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section7mfu2015-11-23 03:40 pm
ssclassof56.livejournal.com) wrote in section7mfu2015-11-23 03:40 pm
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Non-Challenge Fic: The Deadly in My Fashion Affair, Ch. 7
Chapter 1 here. Chapter 2 here. Chapter 3 here. Chapter 4 here. Chapter 5 here. Chapter 6 here.
A trio of strong young men sporting dark suits and Specials arrived at the penthouse to take Sweaty-Hands and Bone-Snapper to headquarters for questioning. Faustina joined Napoleon in the lobby, dressed in her wrap, her fallen curls pinned back in a hasty chignon. He was putting away his communicator and repeated the information he had just related to Mr. Waverly. "They're already searching for that sedan." He thought to comment that her tousled hair and flushed cheeks would give ‘Vanya’ the wrong impression but checked at her grim expression.
"We have to get to the studio. I tried to call to say I was running late, but there was no answer."
The doorman hailed them a cab. "If that's what cops look like now, I wanna to sign up," he said as Faustina climbed into the taxi. Napoleon winked and followed her into the back seat.
Napoleon drew the pen from his pocket as their cab rolled towards Greenwich Village. "Open Channel D," he requested.
"Yes, Napoleon?" the young woman in Communications responded warmly.
"Can you patch me through on a phone line to Vanya's studio, Sharon?"
"One moment." There came a series of clicks, and a telephone's ring echoed in the cab's interior. The cabby had been driving in New York City a long time and minded his own business.
The ring sounded several more times before the girl came back on the channel. "I'm sorry, Napoleon. We can't get an answer."
His brow furrowed. "I don't want to risk contacting him on his communicator."
"We'll be there soon," Faustina assured him, unclasping her handbag for easy access to her Special.
The street was quiet when the taxi dropped them off. Napoleon unbuttoned his tuxedo jacket as they climbed the stairs. The door to the studio was unlocked, and as they passed through, the bell overhead jangled. "Vanya," Napoleon called, "I've brought your model back. Sorry to have kept her so long." There was no answer.
The showroom was dark, but a light shone under the door leading to the workroom. "Vanya? Mr. Leary? Are you still here?" Faustina asked loudly. She removed her wrap and laid it on the leather chair. The beads rattled as they passed between them.
Faustina waved Napoleon onto the dark platform. "There's another door through that alcove," she whispered. His Special fell into his hand as he watched her disappear into the supply room. He found his door by its glowing outline and paused to listen.
Faustina twisted the knob, her nerves tingling. The door squeaked in complaint as she pulled it open. She scanned the space before her but found an empty workroom. Illya and Leary were gone, as were most of the dresses.
At the chirp of the hinges, Napoleon burst in through the other door. From his vantage, he spotted Illya lying on the floor beside the drafting table. "Illya," he shouted and was across the room in three strides.
Faustina stepped through her own doorway, causing something small and metallic to skitter across the floor. She knelt down and found a twisted piece of wire. Her heart leapt to her throat, and a wave of nausea coursed through her. There was nothing in the studio to account for it. Or there hadn't been before tonight.
As Napoleon attempted to slap Illya back into consciousness, Faustina’s eyes darted frantically, searching for what she was sure their entrance had triggered, flames crackling in the back of her mind. And there it was. She crawled toward the deadly contraption. From Illya’s position on the floor, she guessed he’d been attempting disarm it when he collapsed.
Illya was beginning to come around under his partner's less than tender ministrations. "Napoleon!" Faustina barked. Her tone caused Napoleon's head to snap up. She almost choked on her next word. "Bomb."
His eyes followed her gesture, bulging as he spotted the incendiary bomb hidden under the drafting table. Illya rolled over and pointed toward the device. A small plastic wrapper, one of Leary’s discards, formed a rather incongruous part of its workings. “Bought us some time,” Illya croaked.
Napoleon dragged Illya to his feet. With speed born of desperation, the three agents ran pell-mell from the studio. Faustina could hear the seconds ticking away as clearly as the pounding of her own feet on the showroom floor. The men from U.N.C.L.E. were close behind her, Illya leaning heavily against Napoleon. “Fire alarm,” he said. Napoleon pulled the handle, and they plunged down the staircase to the wild clamor of bells.
Faustina slammed her fist against the wall. "Madame Zora" she shouted repeatedly as they descended.
The door on the first floor opened and the palm reader, wrapped in a lurid bathrobe, peered blearily up at them. "What's all this—Aaaaa!"
Faustina grabbed the woman's arm as they thundered past. The foursome spilled out into the dark street but did not stop running. The familiar sounds of a New York night were lost beneath the roar of the detonation. Madame Zora screamed. The blast threw the runners to the pavement, prostrate. Glass flew as the windows burst, showering the street, and the block was washed in an orange glow. Long flickering shadows danced behind the streetlights and fire hydrants. A wave of heat hit their backs.
All along the block, people poured from their buildings. The agents pulled themselves off the ground and out of the pandemonium in the street. Cries of "Police!" and "Call the fire department!" punctuated the chaos.
"Is everyone OK?" Napoleon asked, shaking glass fragments from his tuxedo jacket. His handsome features were unfamiliar in the ruddy light.
The others murmured affirmatives. Illya leaned against an area railing, allowing his head to clear. Napoleon pulled out his communicator, hoping U.N.C.L.E. could somehow make the fire trucks come faster. They all watched helplessly as the flames licked the sky. With a crash, the studio floor disintegrated and plunged down into the palm reader's. The wail of sirens in the distance brought a small measure of relief.
Faustina sat on the curb. The older woman sat beside her, and Faustina realized herself to be the more shaken of their pair. "I’ve a son in New Jersey who’s been begging me to leave the city. This seems as good a time as any,” Madame Zora said philosophically.
Napoleon called from behind as the first fire truck screeched around the corner. "We're wanted at headquarters. You two are 'dead.'" He glanced pointedly at the palm reader.
Faustina took the older woman's hand. "You never saw us tonight. I can't explain, but that's what you must say."
Madame Zora turned Faustina's palm up. "Such a long life line!" she murmured, tracing it with her finger. "I see much danger here. But there is happiness, as well."
The palm reader patted Faustina's cheek and smiled, the firelight casting weird shadows on her face. "You saved my life. I had a premonition in the night and pulled the fire alarm.”
Faustina kissed her cheek and stepped away to join Illya and Napoleon. As the first spout of water hissed into the flames, the agents melted into the shadows.
A car sent from headquarters picked them up a block away. Faustina's face was composed as she pulled the pins from the tangle of curls around her shoulders, but her hands trembled and her breath came in rapid, shallow gasps. Napoleon eyed her in concern. He had seen her in many conditions: amused, annoyed, exhausted, enraged, bloodied and bloodthirsty. He had never seen her in shock until now.
He turned in the seat, waiting until she looked at him. "You know I once had my eyebrows burned off by a Cherries Jubilee. I've never been able to look at a dessert cart the same way."
Faustina stared at him for a few moments, uncomprehending. Eventually his words registered, and her lips formed a tight smile. "We all have a way we'd least like to die," she said softly, plucking at a rent in her dress. "This was mine."
“You were right earlier when you said the night wasn't over.” He pointed out a tear in his tuxedo pants, then gave her hand a squeeze. “Thankfully, it still isn’t.”
At his words, Faustina looked down at her own garment as if seeing it for the first time. The dress’s delicate layers hung in shreds, and streaks of oil and grime marred its once classical perfection. Illya's masterpiece was ruined.
Illya sat quietly on her right. She turned to him, pale and panic-stricken. “Your dress. I’m so sorry,” she whispered, on the verge of tears. She continued in Russian, reciting the apology like a mantra. “Прошу прощения! Прошу прощения!”
Illya clasped her face in both his hands. “Faustina, look at me. Hush now. It's alright.” He repeated the consolatory phrases until she nodded and some color returned to her cheeks.
"It was the most beautiful thing I ever wore,” she breathed, as Illya released her face.
“Then I am content.” He tucked an errant curl behind her ear. “All that is beautiful is prone to decay. And a flower that blossoms for a single night is no less lovely.”
Napoleon held out his flask. “I won't offer you more Freud,” he said, “but I will offer a wee dram of the uisge beatha.”
“You know I don't like whiskey, but any port in a storm,” Faustina replied, sounding more like herself. “Sláinte,” she offered, toasting Napoleon and taking a long swig. She shuddered and handed back the flask.
"What did Madame Zora see in your hand?" Illya asked.
Faustina held up her palm, and he examined it in the glow of the passing streetlights. "She saw danger. Not surprising in our line of work."
"Anything else?"
"Happiness. And a long life." Faustina traced the line the palm reader had fussed over. "But I won't start living like I'm bulletproof."
Illya held up his own palm next to hers. "Which is my life line?" he asked, feigning ignorance.
"That one, I think." Faustina ran her finger down a crease in his hand. "It's long as well."
Napoleon examined his own palm. "I have one line that's very long, but it's not that one."
Illya leaned over and whispered in Faustina’s ear. Her eyes widened, and she elbowed him in the side. Then, glancing at Napoleon, she dissolved into a fit of giggles.
“Handkerchief,” she gasped, when she could speak, and Napoleon obliged. As she leaned against his ravaged tuxedo sleeve and wiped tears from her eyes, Napoleon mouthed a silent “What did you say?” to his partner. Illya only shrugged apologetically. Faustina indulged in a fresh wave of laughter at his expense, and Napoleon smiled in resignation. He looked across the backseat at his partner and winked forgiveness at him.
Cleaned up and cleared by Medical, each wearing the change of clothes kept at headquarters for such occasions, the agents regrouped in the conference room. They nursed strong coffee and waited in thoughtful silence as Mr. Waverly finished perusing the report that had just been brought to him. Occasionally Faustina would glance at Napoleon, bite her lip, and stifle a chuckle.
"You'll be happy to know that the fire is out and that no one was seriously injured,” Waverly announced. “Our people had a...Madame Zora put up in a hotel to wait for her son to drive up from—“ He consulted the report. "Middletown, New Jersey."
Mr. Waverly shook his head. "The rest of the news is not so encouraging. That black sedan was recovered at a private airfield. We do not as yet know where Miss Colbourne and the others were taken."
"What about our large guests?" Napoleon asked.
Mr. Waverly rubbed his eyes, revealing that they were all short on sleep. "Their interrogation was not difficult. Once they were convinced U.N.C.L.E. was not responsible for the attack on their employer, they told us everything they know. Which, unfortunately, does not amount to much."
He flipped a page in the report. "For the past several years they have been employed as bodyguards by Dr. Jurgen Delevec. They described him as eccentric and reclusive. In fact, the only sustained contact they've witnessed him have with anyone came after he chanced to meet Miss Colbourne. Other than that, they simply did what they were hired to do and asked no questions. They were of the opinion that his antisocial tendencies represented merely the paranoia of the wealthy. Until that kidnapping attempt this week, that is."
"What does Leary want with a doctor?" Illya asked.
"We don't know yet, Mr. Kuryakin. The information we were able to find on him ourselves is limited. His real name is Jurgen Dienl. He worked in medical research in the mid thirties and was widely regarded as an emerging genius. When the Nazis took Austria, however, he abandoned his research and disappeared. Later he was presumed dead. Now we know he returned to Austria as Dr. Delevec."
"What did his research focus on?"
"He was studying the senses, especially the effects of their loss on a person. That's all we know."
Faustina stared into her coffee mug. "Perhaps he fled Austria because he didn't want the Nazis to find out something he had learned."
"It must be something serious if it caused him to become a recluse for thirty years," Illya agreed.
"Mr. Waverly, Leary's last THRUSH project took him to a villa in southern Austria. When U.N.C.L.E. raided that villa, they found a stash of Nazi records. Perhaps Leary read something about Dr. Dienl; and instead of sharing it with his superiors, now plans to use the information to impress THRUSH with a scheme of his own."
"That sounds extremely likely, Miss Pemberley. Did we recover anything useful in those Nazi records?"
"No, sir. I do have the report on the raid. I'll get it to you immediately."
"If Michael Leary has managed to discover Dr. Dienl's secret, I would hope we can too,” Mr. Waverly said dryly. “Our other priority, of course, is understanding all this Show and Tell business."
"I think I may have an answer, sir," Illya said. "The most Leary stood to gain from Vanya and the Show and Tell was an invitation to a house party in England this weekend. The guest list is extremely exclusive and reads like a Who's Who list. The daughter of one of France's top ministers and the heir to Savoy Chemicals are just two of the names I was given."
"Kidnapping?" Napoleon suggested.
"The potential ransom for several of these people would be a substantial offering to THRUSH," Illya nodded.
"Perhaps Leary's plans for the doctor and the house party are unrelated. Or perhaps not. Any one of those guests might be working for THRUSH." Mr. Waverly shook his head. "Unfortunately, Leary did not intend on taking Vanya or his model to England with him. You’ll have to get in another way."
"I met someone tonight who could help us. His name is Etienne Dubreton, and he has no love for Leary."
Waverly's eyes widened. “Dubreton, eh? Well, well.”
“I take it you know of him, sir?”
“I'm acquainted with Dubreton senior. One of France’s leading sugar producers.” He smiled slightly. “The son I have met only once. Seemed a bit of a rackety fellow, to my mind.”
"He leaves for England today. If we want him, we have to act now," Illya said.
"Oh, by all means, Mr. Kuryakin. Go find Monsieur Dubreton and ask him to join us."
Illya nodded and stood. At the door, he paused, turned around, and gazed expectantly at Faustina.
She sighed and thought for a moment. "Try the Summit first," she advised.
With a small smile, he left.
Mr. Waverly addressed his senior agent. "Mr. Solo, I think it would be wise if Intelligence did a general background check on young Dubreton."
Napoleon glanced between his chief and Faustina. “Of course. I'll see to it." He too exited.
Faustina waited for Mr. Waverly to speak. "So, Dubreton,” he said finally, with deliberate nonchalance.
“Yes,” she replied, matching his tone and slanting him a wary look. “It's beginning to feel like a gaudy weekend.”
“All things come around eventually, Miss Pemberley. The question is now, do you think he will recognize you? You two were rather…intimately acquainted, as I recall.”
She retreated behind her coffee mug, feeling heat steal into her cheeks. How unfair that he could reduce her to a seventeen year old so effortlessly. “I think he already has,” she admitted. “And he’ll most certainly remember you.”
“No doubt, you are right. But I think I have the home advantage this time around.” His eyes glowed, and she decided he was looking forward to the encounter. That made one of them. “Now I'd like to see the report on that villa, please."
Chapter 7
"We all have a way we’d least like to die.”
"We all have a way we’d least like to die.”
A trio of strong young men sporting dark suits and Specials arrived at the penthouse to take Sweaty-Hands and Bone-Snapper to headquarters for questioning. Faustina joined Napoleon in the lobby, dressed in her wrap, her fallen curls pinned back in a hasty chignon. He was putting away his communicator and repeated the information he had just related to Mr. Waverly. "They're already searching for that sedan." He thought to comment that her tousled hair and flushed cheeks would give ‘Vanya’ the wrong impression but checked at her grim expression.
"We have to get to the studio. I tried to call to say I was running late, but there was no answer."
The doorman hailed them a cab. "If that's what cops look like now, I wanna to sign up," he said as Faustina climbed into the taxi. Napoleon winked and followed her into the back seat.
Napoleon drew the pen from his pocket as their cab rolled towards Greenwich Village. "Open Channel D," he requested.
"Yes, Napoleon?" the young woman in Communications responded warmly.
"Can you patch me through on a phone line to Vanya's studio, Sharon?"
"One moment." There came a series of clicks, and a telephone's ring echoed in the cab's interior. The cabby had been driving in New York City a long time and minded his own business.
The ring sounded several more times before the girl came back on the channel. "I'm sorry, Napoleon. We can't get an answer."
His brow furrowed. "I don't want to risk contacting him on his communicator."
"We'll be there soon," Faustina assured him, unclasping her handbag for easy access to her Special.
The street was quiet when the taxi dropped them off. Napoleon unbuttoned his tuxedo jacket as they climbed the stairs. The door to the studio was unlocked, and as they passed through, the bell overhead jangled. "Vanya," Napoleon called, "I've brought your model back. Sorry to have kept her so long." There was no answer.
The showroom was dark, but a light shone under the door leading to the workroom. "Vanya? Mr. Leary? Are you still here?" Faustina asked loudly. She removed her wrap and laid it on the leather chair. The beads rattled as they passed between them.
Faustina waved Napoleon onto the dark platform. "There's another door through that alcove," she whispered. His Special fell into his hand as he watched her disappear into the supply room. He found his door by its glowing outline and paused to listen.
Faustina twisted the knob, her nerves tingling. The door squeaked in complaint as she pulled it open. She scanned the space before her but found an empty workroom. Illya and Leary were gone, as were most of the dresses.
At the chirp of the hinges, Napoleon burst in through the other door. From his vantage, he spotted Illya lying on the floor beside the drafting table. "Illya," he shouted and was across the room in three strides.
Faustina stepped through her own doorway, causing something small and metallic to skitter across the floor. She knelt down and found a twisted piece of wire. Her heart leapt to her throat, and a wave of nausea coursed through her. There was nothing in the studio to account for it. Or there hadn't been before tonight.
As Napoleon attempted to slap Illya back into consciousness, Faustina’s eyes darted frantically, searching for what she was sure their entrance had triggered, flames crackling in the back of her mind. And there it was. She crawled toward the deadly contraption. From Illya’s position on the floor, she guessed he’d been attempting disarm it when he collapsed.
Illya was beginning to come around under his partner's less than tender ministrations. "Napoleon!" Faustina barked. Her tone caused Napoleon's head to snap up. She almost choked on her next word. "Bomb."
His eyes followed her gesture, bulging as he spotted the incendiary bomb hidden under the drafting table. Illya rolled over and pointed toward the device. A small plastic wrapper, one of Leary’s discards, formed a rather incongruous part of its workings. “Bought us some time,” Illya croaked.
Napoleon dragged Illya to his feet. With speed born of desperation, the three agents ran pell-mell from the studio. Faustina could hear the seconds ticking away as clearly as the pounding of her own feet on the showroom floor. The men from U.N.C.L.E. were close behind her, Illya leaning heavily against Napoleon. “Fire alarm,” he said. Napoleon pulled the handle, and they plunged down the staircase to the wild clamor of bells.
Faustina slammed her fist against the wall. "Madame Zora" she shouted repeatedly as they descended.
The door on the first floor opened and the palm reader, wrapped in a lurid bathrobe, peered blearily up at them. "What's all this—Aaaaa!"
Faustina grabbed the woman's arm as they thundered past. The foursome spilled out into the dark street but did not stop running. The familiar sounds of a New York night were lost beneath the roar of the detonation. Madame Zora screamed. The blast threw the runners to the pavement, prostrate. Glass flew as the windows burst, showering the street, and the block was washed in an orange glow. Long flickering shadows danced behind the streetlights and fire hydrants. A wave of heat hit their backs.
All along the block, people poured from their buildings. The agents pulled themselves off the ground and out of the pandemonium in the street. Cries of "Police!" and "Call the fire department!" punctuated the chaos.
"Is everyone OK?" Napoleon asked, shaking glass fragments from his tuxedo jacket. His handsome features were unfamiliar in the ruddy light.
The others murmured affirmatives. Illya leaned against an area railing, allowing his head to clear. Napoleon pulled out his communicator, hoping U.N.C.L.E. could somehow make the fire trucks come faster. They all watched helplessly as the flames licked the sky. With a crash, the studio floor disintegrated and plunged down into the palm reader's. The wail of sirens in the distance brought a small measure of relief.
Faustina sat on the curb. The older woman sat beside her, and Faustina realized herself to be the more shaken of their pair. "I’ve a son in New Jersey who’s been begging me to leave the city. This seems as good a time as any,” Madame Zora said philosophically.
Napoleon called from behind as the first fire truck screeched around the corner. "We're wanted at headquarters. You two are 'dead.'" He glanced pointedly at the palm reader.
Faustina took the older woman's hand. "You never saw us tonight. I can't explain, but that's what you must say."
Madame Zora turned Faustina's palm up. "Such a long life line!" she murmured, tracing it with her finger. "I see much danger here. But there is happiness, as well."
The palm reader patted Faustina's cheek and smiled, the firelight casting weird shadows on her face. "You saved my life. I had a premonition in the night and pulled the fire alarm.”
Faustina kissed her cheek and stepped away to join Illya and Napoleon. As the first spout of water hissed into the flames, the agents melted into the shadows.
A car sent from headquarters picked them up a block away. Faustina's face was composed as she pulled the pins from the tangle of curls around her shoulders, but her hands trembled and her breath came in rapid, shallow gasps. Napoleon eyed her in concern. He had seen her in many conditions: amused, annoyed, exhausted, enraged, bloodied and bloodthirsty. He had never seen her in shock until now.
He turned in the seat, waiting until she looked at him. "You know I once had my eyebrows burned off by a Cherries Jubilee. I've never been able to look at a dessert cart the same way."
Faustina stared at him for a few moments, uncomprehending. Eventually his words registered, and her lips formed a tight smile. "We all have a way we'd least like to die," she said softly, plucking at a rent in her dress. "This was mine."
“You were right earlier when you said the night wasn't over.” He pointed out a tear in his tuxedo pants, then gave her hand a squeeze. “Thankfully, it still isn’t.”
At his words, Faustina looked down at her own garment as if seeing it for the first time. The dress’s delicate layers hung in shreds, and streaks of oil and grime marred its once classical perfection. Illya's masterpiece was ruined.
Illya sat quietly on her right. She turned to him, pale and panic-stricken. “Your dress. I’m so sorry,” she whispered, on the verge of tears. She continued in Russian, reciting the apology like a mantra. “Прошу прощения! Прошу прощения!”
Illya clasped her face in both his hands. “Faustina, look at me. Hush now. It's alright.” He repeated the consolatory phrases until she nodded and some color returned to her cheeks.
"It was the most beautiful thing I ever wore,” she breathed, as Illya released her face.
“Then I am content.” He tucked an errant curl behind her ear. “All that is beautiful is prone to decay. And a flower that blossoms for a single night is no less lovely.”
Napoleon held out his flask. “I won't offer you more Freud,” he said, “but I will offer a wee dram of the uisge beatha.”
“You know I don't like whiskey, but any port in a storm,” Faustina replied, sounding more like herself. “Sláinte,” she offered, toasting Napoleon and taking a long swig. She shuddered and handed back the flask.
"What did Madame Zora see in your hand?" Illya asked.
Faustina held up her palm, and he examined it in the glow of the passing streetlights. "She saw danger. Not surprising in our line of work."
"Anything else?"
"Happiness. And a long life." Faustina traced the line the palm reader had fussed over. "But I won't start living like I'm bulletproof."
Illya held up his own palm next to hers. "Which is my life line?" he asked, feigning ignorance.
"That one, I think." Faustina ran her finger down a crease in his hand. "It's long as well."
Napoleon examined his own palm. "I have one line that's very long, but it's not that one."
Illya leaned over and whispered in Faustina’s ear. Her eyes widened, and she elbowed him in the side. Then, glancing at Napoleon, she dissolved into a fit of giggles.
“Handkerchief,” she gasped, when she could speak, and Napoleon obliged. As she leaned against his ravaged tuxedo sleeve and wiped tears from her eyes, Napoleon mouthed a silent “What did you say?” to his partner. Illya only shrugged apologetically. Faustina indulged in a fresh wave of laughter at his expense, and Napoleon smiled in resignation. He looked across the backseat at his partner and winked forgiveness at him.
Cleaned up and cleared by Medical, each wearing the change of clothes kept at headquarters for such occasions, the agents regrouped in the conference room. They nursed strong coffee and waited in thoughtful silence as Mr. Waverly finished perusing the report that had just been brought to him. Occasionally Faustina would glance at Napoleon, bite her lip, and stifle a chuckle.
"You'll be happy to know that the fire is out and that no one was seriously injured,” Waverly announced. “Our people had a...Madame Zora put up in a hotel to wait for her son to drive up from—“ He consulted the report. "Middletown, New Jersey."
Mr. Waverly shook his head. "The rest of the news is not so encouraging. That black sedan was recovered at a private airfield. We do not as yet know where Miss Colbourne and the others were taken."
"What about our large guests?" Napoleon asked.
Mr. Waverly rubbed his eyes, revealing that they were all short on sleep. "Their interrogation was not difficult. Once they were convinced U.N.C.L.E. was not responsible for the attack on their employer, they told us everything they know. Which, unfortunately, does not amount to much."
He flipped a page in the report. "For the past several years they have been employed as bodyguards by Dr. Jurgen Delevec. They described him as eccentric and reclusive. In fact, the only sustained contact they've witnessed him have with anyone came after he chanced to meet Miss Colbourne. Other than that, they simply did what they were hired to do and asked no questions. They were of the opinion that his antisocial tendencies represented merely the paranoia of the wealthy. Until that kidnapping attempt this week, that is."
"What does Leary want with a doctor?" Illya asked.
"We don't know yet, Mr. Kuryakin. The information we were able to find on him ourselves is limited. His real name is Jurgen Dienl. He worked in medical research in the mid thirties and was widely regarded as an emerging genius. When the Nazis took Austria, however, he abandoned his research and disappeared. Later he was presumed dead. Now we know he returned to Austria as Dr. Delevec."
"What did his research focus on?"
"He was studying the senses, especially the effects of their loss on a person. That's all we know."
Faustina stared into her coffee mug. "Perhaps he fled Austria because he didn't want the Nazis to find out something he had learned."
"It must be something serious if it caused him to become a recluse for thirty years," Illya agreed.
"Mr. Waverly, Leary's last THRUSH project took him to a villa in southern Austria. When U.N.C.L.E. raided that villa, they found a stash of Nazi records. Perhaps Leary read something about Dr. Dienl; and instead of sharing it with his superiors, now plans to use the information to impress THRUSH with a scheme of his own."
"That sounds extremely likely, Miss Pemberley. Did we recover anything useful in those Nazi records?"
"No, sir. I do have the report on the raid. I'll get it to you immediately."
"If Michael Leary has managed to discover Dr. Dienl's secret, I would hope we can too,” Mr. Waverly said dryly. “Our other priority, of course, is understanding all this Show and Tell business."
"I think I may have an answer, sir," Illya said. "The most Leary stood to gain from Vanya and the Show and Tell was an invitation to a house party in England this weekend. The guest list is extremely exclusive and reads like a Who's Who list. The daughter of one of France's top ministers and the heir to Savoy Chemicals are just two of the names I was given."
"Kidnapping?" Napoleon suggested.
"The potential ransom for several of these people would be a substantial offering to THRUSH," Illya nodded.
"Perhaps Leary's plans for the doctor and the house party are unrelated. Or perhaps not. Any one of those guests might be working for THRUSH." Mr. Waverly shook his head. "Unfortunately, Leary did not intend on taking Vanya or his model to England with him. You’ll have to get in another way."
"I met someone tonight who could help us. His name is Etienne Dubreton, and he has no love for Leary."
Waverly's eyes widened. “Dubreton, eh? Well, well.”
“I take it you know of him, sir?”
“I'm acquainted with Dubreton senior. One of France’s leading sugar producers.” He smiled slightly. “The son I have met only once. Seemed a bit of a rackety fellow, to my mind.”
"He leaves for England today. If we want him, we have to act now," Illya said.
"Oh, by all means, Mr. Kuryakin. Go find Monsieur Dubreton and ask him to join us."
Illya nodded and stood. At the door, he paused, turned around, and gazed expectantly at Faustina.
She sighed and thought for a moment. "Try the Summit first," she advised.
With a small smile, he left.
Mr. Waverly addressed his senior agent. "Mr. Solo, I think it would be wise if Intelligence did a general background check on young Dubreton."
Napoleon glanced between his chief and Faustina. “Of course. I'll see to it." He too exited.
Faustina waited for Mr. Waverly to speak. "So, Dubreton,” he said finally, with deliberate nonchalance.
“Yes,” she replied, matching his tone and slanting him a wary look. “It's beginning to feel like a gaudy weekend.”
“All things come around eventually, Miss Pemberley. The question is now, do you think he will recognize you? You two were rather…intimately acquainted, as I recall.”
She retreated behind her coffee mug, feeling heat steal into her cheeks. How unfair that he could reduce her to a seventeen year old so effortlessly. “I think he already has,” she admitted. “And he’ll most certainly remember you.”
“No doubt, you are right. But I think I have the home advantage this time around.” His eyes glowed, and she decided he was looking forward to the encounter. That made one of them. “Now I'd like to see the report on that villa, please."
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