section7mfu | What's My Line?

prompt: That's Inconceivable!
This is so full of fluff, I apologize profusely and yet am hopeful you will enjoy it.
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"I said no."

“You said you didn’t want to, that’s not exactly no.”

Illya Kuryakin was a patient man for the most part, but this American had been testing that quality for the duration of this mission. A new city, a new boss and a new partner; for the Russian agent this latest argument was just about the last straw.

“I said much more than no, I simply did not wish to do this, this... thing you have suggested.”

Napoleon Solo wasn’t stupid, but he too was a patient man, it was a requirement for the job as an agent for the United Network Command for Law and Enforcement. He wanted, needed... for this fellow, the new partner, to just strip down to his skivvies and make an entrance. The ladies of the Grand Hotel Historical Society would be duly impressed, as well as scandalized. That would give him the opportunity to go in and save the day, thereby allowing him to be introduced to the head of this group who just happened to be the wife of a major THRUSH chief in the city. It was a slam dunk, to use a sports metaphor, and all it required was for the blond to show off his assets.

Napoleon had to chuckle, he’d actually pay to see all of this happen.

“It’s inconceivable that you should even ask this of me. Why don’t you strip down, and let me meet this woman? Now, that’s an idea. She might just be charmed by my accent, I’ve heard it’s the subject of much admiration back at headquarters.” The smugness made Napoleon’s lip curl back. He’d heard the girls talking about the romantic accent, dismissed it as a passing fad.

“You’re a funny guy, Kuryakin. No, I meet the Grand Dame, you do the runway act and get these grannies all stirred up.”

There was no way around it. Solo was the senior agent on this assignment and Kuryakin couldn’t afford to not go along with it, much as he detested the idea. But then he got another idea, and figured if it was a big fuss that Solo wanted, well... Illya actually did know a little something about runways.

The Grand Ballroom of the Grand Hotel was full of women who were dressed to the nines, old money mixing with new as young and old came together to celebrate a famous and favorite venue. It was a charity affair, which made the irony of its chairwoman being THRUSH related difficult to fathom, this denial of evil within a family that included truly naive or innocent relatives, all living under one roof.

This morning the woman in question was Mrs. Allen Vandevere, wife of the most prominent THRUSH in the state of New York. His organization was subtle, infiltrating city and state offices under the guise of a financial advisor. Money laundering was chief among his activities as Vandevere’s people invested for the unsuspecting, sometimes using the profits in contradiction to the purposes of those he was deceiving.

Mrs. Vandevere was dressed today in a pink Chanel suit, her hair coifed perfectly and her makeup flawless. Many women in this great room reflected the same austere perfection, something that contrasted with the younger women whose participation was due mostly to their husband’s associations with other husbands businesses, etc..., etc... All in all, a varied group who would soon be united in one very common experience.

Napoleon was poised for his own part in this, he would rush in to calm the frenzied crowd (he assumed there would be a frenzy), after Illya’s performance. Mrs. Vandevere would undoubtedly want to thank him, opening the door for him to get close enough to her to plant a small microphone. Mr. Waverly had approved of this plan with a degree of apprehension. Just because a microphone got into the Vandevere house did not necessarily mean it would deliver anything of value. Still, the satrapy had been elusive up until now, and this was at least an inroad worth exploring.

Illya was still fuming about this scene he was to create, but the satisfaction of stirring the crowd into a true state of shock appealed to his more Soviet aesthetic. A room full of elitist females whose only contribution to society was to spend the money created for them by a working class that would never see the inside of the Grand Hotel Ballroom made his subsequent humiliation less... humiliating. He would acquiesce to his partner’s plan, but it would be achieved with the dramatic flair of a Russian.

As lunch was being served, one waiter behind a large tray emerged from the double doors. At first no one noticed as conversations hummed and filled the air. One by one a few peeps began to be heard, a smattering of nervous laughter and just a few stifled screams of distress.

One of the younger women seemed flushed with excitement as she continued to watch Kuryakin striding confidently towards the head table. Stark naked, glistening like alabaster from his blond head to ... every inch of white flesh. Napoleon hadn’t seen him strip off his boxers, would never had dreamt that Illya was this unselfconscious. He had to smile at the effect on the women, and a sudden surge of admiration countered his inclination to report him for insubordination to a senior member of the Command.

Illya was nearer now to Mrs. Vanderere, who watched in a combination of agony and admiration as the man approached. A few women actually reached out to touch Illya, his appearance beneath the lights almost ethereal. A combination of pancake foundation and glimmer dust was giving his body the appearance of something not quite flesh, more like porcelain and therfore very intriguing to the onlookers. And Napoleon. He’d have to remember this trick, it might come in handy again.

Okay, now for some action. Napoleon bounded through the doors and ran to catch up with the walking statue. Now the women were doubly excited; first the beautiful blond and now a handsome brunet. Mrs. Vandevere had certainly outdone herself with this luncheon, none of the women would ever forget it.

Once Illya perceived that Napoleon was close behind him he turned, pleased to see the other man’s reaction to this complete ruse. Illya had attached something resembling a fig leaf to an obvious location, which had increased the imagery of a walking statue. Napoleon nearly guffawed at that; maybe Kuryakin was going to work out as a partner after all. He certainly didn’t lack for imagination.

“All right, that’s enough for now Adonis. You can head back to Greece, these ladies have seen enough.” Napoleon pointed with great effect to the doors from which both of them had come, eliciting a smile and a bow from Illya who turned back and walked, with great effect, down the center aisle. A round of applause went up from the women, some of whom seemed unusually warm and had been reduced to fanning themselves with their napkins.

“Mrs. Vandevere, my apologies, this...”

“Oh, none are necessary. This was quite... um... well, the ladies certainly seemed to have enjoyed it.” The woman seemed a little flushed herself.

“Oh, well, in that case, please allow me to leave my card. Should you ever been in need of similar entertainment...” He winked as he handed her the card, and placed the microphone beneath the collar of her jacket. He kissed her hand and took his leave, waiving back to her as he passed through the room of admiring women.

Illya was waiting in the car, still in make up but wearing a tee shirt and jeans. Napoleon shook his head, cutting a sideways glance at the blond as he sat behind the wheel.

“You happy now? That could have turned out much worse. I oughta write you up.” Illya smiled. He had not for one minute doubted the effect his act would have on that crowd.

“Napoleon, you came up with this ridiculous idea. I merely enhanced its overall effect, thereby making your part that much easier. I had no doubt that my appearance would be greeted with admiration and acceptance.”

“Oh really? You were that confident in ... that they would ... you’re a smug little Russian, aren’t you?”

A small smile creased the face of the smug Russian.

“Why did you choose me for this part if you had no confidence yourself in their reaction to me? You had more faith in my ability than in your own, otherwise it would have been you strutting down that aisle.”

Was it true? Why had Napoleon insisted that Illya be the one to give that performance? Perhaps he had a few things to learn from this man, including a little humility. Illya had bested him at his own game... one upmanship.

“Okay, you may be right. My apologies, for putting you in this position and for underestimating you. It won’t happen again. You’re one smart Russian.”

“Thank you Napoleon, I appreciate that. Now, I need to get out of this body make up and then I think ...”

“Dinner’s on me, tovarisch.” A wink, a smile, a friendship.

And some would think that’s inconceivable.