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C'est La Vie - chapter 6
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glennagirl at C'est La Vie - chapter 6
glennagirl at C'est La Vie - chapter 6part 1
~~~~:
It was nearing four o’clock in the morning by the time Napoleon told Janice Friday to go home and get a few hours sleep. The normally perky assistant was reluctant to go, but the night had been a traumatic one for her, and she wisely accepted that rest would be a better choice; her duties were not over, perhaps only now truly beginning.
Illya had convinced his daughter to lie down on the sofa in Sir John’s … Napoleon’s office retreat. The girl had yet to truly deal with her mother’s death, something Illya dreaded to confront for both their sakes. Losing Marion was still something like a dream, or a nightmare. The recurring image of Gervaise Ravel as she drew close to the beautiful blonde sent shivers down the Russian’s spine as he remembered the final gasps of life from Marion’s lips. He was unsure of his feelings for her, at once grateful and ashamed that they had shared a bed less than twenty-four hours earlier. He now understood why Marion had wanted to shield Nicolette from their on again, off again affair. The girl’s parents had loved each other, and yet neither of them had the courage to make a life together, not even for their daughter’s sake.
Illya’s memories were interrupted by the voice of his friend.
“How are you holding up, Illya? If you need to get a little shut eye…”
The stern expression was the only answer Napoleon needed.
“All right then, what do you think should be our next move? Gervaise has help from someone inside, and based on the information we’ve gleaned from Janice’s research, it can only be two people.”
Janice Friday had proved herself to be an asset throughout the night, thorough in her research into Gervaise Ravel’s history for the past twenty years. More over, the girl jokingly referred to as Girl Friday had been able to connect two UNCLE employees with the murderess who had killed Marion. It was these two files over that commanded the attention of the new UNCLE Chief and his former partner.
“What do you think is the reason that these two people have any reason to be involved with Gervaise? They’re young, with no apparent hidden criminal involvement.”
Napoleon was musing over the conundrum in front of him, not able to make a connection that would satisfy his need for some type of symmetry in this affair. Surely UNCLE hadn’t been so sloppy as to hire people with obvious ties to someone like Gervaise Ravel.
“Look at their names, Napoleon. Do you see anything peculiar?”
Napoleon looked for the hundredth time at the two names on this list. Both of these people would be reporting for work in three hours time, meaning there needed to be something in place that resembled a plan of action by eight o’clock.
“Buffy Haroldson … Harold Bolero. I think the lack of sleep is stunting my ability to follow your line of thought here, tovarisch. The only thing I see… ‘
Napoleon looked up at his friend, a sudden realization hitting him as Illya simply nodded.
“They have the same birthday, Napoleon. Their names are fairly obvious… Buffy for Bufferton, Haroldson for …”
“Yeah, for Harold. Harold Bufferton. What about Harold Bolero?”
Illya let a smile slip across his tired countenance.
“Surely you, of all people, are familiar with Ravel’s Bolero.”
Napoleon leaned his head back against the headrest, allowing the strains of the famous musical composition to drift into his mind.
“Oh, well yes, I suppose I am. So, who are these people Illya? Why do they have names that reference a dead man and a woman who’s been in prison for twenty years?”
Illya hated to consider it, but deep down he knew, instinctively, who the traitorous UNCLE employees were.
“I think they are, most probably, the children of Harold Bufferton and Gervaise Ravel. In the notes made by Janice, she mentions that Gervaise gave birth to twins while in her first year of imprisonment. The infants were given to a relative in France, but that’s where the trail ends. There is nothing more concerning the children. Gervaise spent twenty years in a specialized institution and was released earlier this year after convincing the powers that be of her rehabilitation and remorse for her numerous misdeeds.”
Napoleon was amazed at how easily Illya conveyed the information. People using their own children to carry out murder; it was unthinkable.
“And so we have the children working at UNCLE, gathering information and passing it on to their mother? Illya, that is extraordinary, and completely believable considering who it is we’re dealing with. When do these two come in today?”
Illya looked at some schedules that lay on the table, looking for the names of the two Ravel children.
“Only Harold Bolero is scheduled to come in today; it is apparently Buffy’s day off. I’ll have Harold brought up here as soon as he arrives.’
Illya took a deep breath, the expectation of having to face someone involved in the death of Marion made him suddenly very weary. And sad. Illya realized he was incredibly sad, and he had no place in which to give vent to the emotion. Like so many other times, it would have to wait.
“I would like to interrogate him. I realize there is a tremendous conflict of interest here, but it won’t affect my methods or me. I need to do this, Napoleon.”
It was understandable, and with similar circumstances Napoleon knew he would feel the same way.
“All right, tovarisch. But just remember, we still need to get to Gervaise and to Buffy. We’ll have only one of the three who have committed these awful acts.”
Illya nodded, the look on his face morphing from that of the grieving lover to the hardened agent he could so easily become. Time had never been able to remove that aspect of his former life.
At eight o’clock sharp the young man known as Harold Bolero arrived at UNCLE Headquarters, ready to start his day in the commissary as one of the wait staff. Bolero had been one of several college students invited to apply for positions within Headquarters as a prelude to what might become a career choice. UNCLE like to present itself to college level hopefuls with opportunities ranging from secretarial to this restaurant environment. It was a friendly way of introducing the Command without the intrigue and drama that might come along later.
Harold Bolero had been one of about twenty students whose profile had fit the UNCLE mandates for grades and aptitudes that were compatible with the needs and vision of the organization. The other Ravel offspring, Buffy Haroldson, had also been among the top twenty; she had received a position in the communications section as an intern, something made possible by her fluency in French and Italian.
But, it was Harold now who would be first into the hands of Illya Kuryakin. Whether or not the young man understood how he had been used by his mother, Gervaise Ravel, was as yet unknown. Based on the security tapes, it was she who had fired the fatal shot that killed Sir John. It was almost certain, however, that without her son’s help she would not have been able to enter Headquarters.
Before Harold was able to get into his uniform he received a message to report to personnel. If he had any clue as to why, it didn’t show on the young man’s face. He seemed to be pleased with the opportunity to meet with who he was told was the head of Human Resources for UNCLE New York.
Upon entering the HR offices, Harold Bolero was met by the man he had come to know as the assassin who killed his father, Harold Bufferton. Pictures had not done the Russian justice; he seemed younger than his fifty-one years, and just as cold blooded as his mother had warned him he would be.
“Hello, Mr. Kuryakin. I must say, I didn’t expect to see you so soon.”
Illya didn’t offer any relief to the stern expression he bore.
“And yet, you did expect to see me. How is that, Harold? I don’t even know you.”
Harold Bolero smiled, a coy smile that immediately reminded Illya of the young man’s mother. He looked very much like her, with black hair and blue eyes that seemed misplaced in the light complexion.
“Oh, I know you, Mr. Kuryakin. You killed my father.”
Illya suddenly recognized the voice; it was the same voice that had been on the other end of the telephone the other night. Had it only been yesterday morning when he and Marion…? Inwardly, the Russian cringed at the thought of how this man was involved in her death.
Not wishing to look affected by that statement, Illya maintained a look of indifference. So, they weren’t dealing with an innocent.
“I assume then that you are involved with the murder of Sir John Raleigh as well as that of Marion Lindsay. We know it was your mother that pulled the trigger, killing Sir John. We also have no doubt that you are involved, and are responsible for her being in the building.’
Bolero didn’t yield. He wasn’t afraid, he was doing this for mother and she had promised to protect him.
“What I’m wondering is, are you willing to suffer the consequences for her actions? We have you. If no one else is apprehended, then you’re the one who will bear the price of her murderous ways. Is that what you want?”
The young man didn’t change his expression, did not move. His mother would save him, he was certain of it.
“No court of law will convict me for something that was clearly the action of another. You don’t think for a minute…”
Illya laughed, something that inexplicably sent a cold chill up Harold Bolero’s spine.
“You misunderstand me, Harold. You won’t be tried in a court of law. You have violated the U.N.C.L.E. while an employee. That makes you a traitor, and as such subject to our methods of punishment. Do you expect to leave here today? I hate to disappoint you, but you will never again see the light of day unless you give us your mother’s location. It really is that simple.”
Harold was unable to control his shock. He hadn’t considered this as part of the scheme when his mother had convinced him to join her in this vendetta. He was unprepared for the finality of the Russian’s statement.
“You’re bluffing! You can’t hold me here, I’ll… I have rights.”
“You have no rights. Your mother killed the head of UNCLE Northwest because you helped her to do it, and then she killed Marion Raven Lindsay. For the first you will be subject to the wrath of the U.N.C.L.E., but for the latter …’
Illya turned his gaze on the younger man with a look that could have chilled ice; his voice dropped down to a growling tone.
“… for Marion’s death, you will answer to me.”
Harold’s heart nearly stopped at the look on the Russian’s face. Why hadn’t his mother told him about that?
chapter 7
~~~~:
It was nearing four o’clock in the morning by the time Napoleon told Janice Friday to go home and get a few hours sleep. The normally perky assistant was reluctant to go, but the night had been a traumatic one for her, and she wisely accepted that rest would be a better choice; her duties were not over, perhaps only now truly beginning.
Illya had convinced his daughter to lie down on the sofa in Sir John’s … Napoleon’s office retreat. The girl had yet to truly deal with her mother’s death, something Illya dreaded to confront for both their sakes. Losing Marion was still something like a dream, or a nightmare. The recurring image of Gervaise Ravel as she drew close to the beautiful blonde sent shivers down the Russian’s spine as he remembered the final gasps of life from Marion’s lips. He was unsure of his feelings for her, at once grateful and ashamed that they had shared a bed less than twenty-four hours earlier. He now understood why Marion had wanted to shield Nicolette from their on again, off again affair. The girl’s parents had loved each other, and yet neither of them had the courage to make a life together, not even for their daughter’s sake.
Illya’s memories were interrupted by the voice of his friend.
“How are you holding up, Illya? If you need to get a little shut eye…”
The stern expression was the only answer Napoleon needed.
“All right then, what do you think should be our next move? Gervaise has help from someone inside, and based on the information we’ve gleaned from Janice’s research, it can only be two people.”
Janice Friday had proved herself to be an asset throughout the night, thorough in her research into Gervaise Ravel’s history for the past twenty years. More over, the girl jokingly referred to as Girl Friday had been able to connect two UNCLE employees with the murderess who had killed Marion. It was these two files over that commanded the attention of the new UNCLE Chief and his former partner.
“What do you think is the reason that these two people have any reason to be involved with Gervaise? They’re young, with no apparent hidden criminal involvement.”
Napoleon was musing over the conundrum in front of him, not able to make a connection that would satisfy his need for some type of symmetry in this affair. Surely UNCLE hadn’t been so sloppy as to hire people with obvious ties to someone like Gervaise Ravel.
“Look at their names, Napoleon. Do you see anything peculiar?”
Napoleon looked for the hundredth time at the two names on this list. Both of these people would be reporting for work in three hours time, meaning there needed to be something in place that resembled a plan of action by eight o’clock.
“Buffy Haroldson … Harold Bolero. I think the lack of sleep is stunting my ability to follow your line of thought here, tovarisch. The only thing I see… ‘
Napoleon looked up at his friend, a sudden realization hitting him as Illya simply nodded.
“They have the same birthday, Napoleon. Their names are fairly obvious… Buffy for Bufferton, Haroldson for …”
“Yeah, for Harold. Harold Bufferton. What about Harold Bolero?”
Illya let a smile slip across his tired countenance.
“Surely you, of all people, are familiar with Ravel’s Bolero.”
Napoleon leaned his head back against the headrest, allowing the strains of the famous musical composition to drift into his mind.
“Oh, well yes, I suppose I am. So, who are these people Illya? Why do they have names that reference a dead man and a woman who’s been in prison for twenty years?”
Illya hated to consider it, but deep down he knew, instinctively, who the traitorous UNCLE employees were.
“I think they are, most probably, the children of Harold Bufferton and Gervaise Ravel. In the notes made by Janice, she mentions that Gervaise gave birth to twins while in her first year of imprisonment. The infants were given to a relative in France, but that’s where the trail ends. There is nothing more concerning the children. Gervaise spent twenty years in a specialized institution and was released earlier this year after convincing the powers that be of her rehabilitation and remorse for her numerous misdeeds.”
Napoleon was amazed at how easily Illya conveyed the information. People using their own children to carry out murder; it was unthinkable.
“And so we have the children working at UNCLE, gathering information and passing it on to their mother? Illya, that is extraordinary, and completely believable considering who it is we’re dealing with. When do these two come in today?”
Illya looked at some schedules that lay on the table, looking for the names of the two Ravel children.
“Only Harold Bolero is scheduled to come in today; it is apparently Buffy’s day off. I’ll have Harold brought up here as soon as he arrives.’
Illya took a deep breath, the expectation of having to face someone involved in the death of Marion made him suddenly very weary. And sad. Illya realized he was incredibly sad, and he had no place in which to give vent to the emotion. Like so many other times, it would have to wait.
“I would like to interrogate him. I realize there is a tremendous conflict of interest here, but it won’t affect my methods or me. I need to do this, Napoleon.”
It was understandable, and with similar circumstances Napoleon knew he would feel the same way.
“All right, tovarisch. But just remember, we still need to get to Gervaise and to Buffy. We’ll have only one of the three who have committed these awful acts.”
Illya nodded, the look on his face morphing from that of the grieving lover to the hardened agent he could so easily become. Time had never been able to remove that aspect of his former life.
At eight o’clock sharp the young man known as Harold Bolero arrived at UNCLE Headquarters, ready to start his day in the commissary as one of the wait staff. Bolero had been one of several college students invited to apply for positions within Headquarters as a prelude to what might become a career choice. UNCLE like to present itself to college level hopefuls with opportunities ranging from secretarial to this restaurant environment. It was a friendly way of introducing the Command without the intrigue and drama that might come along later.
Harold Bolero had been one of about twenty students whose profile had fit the UNCLE mandates for grades and aptitudes that were compatible with the needs and vision of the organization. The other Ravel offspring, Buffy Haroldson, had also been among the top twenty; she had received a position in the communications section as an intern, something made possible by her fluency in French and Italian.
But, it was Harold now who would be first into the hands of Illya Kuryakin. Whether or not the young man understood how he had been used by his mother, Gervaise Ravel, was as yet unknown. Based on the security tapes, it was she who had fired the fatal shot that killed Sir John. It was almost certain, however, that without her son’s help she would not have been able to enter Headquarters.
Before Harold was able to get into his uniform he received a message to report to personnel. If he had any clue as to why, it didn’t show on the young man’s face. He seemed to be pleased with the opportunity to meet with who he was told was the head of Human Resources for UNCLE New York.
Upon entering the HR offices, Harold Bolero was met by the man he had come to know as the assassin who killed his father, Harold Bufferton. Pictures had not done the Russian justice; he seemed younger than his fifty-one years, and just as cold blooded as his mother had warned him he would be.
“Hello, Mr. Kuryakin. I must say, I didn’t expect to see you so soon.”
Illya didn’t offer any relief to the stern expression he bore.
“And yet, you did expect to see me. How is that, Harold? I don’t even know you.”
Harold Bolero smiled, a coy smile that immediately reminded Illya of the young man’s mother. He looked very much like her, with black hair and blue eyes that seemed misplaced in the light complexion.
“Oh, I know you, Mr. Kuryakin. You killed my father.”
Illya suddenly recognized the voice; it was the same voice that had been on the other end of the telephone the other night. Had it only been yesterday morning when he and Marion…? Inwardly, the Russian cringed at the thought of how this man was involved in her death.
Not wishing to look affected by that statement, Illya maintained a look of indifference. So, they weren’t dealing with an innocent.
“I assume then that you are involved with the murder of Sir John Raleigh as well as that of Marion Lindsay. We know it was your mother that pulled the trigger, killing Sir John. We also have no doubt that you are involved, and are responsible for her being in the building.’
Bolero didn’t yield. He wasn’t afraid, he was doing this for mother and she had promised to protect him.
“What I’m wondering is, are you willing to suffer the consequences for her actions? We have you. If no one else is apprehended, then you’re the one who will bear the price of her murderous ways. Is that what you want?”
The young man didn’t change his expression, did not move. His mother would save him, he was certain of it.
“No court of law will convict me for something that was clearly the action of another. You don’t think for a minute…”
Illya laughed, something that inexplicably sent a cold chill up Harold Bolero’s spine.
“You misunderstand me, Harold. You won’t be tried in a court of law. You have violated the U.N.C.L.E. while an employee. That makes you a traitor, and as such subject to our methods of punishment. Do you expect to leave here today? I hate to disappoint you, but you will never again see the light of day unless you give us your mother’s location. It really is that simple.”
Harold was unable to control his shock. He hadn’t considered this as part of the scheme when his mother had convinced him to join her in this vendetta. He was unprepared for the finality of the Russian’s statement.
“You’re bluffing! You can’t hold me here, I’ll… I have rights.”
“You have no rights. Your mother killed the head of UNCLE Northwest because you helped her to do it, and then she killed Marion Raven Lindsay. For the first you will be subject to the wrath of the U.N.C.L.E., but for the latter …’
Illya turned his gaze on the younger man with a look that could have chilled ice; his voice dropped down to a growling tone.
“… for Marion’s death, you will answer to me.”
Harold’s heart nearly stopped at the look on the Russian’s face. Why hadn’t his mother told him about that?
chapter 7