Dies Irae (Part 3 of THE TEN PLAGUES AFFAIR)

[avery11.livejournal.com]

Author: Avery11

Genre: Gen, friendship, angst

Here, finally, is the conclusion of “The Ten Plagues Affair.” Many thanks for your patience. Thanks also to Glenna and Spikesgirl, who helped me to solve a few daunting technical issues with LJ.

In order to understand what's going on, you really need to start at the beginning:

“The Trouble With Amphibians” http://network-command.livejournal.com/.html

Dies Irae

Part 3 of THE TEN PLAGUES AFFAIR

(Acts I and II)

Act I:  A Cold Day In Hell

     Napoleon stared at the depressing pile of paperwork covering his desk, wondering, not for the first time, whether file folders procreated at night when the lights were out. The necessity of reading each and every report that crossed his desk was one of his least favorite duties as CEA. At least it's Friday, he thought, rubbing his weary eyes. Not that that provided any sort of absolution where UNCLE was concerned.

     The door slid open.

     “Ah, there you are,” Illya declared grumpily. “I was about to send Mr. Waverly's Saint Bernard out to look for you.”

     “Illya!” Napoleon's face lit with pleasure. “When did you get back from Athens? The mission was a success, I trust?”

     “Never mind that, Napoleon. Have you looked outside your door recently?”

    

     "No-o." He gestured toward the stack of reports. “Unlike you, I've been trapped in here for the past four hours, attempting to find the top of my desk.” He grinned wolfishly. “Why, is there a beautiful woman waiting for me out there?”

     “Not -- exactly. Perhaps you should come and see for yourself.”

     Alerted by his partner's tone, Napoleon rose, laying aside the file on the likelihood of a coup in Sudan. The door whooshed open at his approach, admitting a blast of frigid air.

     “What the --?”

     A picturesque snowfall drifted ever-so-gently down from the ceiling vents, fat flakes covering the linoleum in a sparkling blanket of white. Pea-sized pellets of hail, intermixed with the snow, struck the metal walls of the corridor with a sharp ping. Doors opened up and down the long hallway as agents and support staff peered out at the bizarre phenomenon.

     “It's snowing,” Napoleon declared unnecessarily.

     “For the last ten minutes. Yes. I know.” As Napoleon watched, Illya shook his mop of pale blonde hair. It was like watching a very wet, shaggy dog shake itself dry.

     “And the reason it's snowing in the middle of HQ would be --?”

     Illya shrugged. “Whimsy Darlington, unless I miss my guess. Hail was one of the Ten Biblical Plagues.”

     Napoleon groaned. “And there goes the weekend. For a brief, shining moment, I actually thought I might make it to my sister's picnic on Saturday.”

     “Not likely, I'm afraid. We are on full alert, not that there is any way of announcing it. The intercoms have shorted out on several floors, and portions of the alarm system are down as well. Frozen wiring, I am told. We're managing with pen communicators for the moment. You did not answer yours, so Mr. Waverly sent me to find you.”

     “As of eight o'clock this morning, my communicator was at the bottom of the East River -- I had a little run-in with some of THRUSH's finest on the way to work.” Napoleon sighed, and reached for his jacket. “Come on, tovarisch, let's go face The Wrath of Waverly. Lord knows, it can't be worse than reading these damned reports.”

     They stepped into the corridor and, to his dismay, Napoleon felt his feet sink, ankle-deep, into a pile of slush. He glanced down at his soaking-wet loafers. “The day gets better and better. I just bought these shoes. They're hand-stitched Italian leather. Custom made. Imported.”

     Illya rolled his eyes. “They are shoes, Napoleon, not bars of gold bullion.”

     “Easy for you to say, tovarisch. You don't know what I paid for them.”

     “Come, Napoleon,” Illya replied with saintlike patience. “Perhaps if we hurry, there will be cocoa.”

     They slid their way down the long hall, pelted by nuggets of what was now marble-sized hail. The snow swirled eerily in the enclosed space, and a thin veneer of frost covered the light panels, several of which had begin to flicker ominously. They paused to assist a stenographer who had fallen, her tight pencil skirt and stiletto heels having become an occupational hazard under the slippery conditions. “Guess I'll have to bring snowshoes to work from now on,” the woman declared as she massaged her bruised bum. “And buy slacks.”

     “Slacks on our female personnel,” Napoleon sighed with genuine regret. “Now that would be a crisis.”

     The door slid open.

     “Gentlemen, don't dilly-dally,” Waverly ordered brusquely. “Come in. And close the blasted door before we all freeze to death.”

     They took their seats at the round table, and gratefully accepted mugs of hot, black coffee from Lisa Rogers. “Unseasonable weather for May,” Napoleon remarked drily.

     “Hmm, yes. It seems that someone has managed to reprogram the building's environmental systems.”

     “Someone? You mean Whimsy.”

     “Indeed, Mr. Solo.”

     Illya half-rose from his seat. “Do you want me to --?”

     Waverly dismissed the idea with an impatient wave of his hand. “It's being attended to, Mr. Kuryakin. I'd rather hear your thoughts on this.” He placed a sheet of stationery on the table, and rotated it to face his agents. “I trust you recognize the handwriting, gentlemen?”

     “'Wishing you a cold day in Hell,” Napoleon read. “'Kisses, Whimsy.'”

     Illya inspected the watermark. “Barad. The Hebrew word for hail.”

     “The message arrived at the Del Floria's Entrance, concealed in the breast pocket of a morning coat. Surveillance footage shows that the garment was brought in by an elderly woman, possibly Miss Darlington herself, in disguise.”

     “She is growing bolder,” Illya observed thoughtfully.

     “It would seem so, Mr. Kuryakin. No doubt our lack of success has boosted her confidence.” He sighed. “Not to mention our outdated infrastructure. In keeping with the spirit of our recent agreement, I've notified Victor Marton of our situation. His staff in Paris informs him that it's snowing inside THRUSH's HQ as well, although their blizzard is mostly confined to the Cafeteria.”

     Napoleon looked up in surprise. “Marton's still in the States? Why?”

     “I understand he's seeking treatment for the scars that resulted from that dreadful skin ailment. Poor Victor -- he always was rather vain.”

     The two agents traded glances. “Sir, I hate to bring it up but -- are you sure it's wise to be so open about our security issues with a THRUSH?”

     Waverly eyebrows knitted together, an impenetrable thicket of displeasure. “We agreed to a truce, and I intend to honor it.”

     “But --”

     “The decision is not open for debate.”

     Napoleon looked at Illya, who shrugged.

     “Now, Mr. Solo, do you have something substantive to offer?”

     Napoleon sat up a little straighter. “Not much, I'm afraid. If Whimsy is trying to bring down our two organizations, she's going about it in a strange way. What can she possibly hope to accomplish with these bizarre tactics? Frogs, grasshoppers, darkness, hail -- they're disruptive, certainly, and embarrassing, but there's been no permanent damage.”

     “Not yet,” Illya murmured darkly.

     “She seems to be one step ahead of us at every turn. We've checked and rechecked Security protocols, and there are no internal leaks.” He ran his hand through his hair. “It's as though she knows what we're going to do even before we do.”

     Illya snorted. “Perhaps the lady reads tea leaves.”

     “Gentlemen, I see no reason for levity. Whatever mischief Miss Darlington has planned, let's not give her the chance to succeed. Mr. Solo, I want you and Mr. Kuryakin to go back to the Varga estate tomorrow morning. Clearly, the two of you stirred up a hornet's nest on your first visit to Erebos. Talk to Varga. Dig deeper this time. What is the nature of his relationship with the Darlington woman? Is he an innocent, duped by a pretty face, or is he in league with her, actively bankrolling her efforts? Is he her lover, perhaps? A relative? Or is he her employer? We need to know more about Varga's connection to all of this.”

     “Yes sir.” Chairs scraped as the men rose to leave.

     “You go ahead, Illya,” Napoleon declared quietly. “I'll be along in a minute.”

     Illya glanced back, frowning. After a moment, he nodded and turned away. The door hissed shut behind him.

     “Sir?”

     A thin stream of smoke drifted up from the old man's pipe. “You have a question, Mr. Solo?”

     “More of a concern, sir.” Napoleon took a deep breath, wondering how far he could reasonably take this. “I'm -- uncomfortable with the extent of Victor Marton's involvement in our investigation.”

     “I see. Go on.”

     “I'm not sure it's wise to share sensitive information with the enemy. I mean, isn't it possible that the entire Affair is his doing? That he's setting us up somehow? He is a THRUSH, after all, one of their best.”

     “You think I'm being too trusting, is that it?”

     “Perhaps if I understood your reasons --” He watched the pale smoke rise, wreathing the old man's troubled face.

     Waverly released a long, drawn-out sigh. “I suppose, as CEA, you deserve an explanation. Sit down, Mr. Solo, and I'll tell you a story.”

     Napoleon resumed his seat.

     “What I am about to tell you cannot leave this office. Not even Mr. Kuryakin is to know. Understood?”

     He nodded, although the thought of keeping secrets from Illya was not a pleasant one.

     “I first met Victor Marton in London, at a small gathering a few years before the War. I was with British Intelligence at the time, and he was with the ST. He impressed me then as a man of unusually high ideals, intelligent, passionate and headstrong -- a man not unlike yourself, Mr. Solo. We became good friends. Victor was best man at my wedding, and I, at his.

     “When the War came, we were paired by our respective governments on a number of covert missions. Victor proved himself to be a daring and courageous partner – you might say he was Solo to my Kuryakin. Heaven knows, he saved my life on more than one occasion. Once, when we were trapped behind enemy lines, he pushed me out of the line of fire, and took a bullet in his belly that surely would have killed me.”

     Napoleon tried to imagine the wily old THRUSH as a selfless hero. He failed. “The War was a long time ago,” he replied quietly. “People change.”

     “Perhaps. And yet --” Waverly drew thoughtfully on his pipe. “After the War ended, Victor and I remained close. When a group of us, all former agents from the international intelligence community, met in Geneva in '46 to lay the groundwork for UNCLE, Victor was there. It may interest you to know that the man you call 'wily and deceitful' was one of the primary architects of UNCLE's Charter.”

     “Victor Marton -- one of UNCLE's founders?” Napoleon sat back, stunned.

     Waverly watched the subtle play of emotions sweeping across his CEA's face.

     “What happened to him?” Napoleon asked at last. “What went wrong?”

     “There was an accusation made against him. A serious accusation. It came from the highest levels of the organization -- I think you know who I mean. It wasn't true, and he was eventually proven innocent, but the damage had been done. Victor was angry, consumed with bitterness. He felt betrayed by the very organization he had helped to create. He defected to THRUSH, vowing to see his accusers pay.”

     Waverly glanced down at his pipe, surprised to find that it had gone out. He sighed, and pushed it away. “Victor was a good man once. I'd like to believe he could be that man again.” His gray eyes grew hard, hawk-sharp. “But don't for one instant think me a sentimental old fool, Mr. Solo. I know Marton better than anyone else alive. I worked with him, fought beside him. I know his talents, and I know the devastating damage he's capable of inflicting upon this organization. Rest assured: I will do what must be done to protect UNCLE. Whatever the cost.”

*/*/*/

Act II: The Kiss of Death

     Illya steered their Pontiac -- this one a more discreet shade of pale blue -- around the dusty curve, slowing briefly to allow a tractor towing a load of hay to cross the road. They drove on when it had passed, following the county road eastward to the village of Manorville, and to Erebos, Aristotle Varga's lavish Long Island estate. 



     Much of the surrounding terrain was scorched, black and bare where the recent fire had burned through. Of the countless scrub oaks and pitch pines that had dotted the landscape, all that remained were a few charred husks, their blackened branches clawing the sky. They passed a series of cranberry bogs, mercifully spared during the conflagration. Napoleon pointed. “Turn there.”

     Illya swung into the breach, and the Pontiac passed through the imposing iron gates of Erebos. He watched the guardhouse recede in his rear view mirror. “No sentry. And the gate was open. Something is not right.”

     Napoleon checked the clip on his Walther. “Looks like they're expecting us. Keep an eye out for the welcoming committee.”

     Illya nodded grimly.

     They continued up the wide, winding drive, past a grove of apple trees, lush with blossoms, and the herd of bright blue sheep they had encountered on their first visit. The sheep took no notice of them, content to graze peacefully on the perfectly manicured grass.

     They pulled to a stop in the main courtyard, and made their way toward the house. “I don't like this,” Illya remarked as they approached the main entry. “It is far too quiet. Where are the servants?” He reached up to ring the bell, but Napoleon stopped him with a gesture.

     “Wait.” He prodded the door with his foot; it swung open on its hinges.

     They drew their weapons by silent agreement, and stepped over the threshold.

     The plump body of Vitrios, Varga's manservant, lay sprawled in the foyer, his cloudy eyes frozen open in surprise and terror. A telephone lay beside the body, the handset smashed, wiring ripped from the wall. Napoleon took up a defensive position in the alcove while Illya knelt to examine the body.

     “Garrotted. Expertly done, too.” He lifted the dead man's arm, noting the stiffness of the limb. “Joints are fixed. Rigor mortis is fully developed. There is considerable lividity as well. He has been dead at least twelve hours, Napoleon, and perhaps as long as a day. Whoever did this, they are long gone by now.”

     A trail of dark blood led across the marble tiles, a chronicle of the man's final, agonized moments.

     “Looks like he was trying to summon help.” Napoleon sighed. “Let's check the study.” Their footsteps echoed in the vast, empty hall.

     The room was exactly as they remembered it, down to the pair of lucite chairs flanking the fireplace. The remains of a fire smoldered in the grate.

     “Who would light a fire on such a warm day?” Napoleon wondered, prodding the ashes with a poker. “Looks like they were covering their tracks.”

     “Napoleon. Over here.”

     Aristotle Varga reclined in his plastic Bauhaus egg, eyes closed, bony hands resting atop the open book on his lap. He looked peaceful, as though he had drifted off to sleep while reading. The bright slash of blood staining his crisp white shirt told another story.

     “His throat has been slit,” Illya reported. “A long, thin blade, perhaps a stiletto.” He pried the book from the dead man's hand. “A King James Bible. Odd, he did not seem a religious man.”

     “I doubt he was, Illya. The whole scene has a staged feel. Don't you agree?”

     Illya studied the open page. “Deuteronomy 32:35: 'It is mine to avenge. I will repay. In due time, their foot will slip. Their day of disaster is near, and their doom rushes in upon them.'” He looked up. “A message?”

     “A warning. Whatever Whimsy's got planned, she's nearly ready to put it into operation. We haven't got much time.”

     Illya turned the corpse's head to the side. “Napoleon, come and take a look at this.”

     Solo glanced at the body, and drew in a sharp breath.

     In the center of Varga's flaccid cheek was the perfect imprint of a kiss.

     “'Whimsy's shade,'” Napoleon confirmed, “Tangerine Passion.” His stomach turned, recalling what those enticing lips had promised once. “She kissed him, and then she killed him.”

     “Or the other way around. There is no way of knowing.”

     “Either way, it was the kiss of death for Varga.” He stared down at the body, thinking that the frail little man seemed even more fragile in death. “I said that Whimsy Darlington hadn't done any permanent damage -- looks like I was wrong.”

*/*/*/

     “A pity about Varga,” Waverly grumbled, his voice sounding no less irritated over Napoleon's new, upgraded communicator. “He could have been a useful source of information about our adversary. Ah, well, it can't be helped, I suppose.” The sound of papers being shuffled. “Has the Cleanup crew arrived?”

     “I expect them at any minute, sir.”

     “Good, good. We've managed to trace the morning coat to Lars Stylo, an exclusive men's clothing store on Madison Avenue. Miss Rogers has made an appointment for you to be measured for a new suit there this afternoon. The appointment will provide you with ample opportunity to investigate the premises, and to make the necessary enquiries.”

     “Considering the number of suits you manage to destroy,” Illya muttered sotto voce, “perhaps you should stock up while you're there.”

     Napoleon waved him away. “What about Illya?” he asked.

     “Mr. Kuryakin will remain at Erebos to wait for the Cleanup crew. He can assist them in recovering any files or other information that might prove significant to our investigation. There are also the animals to be considered; various zoos and wildlife foundations have already been contacted. They will be arriving throughout the afternoon to take temporary custody of the sanctuary's denizens.”

     “Understood, sir,” Illya leaned in to reply. “I can ride back with one of the vans once we are done here.”

     “Very good.” A pause. “Mr. Solo?”

     “Yes sir?”

     “Do try not to break the bank at Lars Stylo. Your expense account is not a bottomless well of plenty, you know.”

*/*/*/

     Napoleon stepped through the revolving glass doors, and entered the rarefied world that was Lars Stylo. A sales representative, sporting a white orchid in his lapel, materialized by his side within seconds.

     “May I help you, sir?”

     “Napoleon Solo. I have an appointment. I'm in need of a morning suit for an event I'm attending, and my good friend, Aristotle Varga, recommended your establishment.”

     “Of course, Mr. Solo. Mr. Varga is one of our most cherished clients. We fitted him for a morning suit of his own just recently, at the request of his friend, a Miss --”

     “ --Darlington?”

     “Yes, that's the name. A charming young woman.”

     “I've been hoping to run into her. You wouldn't happen to recall the address she gave?”

     “I'm terribly sorry,” the man replied, and now his tone carried a distinct chill. “All client information is strictly confidential.”

     Napoleon turned on his thousand-watt smile. “But surely an exception can be made in the cause of true love? The young lady and I --”

     The salesman relaxed. “Oh, I see. Unfortunately, I don't believe Miss Darlington gave an address. Now, if you would care to follow me through to our private salon --”

     Napoleon held up a hand. “I'd prefer to wander around a bit first.”

     “Of course, sir. Perhaps you would enjoy a glass of wine while you're looking?”

     “Cognac. Favraud Vielle Reserve, 1893. Baccarat.”

     The man's eyes widened. He repressed a gasp. “At once.” He scurried away, already tallying up the cost of wooing this most discerning client.

     Having divested himself of an inconvenient shadow, Napoleon was now free to explore his surroundings, unhindered. He identified the exits, memorized the locations of the security cameras, and noted the position of every person in the store. Everything seemed normal.

     He had to admit that the suits on display in the showroom were among the finest he had ever seen, with their luxurious fabrics and hand-sewn buttonholes. Maybe when this Affair is over --

     “Your cognac, Mr. Solo.”

     The obsequious salesperson had returned, Baccarat crystal goblet in hand. Napoleon accepted the cognac with disdain, and took a moment to warm the glass bowl between his hands. The first sip was ambrosia; He allowed a brief smile to curl his lips.

     “Perhaps you'll allow me to tell you about the exceptional services we offer here at Lars Stylo,” the man began, just as Napoleon's communicator went off.

     “Excuse me,” he said, already moving toward the exit. “I have to take this call.”

     “Call?” The man peered at the odd, beeping thing. “On your pen?”

     Napoleon couldn't help smiling. “It's a prototype.” He made his escape before the annoying man could ask another question.

     “Solo here.”

     “Napoleon? Lisa Rogers. There's been a -- a development.” Her voice was tightly controlled; Napoleon thought she might have been crying.

     “What's wrong, Lisa? Has something happened to Mr. Waverly?” His heart hammered with fear.

     “No, he's safe, but --” He could hear her striving for control. “You are instructed to proceed to the Waverly compound immediately. I'll contact Illya and have him meet you there.” Her voice caught. “Someone has kidnapped Mr. Waverly's granddaughter.”

*/*/*/

Read the conclusion of Dies Irae, Acts III and IV   HERE

Comments

[mrua7.livejournal.com]

Have to comment again. This was outstanding!

[avery11.livejournal.com]

Thank you!