The Starting Gate Affair - part 7

[glennagirl.livejournal.com]

For Illya, tomorrow came a little too soon.  His head ached and his ribs felt as though he’d been trampled by one of the horses in Harewood’s stables. 

“Chyort!”

Napoleon heard the exclamation from the sitting room adjacent to the bedroom.  A smile escaped from the somber face, his concerns slightly softened by the obvious strength of his friend’s complaint.

“Ah, feeling better then, are we?”

Illya scowled at his partner as Napoleon entered the room.  The blond was attempting to get out of the overly large bed, and scooting to the edge of it was painful at best, aside from the obvious difficulty of maneuvering with broken ribs and an otherwise battered body.

“Help me get out of this monstrosity, will you please.  Napoleon!”

Illya yelled that last, the look on his friend’s face irritating from the Russian’s vantage point.

“Oh, sorry pal.  I guess you jockey types always need a hand up and, in some cases, a hand down as well.”

Now Napoleon was smiling broadly, the sight of Illya struggling in a bed seemingly made for a fairy tale was amusing and, somehow in this case, comforting.  Illya was going to be all right.

“Where are my clothes?  I need to get dressed, I can’t stay in here all day doing nothing.  We need to find Parker.”

The day hadn’t dawned without that goal in the Russian’s mind.  He was certain that Ian Parker had engineered the attack on him, and the agenda today included bringing in that THRUSH hoodlum and tethering him to an instrument of torture.  Anything would do so long as pain could be inflicted.

“What’s the real story on this guy, Illya?  You seem to have a particularly vengeful appetite concerning Parker.”

The blond let his eyes follow the details of the room, taking in the smooth walls and the damask covered chairs flanking a Palladian window swathed in russet colored silk.  The opulence of the room was suffocating to the minimalist tastes of the Russian agent, and the subject matter of Ian Parker nearly the same.

“He knows me, Napoleon.  I suppose I did more than surveillance two years ago in London.  He managed to infiltrate a group of importers and convinced them to accept shipments that he refused to describe beyond the promise of easy wealth.  Those men obliged, and were killed for their trouble.  Parker had money stuffed into cheap porcelain knock-offs of some Japanese artifacts.  The pottery he used was subsequently smashed and the money collected by THRUSH for use in their ongoing efforts.’

Illya took a breath, heaving a little as he winced at the pain in his ribs.

“Parker was never charged with the crimes, and Scotland Yard erroneously held the importers for the crimes.  The money was never recovered, of course, and the three men who owned the import company were mysteriously killed in a car accident on their way to court for arraignment.  Ian Parker had disappeared by that time, and UNCLE has been looking for him ever since, according to Mr. Waverly.”

Napoleon’s brow creased in concentration as he tried to follow Illya’s story.  Something was missing…

“And yes, in the process I failed to pinpoint the shipment and let myself be seen by Parker.  It was brief, but he did see me as I was posing as a worker in the warehouse.  I was called upon to open a crate, and although I did not look directly at Parker...

Illya was walking towards a sofa as he told this story, followed closely by Napoleon.  The injured man slumped into the plump cushions, pausing in his narrative as he regained his breath.

 “I suppose he did recognize me yesterday in the stables, but I was hopeful that I looked different enough to keep his curiosity at bay.”

Napoleon settled himself into a chair opposite to where Illya was seated.  If Parker knew that Illya was an UNCLE agent, then he would also know that the syndicate, the race… everything they were doing, was also related to UNCLE and therefore…

“He won’t take the bait, will he?”

Illya shook his head, a motion that caused his hair to fall forward and frame his face in a familiar fashion.  It also brought a sharp pain, eliciting a muffled moan of discomfort.

“Illya, you don’t need to go to the stables today.  I have a party to put on tonight, and I want you there.  We need to proceed as though everything is as it should be.’

Illya looked quizzically at his partner, wondering how they could still manage to pull this off in light of Parker’s appearance and, well the beating he had taken last night.

“Look, I know it’s a long shot, but we must salvage this mission.  The race is still on, that is if you think you can ride.”

The blond nodded, his mind racing as he considered the disadvantage with which he would be working.

“I can ride.  It may hurt a little, but I can do it.”

Napoleon never doubted it.  Illya was nothing if not nearly unstoppable.

“Okay, so we move forward as planned.  We still have Miss Denault to consider, and she is determined to get in on this syndicate we’re assembling.  THRUSH may not be completely aligned with Parker, but they are backing our little lady, and hopefully, for us, she will be Lady Luck.”

The two friends smiled conspiratorially, their dependence on luck second only to their ability to produce results out of near disasters.

~~~~~:

By late afternoon, UNCLE staffers had assembled at Napoleon’s Long Island ‘home’, converting it into a spectacular setting for the party.  Photographs of Dawn’s Tomorrow were strategically placed, some portraits of the horse and others with Illya aboard in the red and white silks of Harewood Farms.

UNCLE’s catering company, often called in for events such as this one, had been busy producing an array of canapés and desserts that would be accompanied by a variety of wines, all carefully paired by a sommelier from Alexander Waverly’s own employ.  A rich and cloyingly sweet dessert wine would be served last of all, signaling the end of the evening’s events and the final opportunity to invest in the handsome grey around whom the evening was designed.

Illya had remained in his retreat all day long, taking only one late break to go and visit Tom.  The two of them had become fast friends during Illya’s time at the farm, and in spite of the spartan living conditions, there was something about the simplicity of it that appealed to the young man.  Perhaps it was the sense of being free from the life he lived as an UNCLE agent, or going farther back how different it was from his life in the Soviet Union. 

Everything seemed distant now, and when he rode the big grey, nothing mattered except for the sound of hooves pounding and dirt being splayed out in all directions.  As the scenery whizzed past him, Illya felt a buoyancy that defied gravity; it was as close to flying as he needed to get in this lifetime.

Napoleon was splendidly attired in a midnight blue tuxedo that defied tradition while pointing to his own unique sense of style.  The team of seamstresses employed by Del Floria’s had made the evening attire for him.  Even an UNCLE front had to function as a real business, and the talented hands that dressed Mr. Solo could be proud of their work. 

A Section III agent was serving as butler to the handsome resident of this sumptuous home, and as the clock struck eight he began ushering in the guests who were arriving.  The evening was formal and the assembly created an elegant backdrop for the main event; a large screen was situated at the far end of the formal living area.

The room was thirty feet long and twenty feet wide, expansive by any standard.  Surrounding the screen were the photographs of Dawn’s Tomorrow and flyers with statistics on the elegant grey thoroughbred.  At exactly 9:30 a film would be shown that highlighted Tom’s workouts, with scenes of him posing for the camera or playing with grooms and, most notably, with Illya.

Illya was another highlight of the evening.  Although a jockey would not normally attract as much attention as the horse, his exotic background and obvious good looks had generated a bit of a buzz among those who had casually dropped in at Harewood Farms.  The invitation to join this syndicate had been well received, mostly in deference to the reputation of Sturgess Harewood.  Having gone on record as selling his prized young stallion to Worthington Pike, more curiosity was circling the mysterious young heir to a fortune no one had heard of previously. 

There was one person in particular for whom Napoleon was waiting rather anxiously.  Miranda Denault would be arriving with an entourage of THRUSH, he was certain of it.  Hopefully he was not so well known that his cover would be blown, although with last night’s incident, nothing was guaranteed.  Without knowing for certain that Ian Parker had engineered the attack, or even if he was in league currently with THRUSH made the evening abound with more questions that answers.

It had taken Illya longer than normal to dress, and trying to hide a black eye had proven impossible.  He finally donned some dark glasses that Harewood lent to him as a last resort.  Mysterious and good looking, thought the older gentleman; definitely a plus when trying to attract money.

These two traveled together in Sturgess’ new Jaguar XK-E roadster, a red beauty that Illya longed to drive himself.  They left the farm behind, each dressed in elegant and expensive tuxedos, and content to let their hair fly in the wind created by the low windshield.  It was almost as satisfying as being atop Dawn’s Tomorrow, but not quite, Illya reflected.  He realized that he was looking forward to riding in the race on Sunday as much as he feared it.  He understood the dangers inherent in thoroughbred racing, but felt confident that he and Tom were a good pair, capable and ready for the challenge.

When Harewood and Kuryakin arrived at the Long Island house, it was to a festive and enthusiastic welcome.  Napoleon was holding his own amidst a sea of admiring females and their wary companions while the staff continued to circulate, nodding knowingly to those who were UNCLE people, taking note of others who might be THRUSH. 

Miranda Denault had arrived with two men who were undoubtedly operatives of the hierarchy, although they were not betrayed by anything in particular.  It was through a series of covertly obtained photographs that their profiles were retrieved and confirmed by Waverly himself as he sat imperiously in his office, constant and patient as he waited for the evening to end, and for reports to be made.

Napoleon made his way over to Illya and then escorted him to meet Miss Denault.  She had requested specifically to meet the jockey who would be riding the horse she was being asked to help finance.

“Miss Denault, this is Illya Kuryakin.  Mr. Kuryakin, Miss Denault is considering investing in our little endeavor, hopefully before the race on Sunday.”

Illya bowed and kissed the proffered hand of the attractive blonde woman.  She was tall and slender, dressed in red satin that reminded the Russian of the car he had arrived in; he imagined she was similarly built for speed and excitement.  He also imagined that those attributes had landed her in the position she now occupied, beholden to THRUSH and firmly in their power.  He had a sudden and unwelcome urge to protect her, something he subdued immediately as he looked into her eyes.

Her eyes were cold and penetrating, and Illya now realized that she would stop at nothing to gain an advantage, and wondered briefly if she had been involved with the three thugs who had beaten him and thrown him into the creek.

“Miss Denault, it is a pleasure to meet you.”

She purred as she sought to look behind the dark glasses. Someone had told her about the man’s vivid blue eyes, and she longed to look directly into them.  So much was revealed in a person’s eyes.

“Mr. Kuryakin, are you going to keep us all guessing about the color of your eyes tonight.  I hope you don’t plan on wearing those dark glasses all evening.”

The smile was intoxicating, and Napoleon wondered briefly if this affair needed some truly undercover activity.  He chastised himself mildly for the diverting images.

“Ah, but that is part of Mr. Kuryakin’s charm, don’t you think?  Perhaps on Sunday he will allow you to look into his eyes as you congratulate him on the win.  What do you say, IK?”

Illya’s facial expression never changed, his cool demeanor creating more intrigue as others began to gather around the mysterious Russian ex-patriot.  Napoleon was surprised that the FBI hadn’t shown up, considering the buzz going around about this event.

It was nearing nine-thirty, and Napoleon signaled for the room to quiet down and watch his little film.  Another Section III agent was functioning as projectionist for this part of the evening, and Napoleon gave him the cue to dim the lights and start the entertainment.

The film opened with a dark grey foal as he ran across a verdant green pasture.  All legs and dark grey spotted coat, there was effervescence about the little horse than instantly engaged the crowd.  Dawn’s Tomorrow grew up before this room of people, and in the process another character was introduced as Illya became a part of the film.  He was shown riding in one sequence, then smiling shyly as he attempted to escape from the camera.  This seemed to produce a silent sigh from most of the females in the room, something that Napoleon noted with a measure of disbelief and curiosity.

By the time the film came to its end, conversation started up again and several people converged upon Napoleon to offer their pledges of participation in the proposed syndicate.  The number hoped for was in excess of two million dollars, not a lot considering the expenses involved in training and transporting a horse of Tom’s purported stature and, hopefully, future winnings.  Napoleon took to this like a veteran while Illya watched, his eyes canvassing the room in hopes of identifying the enemies that certainly lurked there.

While he was cloistered behind an Eames lounge chair and ottoman (something Napoleon was futilely hoping to take home with him after this affair ended), Illya was approached by Miranda Denault.  She had him cornered, and when she brushed up against him he felt something drop into his trouser pocket.

“Mr. Kuryakin, I know who you are, and what you’re doing here.  You now have possession of the one thing that can save me from THRUSH.  I hope you won’t disappoint me.”

Illya was taken aback slightly, although his expression did not betray him.  This changed everything, and just maybe it opened a door.

Part 8