"Not meant to be?" For the Short Affair Challenge 9/5

[mrua7.livejournal.com]

Challenge: The Short Affair

-Prompt Word #1 - Stress

-Prompt Colour – Orange

Author: mrua7

Title: “Not meant to be?”

Word Count: Approximately 1000

They arrived at the stately Italian hotel, having been ferried there in a small motor boat across a lake. Sitting quietly was shabbily dressed man accompanied by a dark haired fellow, dressed in a well fitted grey suit. Beside him was a smaller somewhat shaggy haired blond dressed completely in black.

Keeping their distance from the other passengers; the only thing noticeable was the fact that the blond man looked rather uncomfortable. It seemed he was a little sea sick.

“How can this be bothering you tovarisch?” Napoleon whispered.”The water’s like a sheet of glass.”

Illya shrugged his reply while trying not to gag and popped a peppermint life saver into his mouth, hoping it would help settle his stomach.

Finally their boat arrived at a small dock and everyone disembarked, with bell boys quickly boarding to gather everyone’s luggage.

Inside the hotel the entire staff gathered, lining up in anticipation of the arrival of their special guest, one of a dozen who were expected.

A tuxedo wearing man stepped forward, at first with trepidation before speaking in rapid fire Italian.

“Welcome Signore Morelli, our hotel is at your disposal.”

Napoleon Solo stepped in, speaking in flawless and rapid fire Italian in return.

“Who else has arrived?”

“No one sir, Signore Morelli is the first. May I ask who you are?”

“Beg pardon. My name is Solo, Napoleon Solo and this gentlemen is my friend Illya Kuryakin. We are here at Signore Morelli’s bequest.”

Illya nodded to the man. “And may we know your name sir?

“Si signore. It is Tomasso Tomasino and I am the hotel manager.”

“Signore Tomasino please dispense with the welcoming pleasantries as the good doctor is somewhat fatigued, as am I, “the Russian said. It seemed more of an order than a request.

“Oh si, si signore.” The manager turned to his staff, clapping his hands and shooing them away.

“Oh yes Signore, might you have some ginger tea sent up to my room to settle my stomach from crossing the lake.”

“Ginger tea? I am afraid we do not have. Perhaps belladonna...the beautiful woman will help with the after effects of the seasickness.”

“No, no thank you. Nevermind then.” Belladonna was a member of the deadly nightshade family. Every part of the belladonna plant was highly poisonous...berries, leaves, roots. Ingesting just a few berries was most likely lethal.

The idea of using that for motion sickness, even in a weakened amount was abhorrent to the Russian. He’d unwillingly ingested too many poisons over the years to want to consume any of his own volition.

They were escorted up to their richly appointed suite. Morelli had his own bedroom, while as second smaller bedroom would be shared by the two agents. Actually they’d be taking turns in it as they each would be standing guard in the sitting room, while the other slept.

Once settled in, Illya was ushered off to bed to recover from the stress of the lake crossing, while Napoleon maintained watch.

The Maestro as Morelli was known, as he was an amateur conductor, had settled into a burgundy velvet highback arm chair and had opened a bottle of champagne sent up courtesy of the management.

“Might you join me Signore Solo?”

“No thank you Doctor, I’m on duty at the moment.”

Napoleon wandered out to the balcony, watching the sun as it set, filling the sky with vibrant shades of yellow and orange. It was spectacular, and peaceful. It wasn’t often that Napoleon was able to witness such things but as usual his mind wandered to the task at hand.

Tonight they would take their meals here in the suite; rested and ready for the big day tomorrow. A science symposium of all things. Right up Illya’s alley, but for Solo it would be rather boring.

Still he’d be occupied with other things; making sure T.H.R.U.S.H. didn’t try to make off with Morelli and his notes.

The man was here to discuss his new discovery, a method to rejuvenate the human body, though certain details of which would not be revealed. It would merely be demonstrated through a series of slides showing his test subjects.

Alexander Gritsky had once discovered the secret once, but all that was left of it were his notes written in indecipherable code.*

As Illya had said at the conclusion of the affair, ‘they were able to decipher the notebooks of Leonardo da Vinci in a little less than three hundred years. That offered some hope’. Alexander Waverly made a good point though, ‘in his position and at his time of life, it was much too long to wait.’*

Napoleon wondered though, did we have the right to interfere with such things? Granted medical science in combatting disease did extend the life expectancy of the human being, but to reverse the aging process just seemed wrong.

He supposed his Catholic upbringing had something to do with that. If God had meant us to not grow old, He would have made us that way, that was Solo’s sort of thinking at the moment.

The sun had disappeared at last; time to order some dinner and wake up his partner.

“Doctor Morelli I’m going to order room service,”Napoleon walked back inside, but froze for a split second.

The Maestro was slumped in his chair, his eyes open; a half empty glass of champagne dangling from his hand. Checking for a pulse, Napoleon found none and cursed to himself.

He carefully took the glass from Morelli’s hand and sniffed it...nothing, but no odor didn’t mean it wasn’t poisoned.

Solo opened the bedroom door, waking Illya from a deep sleep with the bad news. The Russian immediately swore as well.

“Chyort! Waverly will have our heads on a platter. Morelli was supposed to share his process with us after the conference.”

Kuryakin rose and headed to the sitting room, callously bypassing the body of the scientist and going straight to the man’s bedroom.

After rifling through Morelli’s suitcase he found what he was looking for, the doctor’s notebook. Thumbing through page after page, he swore again, and loudly.

Illya walked out to face his partner. “Well it has happened again.”

“You mean Morelli possibly being murdered?”

“No, his notes are in code, and most likely indecipherable.”

“Tovarisch, maybe it’s meant to be? Maybe we shouldn’t try to interfere with the laws of nature?”

Kuryakin did a double take. “Napoleon advancements in science such as this could have only benefited the world, could they not? The most brilliant people who are in their twilight years might have been given a new lease on life to continue their work. Da?”

“And the likes of Duvalier, Kim Il-sung, Mao Zedong or Kruschev, to name a few, could just keep getting younger to prolong their dictatorships.”

Kuryakin’s eyebrows arched. “Keep Kruschev out of conversation please? Now are you going to tell Mr. Waverly?”

“We’ll toss a coin,” Solo quipped.

Illya shook his head, not even bothering to roll his eyes.“May I remind you that you are senior agent and it is your responsibility to do so.”

“Gee, thanks.”

The Old man wasn’t pleased with the news and was rather abrupt with Solo. Yet there was a reprieve several days later when an autopsy revealed Morelli, a man in his sixties, had died of heart attack due to hardening of the arteries.

“Physician, heal thyself,” Illya quipped upon hearing the news. It was a bit of ‘an I told you so’ to which Napoleon refused to respond.

* ref. “The Bridge of Lions Affair”

Comments

[pfrye.livejournal.com]

Nice

[mrua7.livejournal.com]

Thank you thank you!