section7mfu | The 12 Days of UNCLE

Back in Monte Carlo they left Depardieu to his covetous triumph (and Denise to her spoiled silent tantrums) and retired to their room to check in with “Marcel” on the next step.
As soon as Napoleon activated the communicator, however, the New York relay controller routed them first to Mark Slate in Nice.
The agents exchanged a glance during the brief crackle of the transfer.
“Napoleon?” Mark’s voice was anxious, urgent. “Illya? Are you both all right?”
Napoleon scowled. “Why wouldn’t we be?”
“After you left some big plug ugly attacked April. Grabbed the money and threw her out the window. Bastard.”
Illya stepped closer to listen. Napoleon clutched the communicator in a suddenly tight fist.
“Is she … how badly is she hurt?”
“She’s alive. Unconscious. She managed to get out a Code Red, so we were already on the way. Two of the local operatives went after the man while I contacted Medical.”
After a few slow breaths Napoleon got hold of his anger. “All right. Thanks, Mark. Keep us posted.”
“Will do, mate.”
He slipped his communicator into his pocket and forced his brain to focus on what they could do – what they had to do. There was nothing they could do to help April right now.
He took in a deep breath, released it. “OK. No more Mr. “Nice” Guy.”
Illya rolled his eyes at the dreadful pun. “Mal mot, Napoleon. Mal mot.” But he too saw that the game was getting more complicated – whether Depardieu was on to them or not, this gambit increased the risks for the UNCLE team.
Napoleon paced while Illya watched. He had his own ideas, but they worked best when they bounced ideas off each other, picking out weak spots, building on strong.
“First we need to get this thug. Whether he’s an opportunist, or was hired by Depardieu to … replenish his coffers, so to speak, he’s a loose cannon. Contact Nice HQ and see if they’ve caught him yet.”
Illya pulled out his communicator. “The easiest thing, perhaps, would be … radio silence, as it were.”
Napoleon considered, nodded. “Yes. If he was hired by Depardieu, let him think his flunkey has doublecrossed him. Either way he won’t see that money again. Easy, plausible – I like it.” He rubbed his hands together. “We need to up the game. We need to break him. Or, rather, we need him to break himself.”
“We don’t know what he has left in the bank,” Illya cautioned.
“But we can tell by his manner, and by his wife’s manner, that this is getting dangerous. Let’s double down.”
Illya contacted UNCLE Nice, and Bouchard informed them the man – not surprisingly, given April’s quick thinking – had been almost immediately captured, with the money.
“Good work,” Illya said. “Hold him.”
“Yes. We’re looking into his identity and background to see whether—”
“I don’t care about his background.”
“But … what if he—”
“I don’t care if his father was Hitler and his mother the Easter Bunny,” Illya snapped, ignoring Napoleon’s snorted laugh. “For our purposes he needs to disappear for a few days, that’s all.”
Bouchard’s response, though monosyllabic, was clearly irked. “Bon.”
Napoleon nodded. “Good enough – next, we need to see if Waverly’s all right with stepping away from script a little. Depardieu’s getting impatient and, possibly, suspicious. We need to switch things up.”
This one Napoleon took on himself, contacting UNCLE New York and learning, with the explanation on his lips, that Waverly had already heard from Mark Slate.
“Sir, it appears that, whether this plug ugly was in Depardieu’s employ or not, he’s getting a little edgy, even a little suspicious. I don’t think we can milk this much longer before we scare him off, obsession or no obsession.” Napoleon glanced at his partner, a look that asked if Illya wanted to add anything. Illya shook his head. “We need to up the stakes.”
“Yes, I see your concern. Hm … no, I trust you gentlemen to adjust our plan as needed to achieve our goal. The next item is at your disposal – contact Gerard at Tresors Antiquites in Nice for the particulars, and good luck.”
“I’d like to know what he thinks luck has to do with it,” Illya grumbled, donning his jacket.
“Napoleon shrugged. “I’ll take a combination of luck and skill over either one by itself. Now, have Bouchard meet us with transportation at the bottom of the drive. Let’s do a little second-story work.”
“Does it count as second-story work when we’re leaving without taking anything?” Illya said, pulling out his communicator again.
They headed for the balcony. The property was sufficiently verdant that hiding places were plentiful – over the balcony and around the back of the house, through the shrubberies and down to the street.
~*~*~*~*~
Three hours later two unrumpled UNCLE agents left Tresors Antiquites in Nice, well pleased.
“This is excellent,” Illya said. Napoleon smiled the smile of the man with the winning hand and everyone’s money in the pot.
“Exactly. This prize will be absolutely irresistible. Then, we bring in something else …”
Illya smiled. “Equally irresistible. And costly. But Waverly said we’ve only the diary pages left. What can we possibly invent or discover …”
Napoleon saw by the light in Illya’s eyes that he had hit on the same obvious, diabolical answer.
~*~*~*~*~
Bouchard dropped them off and they walked in the front door of Depardieu’s home.
“I have a spoiled heiress to tease,” Illya said sourly. “Don’t wait up.” He marched off into the house with a wave.
“You know I won’t,” Napoleon replied. If Illya were anyone else that wave would have turned into the bird. He smiled and went to Depardieu’s study.
The door was open. He tapped and waited politely.
“Never mind. Find a way.” Depardieu hung up the phone, fake-smiling at the two men.
“M. Solo. What can I do for you?”
Napoleon entered. “We have another item. The owner will not be available to meet you but we have his permission to enter his estate and view the item he’s offering for sale.”
“What is this item?” He seemed equal parts interest and suspicion, which fed into Napoleon’s belief that he was either running out of money or running out of faith in them (the latter seemed unlikely as they’d upheld their end of every bargain).
“I want you to see it.” He smiled. “I think you’ll agree it’s worth your while. Shall we take a drive?”
~*~*~*~*~
Depardieu looked around in obvious distaste at the shabby house Napoleon had directed him to; it was an evident embarrassment to its finer neighbors. He parked the Aston Martin and looked at Napoleon.
“Ah –” Napoleon raised an admonitory finger. “Don’t judge a book by its cover. In this case quite literally.”
They passed through a small, tidy front garden to a door badly in need of varnish. Napoleon unlocked the door and led the way along the corridor to a library at the back, overlooking gardens now derelict but once, probably, the pride of the neighborhood.
Depardieu’s interest perked at the quality of the library itself. He clearly knew quality when he saw it, however faded.
Napoleon led the way to a display case near the garden doors and directed Depardieu’s attention to it with a flourish.
“They were found at Cimiez Monastery in Nice some years ago.”
Depardieu’s brow furrowed. “A monastery?” He stepped close.
“Well, it’s in the hands of a private collector now. He can provide the provenance as well as proof of ownership.”
Depardieu flushed with excitement as he bent over the display case. “Mon … mon dieu. Is this … can this possibly ..?”
“Indeed. Pages from Marie Antoinette’s personal diary, autumn of 1789. Evidently the diary itself was badly damaged and over the years deteriorated; these few pages are all that were left when my contact acquired them.” He paused as Depardieu examined the three quarto-sized pages, brown with age. Then Napoleon lowered his voice. “Imagine. With her own hand she wrote these delicate, personal lines. Marie Antoinette’s own hand, her own voice. Those can be yours.”
“Why – why would he sell such a thing? Who, having this treasure, would willingly part with it?”
Napoleon shook his head sadly, even though Depardieu’s eyes were still fixed on the pages. “You saw the house. You see the garden. Treasures are worthless without a roof over your head and food on the table. Also there is a small matter of some legal concerns my contact needs to deal with. That takes money.” He took a manila folder from a nearby table. “Photocopies of the reverse of the diary pages and the ownership and provenance documents. You will of course get originals with purchase.” He opened the folder and spread the items out. Depardieu glanced at them, then edged them aside to gaze again at the pages themselves.
His hands trembled on the edges of the case. He looked up, still flushed. “What is your connection asking?”
The high color faded when he heard the price. He straightened up from the case, thinking, thinking, while Napoleon held his breath mentally.
For one crazy moment Depardieu looked around and Napoleon, reading him, snapped, “Don’t even think about it. There’s more security here than is evident. Including my own humble self.” He shifted his jacket to reveal his UNCLE Special and Depardieu’s face fell. “I can’t have my contacts losing trust in me – on either end of the deal.” He let his coat drape over the gun again.
Depardieu straightened. “The diary will take every last centime of my available resources.”
Napoleon said nothing, showed nothing.
Depardieu shook his head. “No matter. I must have it. I will make this happen.” He looked at them. “Will your seller give me time?”
“You know the straits he’s in,” Napoleon said. “He doesn’t have a great deal of time before this goes to public bidding.”
“A day, that’s all I ask.” Depardieu’s face twisted into pleading desperation, and Napoleon held up both hands.
“I’ll ask. It’s all I can do. You have shown good faith to us, I will show it to you – I will ask that he wait.”
“Merci, merci. I will get the money, I promise you.”
Napoleon nodded. “I’ll speak to him.”
~*~*~*~*~
They parted ways at a café in Nice where Depardieu drove off in a cloud of hope and exhaust, and Napoleon joined Illya on the patio.
“Everything in order?” he asked his partner. “I assume she won’t know what hit her, so to speak.”
Illya grimaced. “So to speak. I have a couple more details to fix before the sun sets and the moon rises in all its romantic glory.” Another grimace. “Is the fish hooked?”
“Well and truly. He’s close to the end of his rope, financially speaking. This could work.” He slipped out his communicator, held close to his body and out of the view of casual passers-by. Illya leaned in.
The first question to UNCLE Nice was about April’s condition.
“She should recover without permanent damage, but she has a concussion, a dislocated shoulder, a great deal of bruising, and a chipped front tooth.”
Napoleon glanced at his partner, relief that she was all right tempered now with amusement, knowing how April’s vanity would react to the latter concern.
The agents went their separate ways, both expecting that the night to come would materially change several persons’ circumstances, to their dismay and UNCLE’s advantage.
~*~*~*~*~
I should get hazard pay for this was Illya’s continual thought as he pinged pebbles against Denise’s window from the garden. He felt a fool; this kind of thing was more in Napoleon’s line. He also disliked using innocents, although perhaps that was too strong a word for a spoiled brat like Denise.
The light went on. He stopped pinging. Resplendent in a champagne colored negligee, she leaned out the window, saw him, gave a tiny jump of joy for which he knew he would spend an extra year in hell, and disappeared.
Minutes later she was fully dressed and slipping out the garden doors.
“Illya!” She threw her arms around him and he felt a pang of regret for what he must do.
“Where have you been?” She drew back, still holding him, searching his face with what was probably meant to be romantic longing but still looked to him – even in the moonlight – like petulance. “You disappeared and I didn’t see you all day. I thought you’d grown bored with me. And now … a moonlight tryst!” She gazed into his eyes, preparatory to a kiss, and he backed off.
“Actually, I have something for you.”
Her face lit like a spring sunrise. “You do? What is it? A present?”
He said, “More of a surprise.”
She looked him over with much more concupiscence than romantic interest. “Where? Can I see it?”
“I don’t have it,” he said, holding out his arms for her to check. “It’s not that kind of surprise.”
She stopped, gazing avidly at him, and he smiled.
“Do you trust me?”
“Of course, Illya darling!”
“Then come with me – we mustn’t tell anyone.” He pressed a finger lightly to her lips and she kissed it. “It’s … special. Just for you and me.”
She beamed and reattached herself to his arm. “Lead the way!”
As they sneaked hand-in-hand toward the garages, he mused that at least he’d found a way to nip her romantic feelings in the bud. After this, she’d probably want him dead.
~*~*~*~*~
Napoleon – not surprised to see that Illya’s bed had not been slept in, attended to morning ablutions and descended to the ground floor. Depardieu’s study door was open, so he stuck his head in.
“Good morning.”
Depardieu, staring at his phone, positively jumped.
“Sorry – you look as though you’re expecting an important call.” Napoleon stepped into the room.
Depardieu glanced at the phone again. “I am. I … a colleague was supposed to contact me this morning, first thing. He has failed me.” Anger clenched his face for a moment, then he swept it away with a gesture. “Never mind. Never mind. The important thing is that I have managed … that is, I have arranged for the funds to purchase the diary.”
The doorbell rang. Depardieu glanced up in annoyance but left it for the servant to answer.
“Let me call him,” Napoleon said. “May I use your phone? When would you like to meet with him?”
“Immediately!” Depardieu said. “The sooner the better.” He indicated permission for Napoleon to make the call.
His maid tapped timidly on the open door and entered, a letter in her hand. “It is marked very urgent, sir,” she said, uneasy. “I didn’t wish to interrupt you—”
He snatched it. “Never mind. Thank you. Go.”
She went. He wrenched the envelope open. “Excuse me, M. Solo – one moment.”
“Of course. I’ll make the call.” Napoleon turned his back.
Abruptly Depardieu bellowed, “Denise!”
Napoleon started, put the phone down. Bingo.
Depardieu scurried to the study doors and flung them open, shouting up the stairs, “Denise! Regina! Where is everyone, damn it!”
His wife flowed out of the corridor upstairs. “What is it, Justin? You’re white as the scream you just sent battering against my eardrums.”
“Where is Denise?”
Regina blinked. “In her room, I suppose, at this ungodly hour.”
“Check!” he snapped. “Check now!”
She went red, but marched away. A few moments later she reappeared at the top of the stairs, eyes wide, face anxious.
“She’s not there. Her bed has been slept in, her window is open, her purse is gone. Justin … what has happened?”
She waited but he dismissed her with a scowl and turned to face Napoleon.
“Your partner!” He snapped. “And where is he?”
Fingers mentally crossed, Napoleon pointed upstairs. “He was still asleep—”
“Are you looking for me, monsieur?” Illya trotted around Regina and down the stairs, tying his tie, suitcoat over one arm. “My apologies. I arose a trifle after my usual time.” He stopped next to Napoleon. “Is something wrong?”
Hand shaking, Depardieu thrust a slip of thick paper at them.
We have your daughter. Bring $10,000,000 francs to Église Sainte-Dévote by midnight tonight. For every hour you delay after that deadline, the price increases by a million francs, and her extremities will decrease by a finger or a toe. If you go to the authorities she will die horribly. Do not fail.
Illya’s brows rose; he handed the note to Napoleon, who reacted similarly before giving Depardieu the note again. Regina stood still and impatient at the top of the stairs.
Depardieu crumpled it in a fist, venting a fair few sharp French oaths. “I have warned her time and again. I am a powerful man. I have enemies. But will she listen, will she take the least precaution? My god …” He framed his forehead in one hand, so pale that for an instant Napoleon actually felt sorry for him.
He looked up at the two agents in apparently genuine entreaty. “What am I to do?”
“You must pay the ransom,” Illya put in, without shame or sympathy. “They will kill your daughter.”
“But …” Clearly his first – or second, to give him some paternal credit – thought was what about the diary?
Depardieu’s gaze left them, lengthened, to the distance and the hope of mathematics.
Napoleon’s moment of sympathy fled, stage left, pursued by triumph, when he saw, very clearly, the financial calculations going on in Depardieu’s eyes: Can I possibly do both?