it was a mood that did not suit him. In the cab he had woven plans for a Paris debut of Vanya's first collection. Now in the back room of the studio, while Illya laid out several outfits, Leary was suggesting which magazines should be allowed to photograph the designs.
The workroom door squeaked open. Illya turned to find a boyish face in a black beret regarding him from above a very serious pistol. At a nod from Leary, the pistol slammed up in an arc. Illya had time to back partly away from the blow, but even at half-strength it caused minor galaxies to explode behind his eyes. He felt himself slump against the drafting table and then roll heavily to the floor. Darkness began to seep in from the corners of his eyes. Gathering the scattered remains of his consciousness, Illya concentrated all his energy on listening.
"Put him behind that screen," Leary ordered. The man in the beret set down the satchel he carried in his other hand. He picked up Illya's feet and dragged him to the corner.
"I thought the girl would be here," he said.
Leary frowned. "Don't question me. I can always bring a different team up with me when I'm promoted." He pulled a lighter from inside his jacket. Flipping it open, he extended the antenna and pressed the button. "This is Leary. Report."
"Andrews here. We've got the doctor."
"That's what you said before. Unfortunately that bulletin proved slightly premature. Would you care to revise that?"
"No, sir. The doctor is presently sitting at my left, his lovely fiancée at my right. We are proceeding as planned."
Leary's skeletal grin reached its full proportions. "Excellent. Carter and I will join you shortly." He closed up the lighter and returned it to his jacket.
"What about the girl?" Carter asked.
"We can't wait." He placed the satchel on the cutting table. Carter's hand, as it reached for the bag, was stalled by the light in Leary's pale eyes. He had never seen a smile reach them before.
"I'll do it," Leary pronounced. Swallowing his advice that a detached professional should handle the job, Carter backed away.
Illya heard Carter's footsteps near his head. "I think your dressmaker is coming around. Do you think he heard us?"
"It hardly matters," Leary shrugged, unloading a series of sinister devices. "The minute Miss Leigh opens this door she will take care of herself and her employer for us. Perhaps that reporter, too, if we're lucky. Now put him back to sleep."
Illya's last thought was how to warn Napoleon and Faustina before he felt Carter's blow and darkness enveloped him.
Chapter 6
"They weren't the Audubon Society."
"They weren't the Audubon Society."
“Was that a renewal of hostilities?” Napoleon asked. “I thought you two signed an Entente Cordiale.”
Faustina laughed. “Oh, we have. That was just war games.”
“Well, for the record, I’ll go out on maneuvers with you anytime,” he said smoothly.
The night was clear and cool with a gentle breeze that rustled the hair. Faustina refused Napoleon's jacket when offered, the slight chill refreshing after the stuffiness of the penthouse. They leaned against the balustrade, shoulder to shoulder. Far below, streetlights traced the lanes of Central Park. Late night traffic was light on Fifth Avenue, and at the Plaza only a few rooms were lit. It was all very peaceful from their height.
Napoleon turned toward Faustina. “Were they for the benefit of your admirer on the landing?”
She pulled an “I'm impressed” face, and he responded in kind. She hesitated, then said, “He seemed like he might make a scene. We didn't need that complication.”
“Your evening was fraught with well-dressed complications. That was some of the finest broken field running I've seen outside a stadium.”
Faustina looked at him in confusion.
“You know—football.” Napoleon gestured as if throwing a pass. “Didn't you go to football games in school?”
“Not at the Elsinger Academy for Young Ladies. Lucerne was as far from football players as my parents could send me.”
“Sounds like there's a story there.” Napoleon glanced through the windows and took out his notepad. Inside the penthouse, Madeline stood on the landing with Faustina’s admirer. “Care to share it with our readers?”
“I'm saving it for my memoirs,” she said archly. “Did you learn anything tonight?”
He flipped a page. "I learned that the Honorable Elliot Ramsey is forty-fifth in line for the British throne and that Charlotte Abbot's necklace has been in her family for two hundred years. Did you know that?”
"Nothing about J.D.?"
"Only that he’s older and Austrian. She got very nervous when I casually brought her engagement into the conversation.”
"Austria. It keeps coming back to that.” She shook her head. “Illya’s better with patterns. We can only hope he learned something useful. I'm curious about this house party.”
The terrace doors opened. Madeline joined them. She did not look pleased at how close Faustina and Napoleon were standing. "Pardon the interruption, but everyone else has left." She placed herself firmly between them. "And Miss Leigh needs to get to her studio. You've kept her long enough."
Madeline took Napoleon by the arm, leaving Faustina to follow. They returned through the terrace doors to discover penthouse was not entirely deserted. A handsome, grey-haired man stood on the landing.
"Jurgen!" Madeline gasped.
Before Napoleon could react, a beefy hand twisted his arm painfully behind him and its sweaty mate clamped over his mouth. A second intruder subjected Faustina to the same treatment.
"What are your men doing, Jurgen? These are my guests." Madeline met him at the foot of the stairs.
"I've been found out, my dear,” he said curtly, his accent Viennese. “Somehow someone learned who I am."
"I haven't told anyone, Jurgen. You know I wouldn't."
"Yes, I know." He gazed at her regretfully, his glance taking in her ringless left hand. "But your pillow talk has never been discreet."
Madeline gasped and bit her lip. She cried, "Oh, Jurgen. I—“
"Enough. I have not come to chastise you, but to take you with me. If they know about me, they know about you. That means you're in danger."
"’They, they.’ Jurgen, who are these people?"
"I did not stop to ask. Several men came to the house and tried to take me. My only thoughts have been to reach you." He flicked a glance at the captive agents. "It seems I am just in time."
A third man appeared from the hall. "The servants have gone home, Doctor. There's only one other man asleep in a bedroom, drunk from the smell of him."
"Fine, Karl. Search these two."
Madeline tugged his lapel. "Jurgen, this is Mr. Solo. He is writing a magazine article about the Show and Tell. And that girl is a model."
"Ah, my dear. So naive."
Karl chose Faustina first, smiling slightly as he ran his hands down her body. She flinched away from him, and her captor twisted her arm until she gasped in pain.
"Hey, Doctor." Karl pulled up the skirts of her dress, revealing the knife strapped to her thigh. Madeline gasped, her eyes darting between Faustina and Napoleon in dawning horror.
Finding nothing else, Karl moved reluctantly to Napoleon. Within moments he had relieved him of his Special, formerly concealed by the tailoring of his tuxedo.
"Jurgen, I had no idea—“ Madeline stammered in fright.
"Silence. We have to leave. Their friends could be on their way as we speak."
"What will you do with them?" She could not look at the agents.
"Don't concern yourself with that. Get your coat and purse."
Madeline scampered away. Jurgen quietly addressed the two goons holding Faustina and Napoleon. "Give us time to get out of here, then dispose of them. You know where to meet us." He glanced at each agent, his eyes burning with contempt, before turning on his heel and heading up the stairs. Karl followed dutifully behind.
Hauled like sacks of meal, the agents were taken to a guest room and dumped on one of the single beds. Sweaty-Hands and Bone-Snapper took position on either side of the door, Napoleon's Special and Faustina's knife in hand.
The agents assessed their situation. Their eyes met in silent agreement.
"Brilliant work, Nappy!" Faustina smacked Napoleon in the chest with the back of her hand.
"I've told you not to call me that," he responded, slapping her hand away.
"U.N.C.L.E.’s top man, in the bedroom and out,” she spat. “Wrong on both counts.”
"If I only had myself to worry about, I'd have been out of here already. But I have to consider how to rescue you too."
"Talk, talk, talk.” She jammed a finger into his chest with each word. “That's all it ever is with you. Why can't you be a man of action?"
"It's hard to be a man of action when you could get frostbite being in the same room with you."
Sweaty-Hands cracked a smile.
"Are you calling me frigid?" she hissed.
"I am."
"Obviously you don't know the difference between being cold and being revolted." Both goons were grinning now.
"Really. Do you know that the only reason I brought you here tonight is because someone bet me I wouldn't?"
With a shriek, Faustina leapt at Napoleon, claws extended. They tumbled between the beds, Napoleon landing on top on her. Drawing his hand back first as a warning, he swung it sharply at her face. She turned away from the worst of the slap, but it looked and sounded full strength.
Concerned the commotion might awaken the drunk snoozing in the next room, the two goons stepped forward to break them up. As Sweaty-Hands leaned over, Napoleon struck out and up with his leg. He caught Sweaty-Hands in the solar plexus, smashing him back into his partner. The Special dropped to the carpet and skipped under the bed.
The agents sprang to their feet. As Sweaty-Hands caught his breath, Bone-Snapper advanced, knife in hand. Faustina rolled across the bed, grabbed the bedspread, and flung it over him. As he struggled to extricate himself, she swept his legs and sent him crashing to the floor. The desk chair splintered into pieces as she smashed it over him. Still wrapped in his cocoon, Bone-Snapper shuddered, then went limp.
Trapped between the beds, Napoleon felt like a rodeo clown as Sweaty-Hands charged forward. He caught the agent around the waist, slamming him onto the mattress. While Napoleon dodged his ham-sized fists, Faustina retrieved the Special. She stood and fired two darts into Sweaty-Hands’ back. They barely fazed him. With surprising agility, he turned and used one powerful arm to back-hand her over the end of the bed. The swing freed Napoleon’s legs, and he hammered his patent shoes into Sweaty-Hands’ jaw. Following with a left and a right, Napoleon encouraged the goon to join his partner in dreamland.
A hand grasping a Special planted itself on the other bed. Faustina’s face rose after it. She blew a fallen curl out of her eyes.
Napoleon gingerly explored his jawline, wincing at a long scratch near his mole. "I think I left part of my face under your nail."
“R&D will be delighted.” She pulled herself up and displayed her manicure, pristine despite their encounter. “I'm field-testing a new formula. Won't chip, won't break, guaranteed to draw blood.”
She rubbed the aching ribs where Sweaty-Hands' swinging fist had landed. "Oh, no. He’s torn the dress,” she cried.
Napoleon examined his tuxedo. “I’m in one piece.”
“Well, the night’s not over.”
She fired a single dart into Bone-Snapper as a precaution, before handing Napoleon his weapon and moving to carefully retrieve her knife. Napoleon holstered his Special and watched in appreciation as Faustina sheathed the slim blade.
Sighing as her skirts descended, Napoleon headed for the door. "I'll go see if the doorman heard where Jurgen and party headed."
Checking that Bone-Snapper and Sweaty-Hands would remain out for a while, Faustina joined him. "My communicator's in my handbag. I'll get a team up here to collect these two."
Napoleon stepped off the elevator and into the deserted lobby. He crossed to where the doorman lounged at his station, a white cord connecting his left ear to a small radio. He looked only slightly interested at Napoleon's arrival.
"Did you see a lady and two gentleman leave here a little while ago?"
"Huh?" the doorman grunted.
Napoleon yanked the plug from his ear. "Hey!" the irate doorman cried. "Hey," he repeated more quietly as Napoleon held his U.N.C.L.E. identification card an inch from the doorman's nose.
Napoleon repeated his request.
"Yes, yes, I saw 'em out." His accent was Brooklyn desperately trying to be Park Avenue.
"Did they get in a cab?"
"Naw. Big black sedan." Brooklyn was winning. "You some kinda cop?"
"Some kinda," Napoleon agreed. He folded his arms and leaned against the counter on one elbow. "Tell me exactly what you saw."
The doorman rubbed his jaw. "I start to to hail 'em a cab, like they ask. That's when this black car pulls up. A guy gets outta the back seat and says that he's their ride.”
"Did the lady or gentlemen say anything?"
"Naw. They was real quiet."
"Which way did they head?"
"East."
"And did you hear anything else? Anything at all?"
"I think I heard someone talkin' about some kinda bird.”
"THRUSH?" Napoleon asked, already knowing the answer.
"Yeah, that's it. They some kinda nature lovers?"
"Well, they weren't the Audubon Society."
Illya had a very bad feeling. Michael Leary was positively chipper, and it was a mood that did not suit him. In the cab he had woven plans for a Paris debut of Vanya's first collection. Now in the back room of the studio, while Illya laid out several outfits, Leary was suggesting which magazines should be allowed to photograph the designs.
The workroom door squeaked open. Illya turned to find a boyish face in a black beret regarding him from above a very serious pistol. At a nod from Leary, the pistol slammed up in an arc. Illya had time to back partly away from the blow, but even at half-strength it caused minor galaxies to explode behind his eyes. He felt himself slump against the drafting table and then roll heavily to the floor. Darkness began to seep in from the corners of his eyes. Gathering the scattered remains of his consciousness, Illya concentrated all his energy on listening.
"Put him behind that screen," Leary ordered. The man in the beret set down the satchel he carried in his other hand. He picked up Illya's feet and dragged him to the corner.
"I thought the girl would be here," he said.
Leary frowned. "Don't question me. I can always bring a different team up with me when I'm promoted." He pulled a lighter from inside his jacket. Flipping it open, he extended the antenna and pressed the button. "This is Leary. Report."
"Andrews here. We've got the doctor."
"That's what you said before. Unfortunately that bulletin proved slightly premature. Would you care to revise that?"
"No, sir. The doctor is presently sitting at my left, his lovely fiancée at my right. We are proceeding as planned."
Leary's skeletal grin reached its full proportions. "Excellent. Carter and I will join you shortly." He closed up the lighter and returned it to his jacket.
"What about the girl?" Carter asked.
"We can't wait." He placed the satchel on the cutting table. Carter's hand, as it reached for the bag, was stalled by the light in Leary's pale eyes. He had never seen a smile reach them before.
"I'll do it," Leary pronounced. Swallowing his advice that a detached professional should handle the job, Carter backed away.
Illya heard Carter's footsteps near his head. "I think your dressmaker is coming around. Do you think he heard us?"
"It hardly matters," Leary shrugged, unloading a series of sinister devices. "The minute Miss Leigh opens this door she will take care of herself and her employer for us. Perhaps that reporter, too, if we're lucky. Now put him back to sleep."
Illya's last thought was how to warn Napoleon and Faustina before he felt Carter's blow and darkness enveloped him.
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Date: 2015-11-21 09:36 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2015-11-21 09:49 pm (UTC)