"Mistaken Identity" for the PicFic Tuesday Challenge 9/13

[mrua7.livejournal.com]

This story refernces "The Secret Life of George Dennell"

The prompt:

Her eyes were mesmerizing, and the most vivid shade of blue he’d ever seen. Yet one moment they were a smokey blue-grey, then they seemed to change to an aqua color like that of the Aegean Sea.

The belly dancer circled the table, undulating and shimmying her hips. Her abdominal muscles rippled like waves to the beat of the music.

Finally she beckoned with her finger, wiggling it as she leaned forward in front of the Russian, her tantalizing breasts jiggling just against his shoulder.

“Well are you going to accept her invitation tovarisch?” Napoleon leaned closer as he whispered to his partner.

Illya rolled his eyes. “She is your type not mine.”

“But she seems to be interested in you,” Solo continued to dig at his partner.

They had just finished an assignment in Algeria and had a few days of rest and relaxation coming to them. Solo dragged his partner to this particular place, saying the dancers were out of this world.

“Napoleon I think her interest in me can be diverted very easily.”

Kuryakin gently took hold of the girl by the hips and moved her away from him. He pointed to Solo and waved her on.

The girl immediately took the hint and danced her way to around to the American, this time flirting with her eyes; she kept her veil covering her face though.

That look, and the veil immediately piqued Napoleon’s interest. She held out her hand and he took it and together they moved to the floor.  She began her dance in earnest now and gestured for him to do the same.

Napoleon swung his hips, and extended his arms, shimmying along with her much to the delight of the crowds at the small cafe. Men sitting at tables smoking water pipes known as shisha watched the performance with great interest.

Napoleon felt the girl’s hand slip something into his as the dance ended, whereupon he returned to his seat. The dancer remained on the floor, gathering the coins tossed for her.

Napoleon opened the note, revealing an address and a time; 9 o’clock.  He leaned over, showing it to Illya with a wink.

“I think it is a trap,” the Russian muttered.

“Well it’s worth a look see. So you follow me as my backup. If it’s nothing more than a rendezvous with a pretty girl, I’ll give you a signal...and your loss by the way.”

“If that is the case my friend, I am soooo crushed.” Kuryakin slugged down his drink, showing his lack of interest. “Come, let us go and make your rendezvous.”

They paid for their drinks and walked out of the cafe; the address the girl had given them was but a block away.

When they arrived they found a simple row of white stucco houses, with Moroccan style lattice work covering the windows.

Illya positioned himself across the street, leaning on a lamp post, a newspaper in hand to make it look like he was reading under the light.  In reality he was watching the house for his partner’s signal.

Napoleon knocked on the door, and the veiled woman answered, silently beckoning him inside.

“I am pleased you came to see me, though I was hoping that your beautiful blond friend might change his mind.”

“Sorry, that’s not going to happen, but am I not a suitable consolation prize?” He flashed her a charming smile, and the look in his hazel eyes said nothing but desire. “May I ask your name?”

“My name is Leilah, and a consolation prize?” He could see her blushing behind the veil. “I hardly think you are that Mr. Solo.” She raised her hand, holding a luger in it and pointed it at him.

Napoleon sighed. Illya was going to be insufferable about this. He could just hear the Russian saying ‘I told you so. I said it was a trap.’

“So who exactly are you, THRUSH or a member of some other nefarious organization that would like my head on a silver platter?”

“THRUSH? Never heard of it.” She removed her face veil with her other hand. “You don’t know me, but you knew my sister… Farrah. You despoiled her, and she was killed because of that. You know what an honor killing is Solo?”

“Can’t say that I’m quite familiar with such a thing.” He was lying of course.

“My father and brother were forced to kill my sister because she brought dishonor to our family...thanks to you.”

“Umm, I hate to burst your bubble, but I don’t know, or didn’t know a Leilah. If she was as lovely as you I would remember her, but I don’t. Where exactly was I supposed to have ummm, met her?”

“Right here.”

“Farrah, I hate to tell you but I’ve never been here in this town before, Scout’s honor," He lied again."You have to have me mixed up with someone else, really.”  He was telling the truth about not knowing the girl, but at the same time he was stalling, hoping Illya would become suspicious and charge in to the rescue.

A moment later Kuryakin did exactly that. He crashed through the window, landed on the floor and while rolling he darted Farrah.

The woman sank to the floor at Napoleon’s feet.

He offered a hand up to his partner, pulling Illya to his feet.

“Took you long enough tovarisch.”

“I realized that we never actually discussed what your signal to me would be. Given that no lights went on upstairs, I thought that was a bit odd, given your tendency to work your way into a woman’s boudoir rather expeditiously.”

“Are you saying I’m fast, Illya?”

“Figuratively and literally. If you were a racehorse, you would win the Kentucky Derby.”

“Amusing my Russian friend. Trés drole. Now let’s get out of here before our little friend wakes up. I’ll explain on the way to the airport.” Solo grabbed the Luger from the floor and tucked it into the waist of his trousers.

“Airport? We still have a few days of R&R coming to us,” Illya protested.

“Tovarisch, let’s spend it in New York if you don’t mind?” Napoleon nervously tugged at his collar with his finger. “I think it’ll be safer there.”

On their flight home to the States Napoleon struck up a hushed conversation with his partner.

“You know you should take some dance lessons tovarisch.’

“What sort of dance lessons? I can waltz, do a foxtrot, I know Latin dances, Russian ones as well and the frug, the boogaloo, the twist, to name a few.”

“I mean belly dancing. I was thinking you could get away with that sort of disguise, you know as a belly dancer. You’d have to shave the hair on your chest and stomach, and under your arms...and hmm, your legs too. But with a wig and a face veil and a little stuffing in the brassiere you could pass.  A little rouge on your cheeks and some mascara to bring out those blue eyes of yours…”

Kuryakin stared at his partner with his eyes wide open.

“Are you kidding me?” He finally said. “I have disguised myself as a nun and a woman...fully clothed, but a belly dancer? Napoleon you have lost your mind! Why would I ever do such a thing. Fully clothed I could pass for a woman, as you have passed for an...older woman.  Me nearly naked with, with stuffing? No, you are crazy if you think I would ever do that!”

Solo burst out laughing. “Gotcha, tovarisch!”

“Not funny.”

After their time off was over and done, Napoleon was in headquarters but was still perplexed over the Leilah incident. He hadn’t lied to Farrah about not knowing her sister. He definitely didn’t know a girl by that name, much less having had ‘despoiled’ her. As he thought on the matter he suddenly remembered something with the snap of his finger.

"George Dennell."

Solo scouted down the man, cornering him in the corridor.

“Hiya Napoleon, welcome back!” George was a ebullient as ever.

“Listen George, I need to know when you were in Morocco and there was that little ummm, mix up with you being mistaken for me.  The girl who gave you the microchip...did you ever get her name?”

“Oh her, let me tell you I never thought I have a night like that with a girl like her. It was incredible...well maybe because she thought I was you. You really are a lucky guy in a lotta ways, let me tell you. Did I ever say she told me I was her...first. Can you imagine that?"

Napoleon’s eyes went wide with surprise. “George…”

Dennell continued to babble on.’

“George!”

“Oh sorry Napoleon, what was it you wanted to know?” He stared at Solo through those thick black framed eyeglasses of his.

“Her name George. Did you get the girl’s name?”

“Oh, oh yes. It was Leilah. Why?”

Napoleon huffed. “Well let’s say George that you are never to go back to Marrakech again. That’s on my orders, for your own safety. Understand?”

“Gee if you say so Napoleon. I wasn’t planning on going back there again. I’m actually going to Tahiti for my vacation this year. I hear it’s gorgeous. Tropical sun and lots of beautiful women...not that I think anything would happen unless one of them thought I was you again. I'd never be that lucky again mind you."

“George, if anyone asks you if you’re me when you’re there. Tell them no, you don’t know anyone by that name and then turn tail and run.”

“Well, that doesn’t sound like fun.”

“George, maybe you should go someplace else? Like Bismarck North Dakota?”

“Really, you think so? I’ve always wanted to go there too. I just love the name. Makes me think of the ‘sinking of the Bismark, you know the German battleship sunk by the British during World War II. Now there was some exciting battle…”

“Umm, George. I have to go," Napoleon patted him on the shoulder. "Just remember what I said about Marrakech, and Tahiti too.” Solo disappeared around the corner, leaving Dennell standing there scratching his head.