Airport Lost and Found - for picfic Tuesday 23/08/2016

[otherhawk.livejournal.com]

Illya dropped into the chair at the airport departure lounge with a barely suppressed sigh, glad to be heading home at last but still inexpressibly exhausted. He'd spent the past couple of weeks as a not-so-willing 'guest' of one Jean Robert, a particularly sadistic sort even by THRUSH standards, and while he'd escaped without serious injury he was a lot weaker than he wanted to admit. Which made it even more frustrating that they had reached Charles De Gaulle airport only to find it blanketed in a thick fog and all flights temporarily grounded.

Struggling not to close his eyes, he pushed himself back into the chair, his copy of the European Physics Review falling unread into his lap. He didn't make a habit of letting his guard down in such a public place, but right now the only thing keeping him awake was the couple sitting behind him holding an animated argument about the price of poodles.

Napoleon was over by the desk, ostensibly checking how much longer they were likely to be delayed, in reality flirting nicely with the pretty girl on duty.

The couple's argument reached a crescendo and he screwed his eyes shut, his head pounding. He wondered how likely it was that Mr Waverly and the accounting department could be persuaded to pay for an extra night in a hotel for them? He would far rather get some sleep in comfort than spend the next however many hours sitting in this chair, waiting for the fog to lift.

Mind awash with decadent capitalist visions of room service, he was only vaguely aware of the man sitting next to him until he realised that the man was looking right at him. Instantly alert, he turned as casually as he could and found himself looking at a small weasel-faced man with dark hair poking out from beneath a trilby, and Illya was sure he looked familiar if only he could remember -

“Excuse me,” the man began politely in fluent, but not native, French. “Do you know where I could find a cab to take me to the Seine?”

He blinked. “I would not go there now,” he said in the same language, automatically completing the code phrase. “The air is not so good.”

“Of course.” The man nodded, a hint of relief in his eyes, and then he stood up, stretching and incidentally dropping a small film cannister out of his pocket and onto the chair beside Illya. “Goodbye.”

He walked away and Illya quickly pocketed the cannister, realising three things in the same heart-stopping moment. Number one, that was not an UNCLE code phrase he had just given. Number two, he recognised that man from the Soviet embassy in Paris. Number three, somehow he had just intercepted a KGB drop.

Very, very casually, betraying not an ounce of disquiet, he stood and strolled unconcernedly past the front desk, making sure to catch Napoleon's eye and tap two fingers against each other. As expected, Napoleon smoothly made his excuses and followed him to the most unobtrusive corner of the airport he could find.

They stood at opposite sides of a potted plant, leaning against the wall and loitering. “What's up?” Napoleon asked out of the corner of his smile.

“A small problem,” he told his partner. “I appear to have inadvertently picked up a KGB message.”

Napoleon kept smiling. “I think you need to reconsider your definition of 'small', pal.”

“Perhaps,” he allowed.

“You know, if the Soviet government find evidence that UNCLE is spying on them, there's going to be more than a 'small' amount of trouble. They'll try you for treason for a start.”

He was already well aware. “I do not know that they would bother with a trial. It was an accident. I have seen the courier before, although we have never met. He must have recognised me and assumed I was his contact. He gave me the code phrase - “

“ - and you answered?” Napoleon hissed.

“No! Well, yes,” he admitted. “It was an instinctive reaction. Really, I am more concerned that the phrase is still in use after all this time.”

Napoleon looked at him. “That's not the most pressing problem here.”

“I know.” All joking aside, he knew he had just done something unforgivably stupid. “We must return these. Without arousing suspicion.” He hesitated. “Should we inform Mr Waverly?”

“Not yet,” Napoleon said decidedly. “The real contact must be in the airport somewhere. Let's see, you were sitting dozing off while holding your physics journal. That shouldn't be too hard to spot.”

He was compelled to defend his honour. “I was not 'dozing off',” he claimed stiffly.

“Do you really want to claim that you were fully awake when you forgot who you work for?” Napoleon asked with a raised eyebrow.

An excellent point. He sighed. “Before we return this package to KGB, do we not first want to check what's inside it?”

Napoleon gave a slight smile. “I'm glad it's you that's suggesting that and not me, tovarisch.”

There was a utility closet just down the hall. Napoleon secured the door while Illya checked over the cannister for traps. There was nothing beyond the standard. “Alright, let us see...” He held up a thin reel of film and both men leaned in, squinting at it.

“Well.” Napoleon let out a low whistle. “Someone's been making blue movies.”

“Blackmail material,” Illya said with a sigh, carefully rolling the film back up and replacing it. “Hardly earth shattering.” But more than enough to ruin multiple lives. And now they knew of a député who was no doubt a plaything of the KGB. He sighed again, heavier.

“Are you alright?” Napoleon asked, a concern creasing his forehead.

“I find this sort of thing most distasteful,” he admitted.

Napoleon nodded slowly. “I can understand that.”

“I am surprised that you have any sense of shame at all,” he said, with more irritation than truth, and Napoleon's silence was pointed. “I am sorry, my friend.”

“It's nothing. Now, let's go and get this distasteful little package back into the right wrong hadns, shall we?”

They walked back into the airport lounge as casually as they had left it, scanning the rows of seats with a practised eye.

“There,” Illya said in a low voice. “Two o'clock.”

“I see him,” Napoleon murmured back. “Pass me the cannister.

What? No. “I will do it,” he insisted. “It was my error.” And Napoleon absolutely should not be put in a position where he was passing even minor secrets to KGB.

“The other one recognised you, remember?” Napoleon pointed out practically.

“But I do not recognise this one,” he answered, as sharp as an unobtrusive whisper could be. “He will not know me.”

Napoleon stole a sidelong glance at him. “Do you really want to bet your life, my reputation and UNCLE's good name on that?”

Silently Illya dropped the cannister into Napoleon's pocket. “The code phrase is ' Do you know where I could find a cab to take me to the Seine?' and the response is 'I would not go there now, the air is not so good.'”

His partner simply nodded and walked apparently idly, towards the KGB agent holding the journal. Illya's mouth was dry as he waited, not daring to watch too closely. But everything went smoothly and soon Napoleon was strolling back to his side.

“There. That's taken care of. Now come on, tovarisch, they're calling our flight. And I don't know about you, but I'm feeling the urge to get out of this airport as quickly as possible.”

“Yes,” Illya agreed fervently. “I believe we have both committed enough treason for one day.”