The Letter/Les Girls - PicFic Tuesday
Mar. 26th, 2013 02:36 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
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section7mfu The Letter is a story I posted a few months ago and left open ended, an invitation for something more. Well, the something more is my PicFic, but I've started with The Letter so that there is continuity in the telling of the tale. The reference to another character in this story is in no way intended to disparage our lovable CEA... he is beautifully flawed.
~~~~~:
The Letter
Napoleon Solo could be accused of many things, some of them polite, many of them complimentary and a few not suitable for mixed company. He also had a few weaknesses, the pursuit of women chief among them. Not many men have the inherent ability to simply charm women out of their clothes with a smile. Napoleon could do that; his smile promised so much and the reports that followed seemed to indicate that he always kept his promise.
It was not entirely surprising to the suave agent, in light of his many conquests, that a letter arrived at his apartment laced with a vaguely familiar fragrance. It was addressed simply to Napoleon Solo, with no address for either the recipient or the sender. His world revolved around the unknown, so an anonymous letter was like catnip to the man.
His partner had a decidedly different response to the mysterious note.
"You know, my friend, at some point you may be in danger of romancing the wrong woman. Perhaps this is only the beginning of a campaign of terror."
Illya was being facetious, to be sure. However, he did wonder at times about the sheer numbers of women to whom Napoleon pledged his undying love, if only for a single night.
"There's no such thing as the wrong woman, tovarisch. That's your problem, you think there's only one."
The Russian grunted his disapproval of Napoleon's chastisement.
"At the very least I think there is only one at a time, Napoleon. You act as though you are being served a buffet of some sort, and offered a plate for every course. I find the idea of that manner of hedonism decidedly not quite right."
The American squinted his eyes, as though he might be able to see the blond's point by doing so. It was no use, the point was lost to him.
"Life is like a buffet, now that you mention it. And why not a different woman for every new course; sort of a serve yourself extravaganza.'
He caught the scowl on Illya's face, and dismissed it as the usual dour response to anything fun.
"Look, Illya… Maybe you do have more self-control, or higher morals or whatever the heck the Soviet system instilled in you to make you back away from the kind of romantic pursuits you find so galling in me. The truth is, I love women.'
The blond didn't change his expression, merely continued to stare with concentrated disdain.
"And, I happen to recognize in you the same trait. You just refuse to give in to the wild abandon that results in short term affairs. I have never forced myself on a woman, but I've rarely been turned away."
Somehow this office seemed an inappropriate place for the conversation they were having, something that contributed to yet another stifling of the Russian's ability to deal with his partner's sometimes dangerous liaisons.
"You mix your romances with work, Napoleon. Take Angelique for example…"
"Oh, I do… whenever she lets me."
Napoleon had the temerity to wink when he said that. Illya felt a surge of irritation at his partner's insensitive actions.
"Yes, I've noticed. And every once in a while it has created a problem… mainly for me. You seem to not recognize the position it puts me in, to either cover for you or end up in the line of fire while you are trysting with Angelique, or Serena or…"
Now Napoleon felt defensive, and he considered bringing a little leverage into the conversation; seniority, for instance.
"What about Marion? You didn't mind shutting me out of that little arrangement. You acted as though there was some type of entitlement reserved for you when she came along. You know…"
So that's the way it was. Illya had always wondered about Napoleon's feelings for the coquettish Marion Raven.
"Do I know what, Napoleon? That you had, how do they say, dibs on her? That I should have stood back and let you steal her heart while I simply obeyed the protocol of seniority? She wasn't something to be handled as a proprietary element.'
Illya's face drained of all color. Stop it now, he thought to himself. But he couldn't stop, couldn't forget… His voice was hoarse with emotion, barely above a whisper now.
"I cared for Marion. And even knowing that, you would have made a move on her had she not slammed the door in your face, quite literally I might add."
Napoleon hadn't been prepared for this shift in the conversation. The flippancy of his earlier remarks now seemed to be mired in the reality of his friend's bruised emotions. Why hadn't he noticed this before?
"Look, Illya… I'm sorry. I know you cared for Marion, but you were so off and on, and then… Well, you seemed rather cavalier about it all."
A sorrowful expression marked the blond's features as he looked up into his friend's eyes. This is not how he was trained to respond.
"Forgive me, Napoleon. Of course you meant no harm, just as I have no real intention of harassing you for your romantic proclivities. It is simply that…"
"Did you love her? Marion and you … did you have plans?"
A shake of the blond head was enough to say no to the question. But something else in Illya's eyes told a different story.
"This job doesn't make it easy. It doesn't even allow for something meaningful.'
There was a pause in which both men pondered the state of their hearts. Napoleon braved a response.
"That's why I do what I do. I want to know the kind of intimacy that will lead to a long and happy life with the woman of my dreams. The trouble is, that woman doesn't live in this world; she doesn't marry a man who may or may not come home for dinner for weeks at a time."
This time Illya nodded, a long intake of breath the only sound he made.
"What happened with Marion? You two seemed like a perfect match; you looked good together."
"What happens between any two people whose lives are so different as ours are? She needed stability and I had none to offer. I needed someone who shares my devotion to a cause, and she … couldn't."
Napoleon considered that, remembered something he'd read somewhere…
"She's married now. I saw it in the paper recently. Did you know?"
"Yes. I actually ran into her, and her new husband … He seems like a good fellow, respectable and … settled."
There. Napoleon couldn't quite identify it, but there was something else to this that Illya wasn't saying.
"What aren't you telling me?"
Illya smiled, that wan expression that bespoke sadness in the guise of complacency.
"Nothing, my friend. Someday perhaps, there will be something to tell, but today… I could use a drink. I could stand getting drunk, as a matter of fact. Would you care to join me? I'll even consider picking up a woman, just to prove I am not afraid of a lack of commitment."
The offer scared Napoleon, just a little.
~~~~~:
Les Girls
As it turned out, the Russian did get a little drunk, but not enough to diminish his reserved demeanor. In spite of the buzz he acquired from too many martinis and a round of vodka, Illya still managed to turn away the advances of several women who had appeared only too eager to engage the attractive blond with the fascinating accent.
Napoleon, on the other hand, found himself particularly drawn to a striking blonde whose red lips beckoned with words he scarcely heard. Because he felt responsible for the state of his nearly inebriated friend, Napoleon arranged to meet Vivien after he took Illya home, something he did immediately upon making his date with the beautiful young woman.
On the drive to Illya’s apartment, and between his intermittent bouts of napping and feeling ill, the conversation inevitably turned to the spontaneous dating habits of the senior agent.
“You are careless, my friend. This woman could be Angelique’s sister for all you know.”
The accent had burrowed itself into something more Russian than normal. Alcohol tended to do that, although Illya would never admit to it.
“You’re just jealous because I’m going to spend the evening with a beautiful woman. You had your chance, Illya, and you let them all pass you by. I don’t know what I’m going to do with you, tovarisch.”
Illya sputtered something that Napoleon didn’t recognize before continuing his analysis of the American’s obvious flaws.
“It is like the letter you received this morning. You still do not know who sent it to you, and still you meet a strange woman and … you will bed her. You will make love to her as though you know her and she is a …”
Illya lapsed again into semi-sleep, causing Napoleon to snort his dismissal of the rambling conversation.
“You’re drunk, Illya. And I have a date.”
It was a little effort to get the Russian out of the passenger seat and up the steps into his building. With a fair amount of complaining and a staunch refusal to be escorted upstairs, Illya took the stairs two at a time, leaving Napoleon to shrug his shoulders and watch as his friend disappeared into the stairwell. He listened for a minute, glad to not hear the sound of stumbling or, worse, tumbling down the stairs. When he was satisfied that Illya was out of danger he turned back to his waiting car and headed, happily and expectantly, to meet Vivien at the Purple Unicorn.
The blonde woman with the ruby red lips sat in a corner booth, her anticipation of seeing Napoleon again heightened substantially by the knowledge that he hadn’t recognized her. She had another opportunity to engage the handsome man who had met her previously and stolen her heart.
This little game of hers, changing her identity slightly, was mostly harmless. Men liked a little mystery, and since their last meeting Vivien had changed her hair color from deep chestnut to platinum blonde. A subtle alteration of her eyebrows and a lip color that went from pale pink to passion fueled red had been enough to avert Napoleon’s recognition of the woman he had known briefly as Nina.
The letter she had sent him was a tease, since she hadn’t signed it. It hadn’t taken long for Napoleon’s charm to sweep Nina into a fantasy filled romance in which she and the suave agent, whom she believed to be an importer of exotic goods, would live happily ever after in a world of her own invention.
Vivien,with the new name she had chosen for her new look, was waiting in a posture that sent the approaching man an immediate signal: this was a woman who was ready to be romanced. Napoleon was ready as well, and all of his best efforts would be rolled out for this beauty.
“Napoleon, you’re here. I hope your friend was not too put out to lose your company.”
Napoleon eased into the booth, sliding up close to Vivien and putting his arm around her bare shoulders.
“Ah, my lovely Vivien. You are sweet to think of him, but please don’t trouble yourself with my brooding Russian’s feelings. This evening is all about you … and us.”
Vivien didn’t wait for Napoleon to make the first move, she placed her hand on his face and kissed him. It pleased him, glad that no games had to be played, no unnecessary enticements. Vivien had opened the doors for what promised to be a garden of delights.
Illya was sick, violently ill and near to passing out. It wasn’t from drinking, at least not from drinking alcohol. In the haze of his delirium the stricken man recognized the signs of poisoning. He managed to call for help on his communicator before succumbing to the raging misery that this evening had become.
Napoleon lay on his back, Vivien in his arms as she played a tune across his bare chest. Their lovemaking had been tumultuous and exciting, her methods bordering on savage. Napoleon was a little unsure whether he had actually enjoyed it, although the climax had been undeniable. Perhaps he did need a woman like this in his menagerie of lovers, although something was nagging at the back of his brain; in spite of Vivien’s obvious attributes,something about her was slightly disturbing to the normally astute agent.
She had offered him a drink before leading him into her bedroom, and while that hadn’t seemed unusual, Napoleon was beginning to wonder if she had spiked it with something. His liaisons with Angelique had taught him to be cautious in the midst of his passion, but this situation hadn’t struck him as dangerous. Lying here next to this woman, reviewing what had just transpired, Napoleon was beginning to wonder if Illya hadn’t been correct in issuing that drunken warning.
That was another worrying thing: Illya had been drunk and sick. It wasn’t like the Russian to be affected by his alcohol consumption, and he certainly hadn’t had enough to make him ill. Perhaps a little too late, Napoleon was beginning to think there was more to Vivien than just a pretty face.
“Vivien my dear, will you excuse me please? I have to take care of something…”
Napoleon kissed her on the forehead as she mewed a complaint at the loss of his body warmth next to her. He moved as casually as possible, considering his misgivings. He let himself into her bathroom, clothes in hand, pulled out his communicator and attempted to contact his partner. When he didn’t get a response, the sense of danger increased.
Vivien waited for her lover to return, anticipating a day spent with this man she had lured into her bed. When Napoleon emerged from the bathroom fully dressed her mood darkened noticeably.
“Why? I thought you’d spend the day with me, lover.”
The pout was suddenly unattractive to Napoleon, and he feared not only for his partner’s well being, but the scathing recriminations he would unleash. They would be well deserved, if things turned out to be as Napoleon now felt certain they would.
“Vivien, is there something you’d like to tell me. We had a ... um, wonderful night, and I know you played a little game with me. Didn’t you now? It’s all right, you can tell me. I’m definitely interested in keeping our affair at the top of my list of pleasures.” Lying to her was effortless.
Vivien was taken aback at that, she had thought herself so clever when formulating this plan. Perhaps poisoning Napoleon’s friend had been a mistake; she would feel bad if he actually died.
“Do you mean it, Napoleon? I just wanted to be with you, and since you didn’t call me …”
At Napoleon’s quizzical expression the woman knew she had more explaining to do.
“We met once before. Do you remember Nina? That was me…”
“You wrote the letter didn’t you. Did you put something in Illya’s drink? I need to know, Vivien… Nina. Who are you really?”
Now she was nervous. Perhaps she had gone too far, but she needed this man, wanted him so desperately that she had been willing to do whatever it might take.
“I … I don’t think it will hurt him… I didn’t mean to kill anyone. Oh, Napoleon… I’m so sorry. I just loved you so much.”
Vivien was sobbing now, some sense of remorse mixed with her delusions of an affair with a man she’d only met briefly once before. Napoleon needed to know what she had used. He needed to get to Illya.
“What was it Vivien? What did you give him? I need to know, in case he’s really sick. Ssshhh… just tell me the truth, sweet heart.”
The soothing tone of Napoleon’s voice eased her enough to convince her she could produce the vial that had held the odious concoction.
Napoleon was on his communicator to Headquarters.
“Open Channel D, Solo here.”
“Mr. Solo, where are you? Mr. Kuryakin is in Medical, he’s…”
“I have the poison, and I’m on my way in.”
“Oh, Napoleon… he’s really sick.’
A shift in speakers changed the atmosphere.
“Uh, Mr. Solo…”
It was Alexander Waverly now on the line.
“Did I hear you say you have the solution that has poisoned Mr. Kuryakin?”
“Yes sir. I’m on my way in. Is he…?”
“He’s holding on, Mr. Solo, but hurry.”
Napoleon put away the little pen shaped implement, all the while with his eyes on the terrified Vivien. He decided to leave her here, doubting that she would budge from where she now cowered in fear of the man she had deceived.
“I’m leaving now, Vivien, but I will be back. Please, don’t go anywhere. We’ll talk about this later.”
“Really? I’ll be here, darling. I promise, I won’t leave.”
Napoleon was out the door, his head a maze of questions and worry. If Illya died because of this obsession he had with women… He couldn’t allow himself to dwell on that. Just get to Headquarters and let the labs analyze what was in this vial, make an antidote… save Illya.
Illya had been in a haze of some sort, vomiting until his insides were raw and rasping out shallow breaths. He was not completely cognizant of his surroundings, and only vaguely aware of the tube inserted down his throat when life support became necessary. By the time Napoleon arrived, the slight frame of the Russian was enveloped in medical machinery and tubes as the staff monitored every blip.
The vial was taken immediately to the lab for analysis as Napoleon watched helplessly. Time crept by until he became aware of someone entering and standing next to him. Mr. Waverly looked tired, and yet here he was in the middle of the night overseeing the care of one of his own. Once more, Napoleon caught himself wondering if the Chief had a bed upstairs for nights like this.
“The labs have provided an antidote for the poison; I expect the doctors will be able to administer it very soon.’
The wizened eyes of Napoleon’s boss took in the miserable appearance of his top operative.
“Would you care to explain to me, Mr. Solo, how this came to be?”
Waverly extended his arm towards Illya, his voice not harsh but his intentions clearly understood.
“It ahh… a woman. A woman whom I had met previously but failed to remember, apparently, became intent on getting my attention and … ‘
Napoleon hadn’t really thought of this previously, but now he wondered about her motives for poisoning Illya.
“… I think that she saw Mr. Kuryakin as a threat or, perhaps competition. I’m unsure on her motives, sir, but she did admit to poisoning him, and even drugging my drink.”
Waverly considered the explanation, pondered the possibility of actually suggesting to Mr. Solo that he be more careful in his dealings with women.
“And where, may I ask, is this woman now?”
“She’s at her apartment. I left her there; she expects me to return.”
Again, Waverly weighed the information against his judgements about the situation.
“Have someone go and pick her up. She probably needs a psychiatric examination, and her actions against Mr. Kuryakin are criminal. I shall make a determination about how best to handle it after I’ve read the results of her .. uhm… the observations made by Dr. Wilson.’
He looked Napoleon directly in the eye.
“Do let me know the progress with the antidote. Mr. Solo, I can’t hold your hand when it comes to the women you court. This woman seems to have been very determined, and I doubt you could have averted this action even had you not welcomed her advances. Certainly her willingness to poison an innocent bystander speaks to her state of mind, and not necessarily to her fascination with you. Don’t be too hard on yourself.”
With a pat on the arm the old man left the room and headed upstairs to his office, perhaps to finally go to his home for the remainder of this early morning. Napoleon had no doubt he would be found hard at work once again when the day began in earnest.
The doors to the room were pushed open as one of the lab boys came bustling into the room with a syringe full of what Napoleon surmised to be the antidote. They had certainly made quick work of it, probably because it was a common poison. It was unlikely that Vivien/Nina had procured anything very exotic.
When the procedure was completed the entire team stepped back away from Illya’s bed and waited. It was an odd sight from Napoleon’s perspective, all the white clad personnel standing by in anticipation of some change. How quickly could something like that work? Napoleon was hopeful that it would be soon.
Within the hour Illya’s complete recovery was predicted by the physicians and nurses. His breathing had evened out, blood pressure stabilized and all indications were that the toxins from the poison had been neutralized by the lab’s antidote. Napoleon, who had taken his position in the room’s only chair, breathed a sigh of relief at the news and the visible signs of its veracity in Illya’s return to life.
The constant movement and attention to the patient began to taper off as he regained consciousness. He was able to answer a few questions, drink a little sip of water and request something in Russian that went unheeded. Only Napoleon had been able to decipher what his still groggy friend had asked, and he wasn’t about to translate for anyone.
“Illya, boy am I glad to see you coming back from the nearly dead. I was starting to think a new partner search was in order.”
The feeble humor was all the concerned American could muster. He had been afraid for his friend, and a little bit mortified that he had been the cause of this incident. From now on, no more women…
“Your girlfriend poisoned me, Napoleon. I think I should be the one looking for a new partner.”
Of course he didn’t mean it. Napoleon smiled back at Illya, but then it occurred to him that the blue eyes were dark and threatening.
“Good one, tovarisch. You’ll get over it, and Mr. Waverly is having her head examined.’
At the glare from the bedridden Russian, Solo fumbled for words.
“I’m really sorry, Illya. She’s … She’s the one who wrote the letter. She isn’t Angelique’s sister, but it appears she is just as dangerous; perhaps more so. I’m … You aren’t really going to ask for another partner are you?”
Illya felt too exhausted to maintain the glare. He was sleepy and tired, his insides felt as though they had been taken out and put back into his body. Besides, Napoleon looked about as miserable as he felt. It wasn’t his partner’s fault that the woman was a psychopath of some sort; it was more like bad luck on his part.
“No, I just want to sleep, Napoleon. I forgive you, now go get some sleep because that is what I intend to do.”
Napoleon breathed a sigh of relief.
“Okay, but I’ll be back first thing in the morning.’
He couldn’t help himself, the moment caught him off guard.
“Illya .. I was really worried there. You … “
The Russian could barely hold his eyes open, but he heard what Napoleon was saying, knew what he intended to convey.
“I know, Napoleon. I’m fine. Just like always, my friend, I am fine.”
That was all he could manage, and within a few blinks on Napoleon’s part, Illya was asleep.
As he headed out into the lobby and towards the elevator, Napoleon realized once more how close it had been.
I must stop doing this. There has to be more to life than a collection of one night stands. Maybe Illya is right…
That’s when the new secretary from Section VII swished past the CEA of the Northwest Region, setting off a whole new set of rules about not listening to dour Russians or tweedy Englishmen.
Just like Popeye, he thought… I am what I am.
** from Popeye the film...
~~~~~:
The Letter
Napoleon Solo could be accused of many things, some of them polite, many of them complimentary and a few not suitable for mixed company. He also had a few weaknesses, the pursuit of women chief among them. Not many men have the inherent ability to simply charm women out of their clothes with a smile. Napoleon could do that; his smile promised so much and the reports that followed seemed to indicate that he always kept his promise.
It was not entirely surprising to the suave agent, in light of his many conquests, that a letter arrived at his apartment laced with a vaguely familiar fragrance. It was addressed simply to Napoleon Solo, with no address for either the recipient or the sender. His world revolved around the unknown, so an anonymous letter was like catnip to the man.
His partner had a decidedly different response to the mysterious note.
"You know, my friend, at some point you may be in danger of romancing the wrong woman. Perhaps this is only the beginning of a campaign of terror."
Illya was being facetious, to be sure. However, he did wonder at times about the sheer numbers of women to whom Napoleon pledged his undying love, if only for a single night.
"There's no such thing as the wrong woman, tovarisch. That's your problem, you think there's only one."
The Russian grunted his disapproval of Napoleon's chastisement.
"At the very least I think there is only one at a time, Napoleon. You act as though you are being served a buffet of some sort, and offered a plate for every course. I find the idea of that manner of hedonism decidedly not quite right."
The American squinted his eyes, as though he might be able to see the blond's point by doing so. It was no use, the point was lost to him.
"Life is like a buffet, now that you mention it. And why not a different woman for every new course; sort of a serve yourself extravaganza.'
He caught the scowl on Illya's face, and dismissed it as the usual dour response to anything fun.
"Look, Illya… Maybe you do have more self-control, or higher morals or whatever the heck the Soviet system instilled in you to make you back away from the kind of romantic pursuits you find so galling in me. The truth is, I love women.'
The blond didn't change his expression, merely continued to stare with concentrated disdain.
"And, I happen to recognize in you the same trait. You just refuse to give in to the wild abandon that results in short term affairs. I have never forced myself on a woman, but I've rarely been turned away."
Somehow this office seemed an inappropriate place for the conversation they were having, something that contributed to yet another stifling of the Russian's ability to deal with his partner's sometimes dangerous liaisons.
"You mix your romances with work, Napoleon. Take Angelique for example…"
"Oh, I do… whenever she lets me."
Napoleon had the temerity to wink when he said that. Illya felt a surge of irritation at his partner's insensitive actions.
"Yes, I've noticed. And every once in a while it has created a problem… mainly for me. You seem to not recognize the position it puts me in, to either cover for you or end up in the line of fire while you are trysting with Angelique, or Serena or…"
Now Napoleon felt defensive, and he considered bringing a little leverage into the conversation; seniority, for instance.
"What about Marion? You didn't mind shutting me out of that little arrangement. You acted as though there was some type of entitlement reserved for you when she came along. You know…"
So that's the way it was. Illya had always wondered about Napoleon's feelings for the coquettish Marion Raven.
"Do I know what, Napoleon? That you had, how do they say, dibs on her? That I should have stood back and let you steal her heart while I simply obeyed the protocol of seniority? She wasn't something to be handled as a proprietary element.'
Illya's face drained of all color. Stop it now, he thought to himself. But he couldn't stop, couldn't forget… His voice was hoarse with emotion, barely above a whisper now.
"I cared for Marion. And even knowing that, you would have made a move on her had she not slammed the door in your face, quite literally I might add."
Napoleon hadn't been prepared for this shift in the conversation. The flippancy of his earlier remarks now seemed to be mired in the reality of his friend's bruised emotions. Why hadn't he noticed this before?
"Look, Illya… I'm sorry. I know you cared for Marion, but you were so off and on, and then… Well, you seemed rather cavalier about it all."
A sorrowful expression marked the blond's features as he looked up into his friend's eyes. This is not how he was trained to respond.
"Forgive me, Napoleon. Of course you meant no harm, just as I have no real intention of harassing you for your romantic proclivities. It is simply that…"
"Did you love her? Marion and you … did you have plans?"
A shake of the blond head was enough to say no to the question. But something else in Illya's eyes told a different story.
"This job doesn't make it easy. It doesn't even allow for something meaningful.'
There was a pause in which both men pondered the state of their hearts. Napoleon braved a response.
"That's why I do what I do. I want to know the kind of intimacy that will lead to a long and happy life with the woman of my dreams. The trouble is, that woman doesn't live in this world; she doesn't marry a man who may or may not come home for dinner for weeks at a time."
This time Illya nodded, a long intake of breath the only sound he made.
"What happened with Marion? You two seemed like a perfect match; you looked good together."
"What happens between any two people whose lives are so different as ours are? She needed stability and I had none to offer. I needed someone who shares my devotion to a cause, and she … couldn't."
Napoleon considered that, remembered something he'd read somewhere…
"She's married now. I saw it in the paper recently. Did you know?"
"Yes. I actually ran into her, and her new husband … He seems like a good fellow, respectable and … settled."
There. Napoleon couldn't quite identify it, but there was something else to this that Illya wasn't saying.
"What aren't you telling me?"
Illya smiled, that wan expression that bespoke sadness in the guise of complacency.
"Nothing, my friend. Someday perhaps, there will be something to tell, but today… I could use a drink. I could stand getting drunk, as a matter of fact. Would you care to join me? I'll even consider picking up a woman, just to prove I am not afraid of a lack of commitment."
The offer scared Napoleon, just a little.
~~~~~:
Les Girls
As it turned out, the Russian did get a little drunk, but not enough to diminish his reserved demeanor. In spite of the buzz he acquired from too many martinis and a round of vodka, Illya still managed to turn away the advances of several women who had appeared only too eager to engage the attractive blond with the fascinating accent.
Napoleon, on the other hand, found himself particularly drawn to a striking blonde whose red lips beckoned with words he scarcely heard. Because he felt responsible for the state of his nearly inebriated friend, Napoleon arranged to meet Vivien after he took Illya home, something he did immediately upon making his date with the beautiful young woman.
On the drive to Illya’s apartment, and between his intermittent bouts of napping and feeling ill, the conversation inevitably turned to the spontaneous dating habits of the senior agent.
“You are careless, my friend. This woman could be Angelique’s sister for all you know.”
The accent had burrowed itself into something more Russian than normal. Alcohol tended to do that, although Illya would never admit to it.
“You’re just jealous because I’m going to spend the evening with a beautiful woman. You had your chance, Illya, and you let them all pass you by. I don’t know what I’m going to do with you, tovarisch.”
Illya sputtered something that Napoleon didn’t recognize before continuing his analysis of the American’s obvious flaws.
“It is like the letter you received this morning. You still do not know who sent it to you, and still you meet a strange woman and … you will bed her. You will make love to her as though you know her and she is a …”
Illya lapsed again into semi-sleep, causing Napoleon to snort his dismissal of the rambling conversation.
“You’re drunk, Illya. And I have a date.”
It was a little effort to get the Russian out of the passenger seat and up the steps into his building. With a fair amount of complaining and a staunch refusal to be escorted upstairs, Illya took the stairs two at a time, leaving Napoleon to shrug his shoulders and watch as his friend disappeared into the stairwell. He listened for a minute, glad to not hear the sound of stumbling or, worse, tumbling down the stairs. When he was satisfied that Illya was out of danger he turned back to his waiting car and headed, happily and expectantly, to meet Vivien at the Purple Unicorn.
The blonde woman with the ruby red lips sat in a corner booth, her anticipation of seeing Napoleon again heightened substantially by the knowledge that he hadn’t recognized her. She had another opportunity to engage the handsome man who had met her previously and stolen her heart.
This little game of hers, changing her identity slightly, was mostly harmless. Men liked a little mystery, and since their last meeting Vivien had changed her hair color from deep chestnut to platinum blonde. A subtle alteration of her eyebrows and a lip color that went from pale pink to passion fueled red had been enough to avert Napoleon’s recognition of the woman he had known briefly as Nina.
The letter she had sent him was a tease, since she hadn’t signed it. It hadn’t taken long for Napoleon’s charm to sweep Nina into a fantasy filled romance in which she and the suave agent, whom she believed to be an importer of exotic goods, would live happily ever after in a world of her own invention.
Vivien,with the new name she had chosen for her new look, was waiting in a posture that sent the approaching man an immediate signal: this was a woman who was ready to be romanced. Napoleon was ready as well, and all of his best efforts would be rolled out for this beauty.
“Napoleon, you’re here. I hope your friend was not too put out to lose your company.”
Napoleon eased into the booth, sliding up close to Vivien and putting his arm around her bare shoulders.
“Ah, my lovely Vivien. You are sweet to think of him, but please don’t trouble yourself with my brooding Russian’s feelings. This evening is all about you … and us.”
Vivien didn’t wait for Napoleon to make the first move, she placed her hand on his face and kissed him. It pleased him, glad that no games had to be played, no unnecessary enticements. Vivien had opened the doors for what promised to be a garden of delights.
Illya was sick, violently ill and near to passing out. It wasn’t from drinking, at least not from drinking alcohol. In the haze of his delirium the stricken man recognized the signs of poisoning. He managed to call for help on his communicator before succumbing to the raging misery that this evening had become.
Napoleon lay on his back, Vivien in his arms as she played a tune across his bare chest. Their lovemaking had been tumultuous and exciting, her methods bordering on savage. Napoleon was a little unsure whether he had actually enjoyed it, although the climax had been undeniable. Perhaps he did need a woman like this in his menagerie of lovers, although something was nagging at the back of his brain; in spite of Vivien’s obvious attributes,something about her was slightly disturbing to the normally astute agent.
She had offered him a drink before leading him into her bedroom, and while that hadn’t seemed unusual, Napoleon was beginning to wonder if she had spiked it with something. His liaisons with Angelique had taught him to be cautious in the midst of his passion, but this situation hadn’t struck him as dangerous. Lying here next to this woman, reviewing what had just transpired, Napoleon was beginning to wonder if Illya hadn’t been correct in issuing that drunken warning.
That was another worrying thing: Illya had been drunk and sick. It wasn’t like the Russian to be affected by his alcohol consumption, and he certainly hadn’t had enough to make him ill. Perhaps a little too late, Napoleon was beginning to think there was more to Vivien than just a pretty face.
“Vivien my dear, will you excuse me please? I have to take care of something…”
Napoleon kissed her on the forehead as she mewed a complaint at the loss of his body warmth next to her. He moved as casually as possible, considering his misgivings. He let himself into her bathroom, clothes in hand, pulled out his communicator and attempted to contact his partner. When he didn’t get a response, the sense of danger increased.
Vivien waited for her lover to return, anticipating a day spent with this man she had lured into her bed. When Napoleon emerged from the bathroom fully dressed her mood darkened noticeably.
“Why? I thought you’d spend the day with me, lover.”
The pout was suddenly unattractive to Napoleon, and he feared not only for his partner’s well being, but the scathing recriminations he would unleash. They would be well deserved, if things turned out to be as Napoleon now felt certain they would.
“Vivien, is there something you’d like to tell me. We had a ... um, wonderful night, and I know you played a little game with me. Didn’t you now? It’s all right, you can tell me. I’m definitely interested in keeping our affair at the top of my list of pleasures.” Lying to her was effortless.
Vivien was taken aback at that, she had thought herself so clever when formulating this plan. Perhaps poisoning Napoleon’s friend had been a mistake; she would feel bad if he actually died.
“Do you mean it, Napoleon? I just wanted to be with you, and since you didn’t call me …”
At Napoleon’s quizzical expression the woman knew she had more explaining to do.
“We met once before. Do you remember Nina? That was me…”
“You wrote the letter didn’t you. Did you put something in Illya’s drink? I need to know, Vivien… Nina. Who are you really?”
Now she was nervous. Perhaps she had gone too far, but she needed this man, wanted him so desperately that she had been willing to do whatever it might take.
“I … I don’t think it will hurt him… I didn’t mean to kill anyone. Oh, Napoleon… I’m so sorry. I just loved you so much.”
Vivien was sobbing now, some sense of remorse mixed with her delusions of an affair with a man she’d only met briefly once before. Napoleon needed to know what she had used. He needed to get to Illya.
“What was it Vivien? What did you give him? I need to know, in case he’s really sick. Ssshhh… just tell me the truth, sweet heart.”
The soothing tone of Napoleon’s voice eased her enough to convince her she could produce the vial that had held the odious concoction.
Napoleon was on his communicator to Headquarters.
“Open Channel D, Solo here.”
“Mr. Solo, where are you? Mr. Kuryakin is in Medical, he’s…”
“I have the poison, and I’m on my way in.”
“Oh, Napoleon… he’s really sick.’
A shift in speakers changed the atmosphere.
“Uh, Mr. Solo…”
It was Alexander Waverly now on the line.
“Did I hear you say you have the solution that has poisoned Mr. Kuryakin?”
“Yes sir. I’m on my way in. Is he…?”
“He’s holding on, Mr. Solo, but hurry.”
Napoleon put away the little pen shaped implement, all the while with his eyes on the terrified Vivien. He decided to leave her here, doubting that she would budge from where she now cowered in fear of the man she had deceived.
“I’m leaving now, Vivien, but I will be back. Please, don’t go anywhere. We’ll talk about this later.”
“Really? I’ll be here, darling. I promise, I won’t leave.”
Napoleon was out the door, his head a maze of questions and worry. If Illya died because of this obsession he had with women… He couldn’t allow himself to dwell on that. Just get to Headquarters and let the labs analyze what was in this vial, make an antidote… save Illya.
Illya had been in a haze of some sort, vomiting until his insides were raw and rasping out shallow breaths. He was not completely cognizant of his surroundings, and only vaguely aware of the tube inserted down his throat when life support became necessary. By the time Napoleon arrived, the slight frame of the Russian was enveloped in medical machinery and tubes as the staff monitored every blip.
The vial was taken immediately to the lab for analysis as Napoleon watched helplessly. Time crept by until he became aware of someone entering and standing next to him. Mr. Waverly looked tired, and yet here he was in the middle of the night overseeing the care of one of his own. Once more, Napoleon caught himself wondering if the Chief had a bed upstairs for nights like this.
“The labs have provided an antidote for the poison; I expect the doctors will be able to administer it very soon.’
The wizened eyes of Napoleon’s boss took in the miserable appearance of his top operative.
“Would you care to explain to me, Mr. Solo, how this came to be?”
Waverly extended his arm towards Illya, his voice not harsh but his intentions clearly understood.
“It ahh… a woman. A woman whom I had met previously but failed to remember, apparently, became intent on getting my attention and … ‘
Napoleon hadn’t really thought of this previously, but now he wondered about her motives for poisoning Illya.
“… I think that she saw Mr. Kuryakin as a threat or, perhaps competition. I’m unsure on her motives, sir, but she did admit to poisoning him, and even drugging my drink.”
Waverly considered the explanation, pondered the possibility of actually suggesting to Mr. Solo that he be more careful in his dealings with women.
“And where, may I ask, is this woman now?”
“She’s at her apartment. I left her there; she expects me to return.”
Again, Waverly weighed the information against his judgements about the situation.
“Have someone go and pick her up. She probably needs a psychiatric examination, and her actions against Mr. Kuryakin are criminal. I shall make a determination about how best to handle it after I’ve read the results of her .. uhm… the observations made by Dr. Wilson.’
He looked Napoleon directly in the eye.
“Do let me know the progress with the antidote. Mr. Solo, I can’t hold your hand when it comes to the women you court. This woman seems to have been very determined, and I doubt you could have averted this action even had you not welcomed her advances. Certainly her willingness to poison an innocent bystander speaks to her state of mind, and not necessarily to her fascination with you. Don’t be too hard on yourself.”
With a pat on the arm the old man left the room and headed upstairs to his office, perhaps to finally go to his home for the remainder of this early morning. Napoleon had no doubt he would be found hard at work once again when the day began in earnest.
The doors to the room were pushed open as one of the lab boys came bustling into the room with a syringe full of what Napoleon surmised to be the antidote. They had certainly made quick work of it, probably because it was a common poison. It was unlikely that Vivien/Nina had procured anything very exotic.
When the procedure was completed the entire team stepped back away from Illya’s bed and waited. It was an odd sight from Napoleon’s perspective, all the white clad personnel standing by in anticipation of some change. How quickly could something like that work? Napoleon was hopeful that it would be soon.
Within the hour Illya’s complete recovery was predicted by the physicians and nurses. His breathing had evened out, blood pressure stabilized and all indications were that the toxins from the poison had been neutralized by the lab’s antidote. Napoleon, who had taken his position in the room’s only chair, breathed a sigh of relief at the news and the visible signs of its veracity in Illya’s return to life.
The constant movement and attention to the patient began to taper off as he regained consciousness. He was able to answer a few questions, drink a little sip of water and request something in Russian that went unheeded. Only Napoleon had been able to decipher what his still groggy friend had asked, and he wasn’t about to translate for anyone.
“Illya, boy am I glad to see you coming back from the nearly dead. I was starting to think a new partner search was in order.”
The feeble humor was all the concerned American could muster. He had been afraid for his friend, and a little bit mortified that he had been the cause of this incident. From now on, no more women…
“Your girlfriend poisoned me, Napoleon. I think I should be the one looking for a new partner.”
Of course he didn’t mean it. Napoleon smiled back at Illya, but then it occurred to him that the blue eyes were dark and threatening.
“Good one, tovarisch. You’ll get over it, and Mr. Waverly is having her head examined.’
At the glare from the bedridden Russian, Solo fumbled for words.
“I’m really sorry, Illya. She’s … She’s the one who wrote the letter. She isn’t Angelique’s sister, but it appears she is just as dangerous; perhaps more so. I’m … You aren’t really going to ask for another partner are you?”
Illya felt too exhausted to maintain the glare. He was sleepy and tired, his insides felt as though they had been taken out and put back into his body. Besides, Napoleon looked about as miserable as he felt. It wasn’t his partner’s fault that the woman was a psychopath of some sort; it was more like bad luck on his part.
“No, I just want to sleep, Napoleon. I forgive you, now go get some sleep because that is what I intend to do.”
Napoleon breathed a sigh of relief.
“Okay, but I’ll be back first thing in the morning.’
He couldn’t help himself, the moment caught him off guard.
“Illya .. I was really worried there. You … “
The Russian could barely hold his eyes open, but he heard what Napoleon was saying, knew what he intended to convey.
“I know, Napoleon. I’m fine. Just like always, my friend, I am fine.”
That was all he could manage, and within a few blinks on Napoleon’s part, Illya was asleep.
As he headed out into the lobby and towards the elevator, Napoleon realized once more how close it had been.
I must stop doing this. There has to be more to life than a collection of one night stands. Maybe Illya is right…
That’s when the new secretary from Section VII swished past the CEA of the Northwest Region, setting off a whole new set of rules about not listening to dour Russians or tweedy Englishmen.
Just like Popeye, he thought… I am what I am.
** from Popeye the film...
- What am I? I ain't no physcikisk, but I knows what matters. What am I? I'm Popeye the Sailor.
- [singing] And I yam what I yam and I yam what I yam that I yam /
