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section7mfuYou can read the prompt here.
The door hissed closed behind Lisa Rogers as Napoleon and Illya took their seats.
Waverly stood at a projector, focusing a picture on the screen. He cleared his throat, then hesitated, appearing reluctant to begin the briefing.
Finally he spoke. “Gentlemen, do you recognize this man?”
The agents stared at the image. A handsome, leonine head smiled down at them. Napoleon looked at Illya’s furrowed brow. “Ah, no, sir, I don’t think we do.”
Waverly said nothing. The agents looked at each other and back to the image on the screen. Luxuriant silver hair flowed back in waves from the man’s face until it touched his shoulders. It was matched by a full, curling beard.
“Whoever he is, I hope to look as good when I reach his age,” Napoleon offered.
“And what age do you suppose that to be, Mr. Solo?”
“Ah, late 60s?”
“No,” Illya interjected. “Too young. He has the eyes of a man who has seen more than three score years.”
“With that boyish smile, he can’t be more than a sexagenarian.”
Illya rolled his eyes at Napoleon’s choice of words. “He has had time to acquire both knowledge and wisdom. He has witnessed much of mankind’s failures and follies, but it has not made him cynical.”
Napoleon stared at the piercing blue eyes on the screen. “You can get all that from a photograph, huh?”
“Can’t you?”
“I can tell he’d look right at home at the end of the Macy’s Parade.”
Napoleon cocked his head at his partner, waiting for a caustic response. Illya stared at the image pensively. “I had had a similar thought. He put me in mind of Dyed Moroz.” Illya turned to Waverly. “Grandfather Frost, the Russian Spirit of Winter.”
Waverly released a pent up breath. He pulled his pipe, already filled, from his coat pocket and lit it. His hand trembled. The agents exchanged worried looks.
“May we have his name, sir?” Illya asked gently.
Waverly drew deeply on his pipe, wreaths of Isle of Dogs No.22 circling about his head. “He’s had many over the years. Just what he started with, well, I think he himself has even forgotten that.”
“Has Section IV run his aliases through our computers?” Napoleon asked. “We could cross-reference the results with Interpol and—”
“Not aliases,” Mr. Waverly interrupted gruffly. “Names. And there’s no need for all that. I know exactly who he is.”
“I’m sorry, sir. I don’t quite understand what it is you want from us.”
Waverly crossed to his chair and lowered himself into it. He closed his eyes for a moment, his face a mask of exhaustion. Then he opened them again and looked at his best men. “For now, Mr. Solo, I want you both to listen with an open mind. Can you do that?”
The agents nodded.
“What I have to tell you goes beyond mere designations of secrecy. Few living souls are privileged to share in this knowledge. Not even my counterparts in Section I know of this.”
Waverly worked the panel as he spoke. His agents recognized the sequence for enabling the room’s highest security measures.
“I met him during the Great War when he was an ambulance driver with the Red Cross. My men told fanciful stories about him. They claimed he could reach any field hospital in an instant, and that, no matter how rutted or muddy the road, the ride felt as if you were gliding over newly fallen snow.”
He paused, his gaze faraway. Napoleon said, “The men in Korea had similar ideas. If Tailwind Thompson was your chopper pilot, it was a good omen. No matter the injury, you were guaranteed to make it.”
Waverly’s eyes refocused on the present. “One day it was my turn to require his conveyance. Shrapnel. Both legs.” He rubbed his thigh reflexively. “To take my mind off the situation, as it were, I decided to time the ride.”
Waverly removed a watch from his inner pocket and placed it on the table.
Illya’s mouth curved. “That accounts for the alarms earlier.”
“Yes, I gave Mr. Dennell’s scanner systems an inadvertent test this morning. Though it no longer glows, the luminous paint is still radioactive.” He tapped the crystal. “This watch has kept perfect time for 40 years. I have no reason to assume that day was any different. We covered eight miles in 67 seconds.”
Napoleon’s mouth dropped. Illya said, “I presume the medical personnel gave men something for pain. That may account for the…altered perception of time.”
“It well might. Except that casualties had been heavy, and the station had depleted its supply of morphia.” His eyes twinkled at their expressions of sympathetic agony. “Oh, I always kept a flask of good brandy on me. It was enough to alleviate a bit of my discomfort, but not impair my faculties.”
“Sir, eight miles in a minute is just not possible,” Napoleon said. “It takes a turbojet to reach that kind of speed.”
“As you say, Mr. Solo. And such technology was a mere dream at that time. So I kept the information to myself, lest I receive a visit from the division psychiatrist.” Waverly pointed his pipe at the screen. “Yet, a few days later, I awoke to find this man at my bedside. Somehow he knew I had timed him, and he was curious about the result. When I told him, he was disappointed. Said he should have done it in under a minute.”
Waverly set his pipe next to the watch. “Noel Perry. That’s the name he used in the Red Cross. Perry said he needed a friend, one he could trust, and that he sensed in me a kindred spirit. It is no exaggeration when I tell you that, were it not for that encounter and the friendship it forged, I would not be sitting in this chair today.”
Each agent slanted his gaze at the other, their eyes not quite meeting. “Friendship can be a very powerful thing,” Napoleon said.
“Even a sacred honor.”
“Precisely, Mr. Kuryakin. Last night, I received word that Perry was in mortal danger. This organization is going to save him.” He raised a forestalling hand. “Oh, this is no personal favor. You are going up against Thrush and their Operation Tannenbaum.”
“Tannenbaum?” Napoleon said. “I thought that was the plan to disrupt the Christmas shopping season. We’ve got agents stationed in most major retailers.”
“I’ve already recalled them. All that chatter about undermining the world economy was meant to blind us to their true purpose.”
“Which was?”
Waverly looked at the screen. “To kidnap my friend.”
“What would Thrush want with this Noel Perry?”
Waverly did not answer. Instead he brought a parcel up from the floor, wrapped in brown paper and twine. He removed a small red velvet bag from inside. “This came to me last night by special courier. Perry always told me he’d send it, if necessary, but I never really expected…” His hands hovered over the material. “It seems I’ve gotten a field commission.”
Napoleon removed his hand from his chin and sat up straighter. He looked from the bag to the screen to his Chief in rapid succession. “Ah, sir, you’re not saying that your friend is…I mean, you don’t really expect us to believe that this man is—”
“Santa Claus. Yes, Mr. Solo, I do. I said I needed you both to keep an open mind. However, if it takes more than my word to convince you, perhaps these will help.”
Taking a deep breath, Waverly plunged his arm into the sack.
“Wasn’t that bag smaller before?” Illya said incredulously.
Waverly withdrew his arm. In his hand was a box, bigger than the parcel beside it, wrapped in emerald green paper and topped with a gold bow. Waverly returned his arm to the bag and pulled out a second box, this one in silver and crimson. Clearing the other items onto his lap, he spun the table until the packages rested before the two agents.
The door hissed closed behind Lisa Rogers as Napoleon and Illya took their seats.
Waverly stood at a projector, focusing a picture on the screen. He cleared his throat, then hesitated, appearing reluctant to begin the briefing.
Finally he spoke. “Gentlemen, do you recognize this man?”
The agents stared at the image. A handsome, leonine head smiled down at them. Napoleon looked at Illya’s furrowed brow. “Ah, no, sir, I don’t think we do.”
Waverly said nothing. The agents looked at each other and back to the image on the screen. Luxuriant silver hair flowed back in waves from the man’s face until it touched his shoulders. It was matched by a full, curling beard.
“Whoever he is, I hope to look as good when I reach his age,” Napoleon offered.
“And what age do you suppose that to be, Mr. Solo?”
“Ah, late 60s?”
“No,” Illya interjected. “Too young. He has the eyes of a man who has seen more than three score years.”
“With that boyish smile, he can’t be more than a sexagenarian.”
Illya rolled his eyes at Napoleon’s choice of words. “He has had time to acquire both knowledge and wisdom. He has witnessed much of mankind’s failures and follies, but it has not made him cynical.”
Napoleon stared at the piercing blue eyes on the screen. “You can get all that from a photograph, huh?”
“Can’t you?”
“I can tell he’d look right at home at the end of the Macy’s Parade.”
Napoleon cocked his head at his partner, waiting for a caustic response. Illya stared at the image pensively. “I had had a similar thought. He put me in mind of Dyed Moroz.” Illya turned to Waverly. “Grandfather Frost, the Russian Spirit of Winter.”
Waverly released a pent up breath. He pulled his pipe, already filled, from his coat pocket and lit it. His hand trembled. The agents exchanged worried looks.
“May we have his name, sir?” Illya asked gently.
Waverly drew deeply on his pipe, wreaths of Isle of Dogs No.22 circling about his head. “He’s had many over the years. Just what he started with, well, I think he himself has even forgotten that.”
“Has Section IV run his aliases through our computers?” Napoleon asked. “We could cross-reference the results with Interpol and—”
“Not aliases,” Mr. Waverly interrupted gruffly. “Names. And there’s no need for all that. I know exactly who he is.”
“I’m sorry, sir. I don’t quite understand what it is you want from us.”
Waverly crossed to his chair and lowered himself into it. He closed his eyes for a moment, his face a mask of exhaustion. Then he opened them again and looked at his best men. “For now, Mr. Solo, I want you both to listen with an open mind. Can you do that?”
The agents nodded.
“What I have to tell you goes beyond mere designations of secrecy. Few living souls are privileged to share in this knowledge. Not even my counterparts in Section I know of this.”
Waverly worked the panel as he spoke. His agents recognized the sequence for enabling the room’s highest security measures.
“I met him during the Great War when he was an ambulance driver with the Red Cross. My men told fanciful stories about him. They claimed he could reach any field hospital in an instant, and that, no matter how rutted or muddy the road, the ride felt as if you were gliding over newly fallen snow.”
He paused, his gaze faraway. Napoleon said, “The men in Korea had similar ideas. If Tailwind Thompson was your chopper pilot, it was a good omen. No matter the injury, you were guaranteed to make it.”
Waverly’s eyes refocused on the present. “One day it was my turn to require his conveyance. Shrapnel. Both legs.” He rubbed his thigh reflexively. “To take my mind off the situation, as it were, I decided to time the ride.”
Waverly removed a watch from his inner pocket and placed it on the table.
Illya’s mouth curved. “That accounts for the alarms earlier.”
“Yes, I gave Mr. Dennell’s scanner systems an inadvertent test this morning. Though it no longer glows, the luminous paint is still radioactive.” He tapped the crystal. “This watch has kept perfect time for 40 years. I have no reason to assume that day was any different. We covered eight miles in 67 seconds.”
Napoleon’s mouth dropped. Illya said, “I presume the medical personnel gave men something for pain. That may account for the…altered perception of time.”
“It well might. Except that casualties had been heavy, and the station had depleted its supply of morphia.” His eyes twinkled at their expressions of sympathetic agony. “Oh, I always kept a flask of good brandy on me. It was enough to alleviate a bit of my discomfort, but not impair my faculties.”
“Sir, eight miles in a minute is just not possible,” Napoleon said. “It takes a turbojet to reach that kind of speed.”
“As you say, Mr. Solo. And such technology was a mere dream at that time. So I kept the information to myself, lest I receive a visit from the division psychiatrist.” Waverly pointed his pipe at the screen. “Yet, a few days later, I awoke to find this man at my bedside. Somehow he knew I had timed him, and he was curious about the result. When I told him, he was disappointed. Said he should have done it in under a minute.”
Waverly set his pipe next to the watch. “Noel Perry. That’s the name he used in the Red Cross. Perry said he needed a friend, one he could trust, and that he sensed in me a kindred spirit. It is no exaggeration when I tell you that, were it not for that encounter and the friendship it forged, I would not be sitting in this chair today.”
Each agent slanted his gaze at the other, their eyes not quite meeting. “Friendship can be a very powerful thing,” Napoleon said.
“Even a sacred honor.”
“Precisely, Mr. Kuryakin. Last night, I received word that Perry was in mortal danger. This organization is going to save him.” He raised a forestalling hand. “Oh, this is no personal favor. You are going up against Thrush and their Operation Tannenbaum.”
“Tannenbaum?” Napoleon said. “I thought that was the plan to disrupt the Christmas shopping season. We’ve got agents stationed in most major retailers.”
“I’ve already recalled them. All that chatter about undermining the world economy was meant to blind us to their true purpose.”
“Which was?”
Waverly looked at the screen. “To kidnap my friend.”
“What would Thrush want with this Noel Perry?”
Waverly did not answer. Instead he brought a parcel up from the floor, wrapped in brown paper and twine. He removed a small red velvet bag from inside. “This came to me last night by special courier. Perry always told me he’d send it, if necessary, but I never really expected…” His hands hovered over the material. “It seems I’ve gotten a field commission.”
Napoleon removed his hand from his chin and sat up straighter. He looked from the bag to the screen to his Chief in rapid succession. “Ah, sir, you’re not saying that your friend is…I mean, you don’t really expect us to believe that this man is—”
“Santa Claus. Yes, Mr. Solo, I do. I said I needed you both to keep an open mind. However, if it takes more than my word to convince you, perhaps these will help.”
Taking a deep breath, Waverly plunged his arm into the sack.
“Wasn’t that bag smaller before?” Illya said incredulously.
Waverly withdrew his arm. In his hand was a box, bigger than the parcel beside it, wrapped in emerald green paper and topped with a gold bow. Waverly returned his arm to the bag and pulled out a second box, this one in silver and crimson. Clearing the other items onto his lap, he spun the table until the packages rested before the two agents.
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