C'est La Vie - chapter 7
Mar. 17th, 2013 03:05 pm![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
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section7mfuIt started here...
~~~~~:
Napoleon had allowed Illya the first opportunity to interrogate Harold Bolero. It was incomprehensible to him that a woman could train her own children to be murderers, but too many years with the Command had convinced that anything was possible. People were completely unpredictable regarding the extremes to which they would go to have power. There was a fleeting moment of doubt concerning his decision to accept the top spot here in New York, and then it was gone. He wouldn’t turn his back on UNCLE a second time.
An hour was the agreed upon time frame for the first round of questioning. Napoleon didn’t expect much, not if the son was anything like his mother. There were no reports of sightings of Gervaise Ravel, and now it seemed the daughter was similarly off the radar. She was not in her apartment, nor had anyone seen her since sometime the previous day. It was most likely the two women were together, in hiding now that they had done their worst deeds.
Illya had succeeded in scaring some information out of Gervaise’s son, the prospect of being left alone with the Russian slightly more terrifying than facing Ravel. At her worst she diidn’t seem quite as dangerous as the blond man whose threats of retribution were taken very seriously.
After sending Harold to a holding cell to further contemplate his tenuous fate, Illya met with Napoleon to discuss what he had learned.
The big office was a throwback to the previous occupant’s English heritage. It was somehow not suitable for the new Chief, and both men realized that they yearned for the familiarity of Alexander Waverly’s version of the U.N.C.L.E. It had been less inclusive, perhaps, with its female employees in their tight fitting skirts and flirtatious mannerisms. Certainly in the post-feminism 80’s, the Old UNCLE would have some explaining to do regarding the old standards to which many men, Solo and Kuryakin included, might wax nostalgic after a couple of drinks.
Illya disliked the room in which the two now sat at the oversized, Baroque inspired desk. He preferred the simplicity of that big round table around which all the agents would sit and receive their orders; Waverly in his domain and the knights of his order in submission to the needs of the many and the few.
“Our young Bolero/Ravel/Bufferton…’ Illya had to grin at the absurdity of the man’s name, the cruelty of his mother in assigning it to him.
“… has decided to save his own skin rather than risk losing it completely to my wrath. I am still, it would appear, a formidable foe to some.”
Napoleon had never doubted it, and would stake his own life on Kuryakin’s ability to save him from any situation. It was not surprising that the young man had succumbed to the Russian’s lethal looking glares, opting to save his life over protecting the woman who had done little more than give him birth.
“So, where do we go from here, tovarisch?”
The blond looked tired, suddenly every bit of his fifty-one years. He felt it as well; this business of losing people and righting wrongs was wearing on a man, especially now.
“He’s given me a location, the house in which Gervaise has established a type of base of operations. She and Bufferton had quite a lot of money hidden away, as well as jewels that she has managed to convert to cash. Hopefully we can get to her before she decides to leave the country.”
Napoleon waited, aware that there was more. Why was Illya hesitant?
“What aren’t you telling me, Illya? It can’t get any worse than what we’ve already experienced.”
Kuryakin’s expression became suddenly less stoic, his eyes a deeper shade of blue that beckoned comparisons to thunderstorms and turbulent seas.
“Gervaise has, apparently, been in contact with THRUSH. If she is able to get out of the country, she will be welcomed to THRUSH Central and awarded a position within the Hierarchy.’ Napoleon whistled at this revelation. Some things never changed.
“We must stop her from leaving the U.S. Napoleon.”
“Yes. Yes, we must do that. Does Harold think his mother and sister are still at the house?”
Illya nodded even as he checked his gun and replaced it in the holster.
“Yes, he was supposed to me them there at noon. We’re almost at that hour, and we have no time to spare in order to get there in time to intercept them.”
Napoleon mimicked his partner’s actions with the gun and then called in Janice Friday. As she entered the office, it was clear that she was still in need of rest, although her attitude suggested nothing short of competence and expediency.
“Yes sir?”
“Janice, I need a car ready to go immediately. And Janice, no one is to enter Harold Bolero’s cell. No one, do you understand?”
The girl known as Friday tilted her chin up and responded firmly.
“Yes sir, Mr. Solo. No one. You car will be waiting for you, sir. Is there anything else?”
Solo smiled, suddenly thinking of Lisa Rogers again and her no-nonsense approach to the job. Janice Friday was following in worthy footsteps.
“That will be all, Janice, thank you.’'
Napoleon turned to look at his friend, wondering again at the loss of Marion, of the girl in the next room who was still sleeping after the tumultuous events of the preceding evening.
“I’m going to have a Section III agent come up here and keep watch on Nicolette. She’ll probably want to come after us, but…”
“No, she can’t leave here. Let me go in and check on her, and then we’d best be on our way. It’s …’ A quick check of his wristwatch told Illya it was a quarter after eleven.
“We do have time, but there can’t be any sign of trouble or else Gervaise will bolt for sure. I want her, Napoleon… I need for this to end.”
Napoleon was slipping into his jacket as he watched Illya head into the next room to check on his daughter. He wondered what the girl would do, how she would react to the news that they were close to catching the woman who killed Marion.
Illya walked as quietly as possible into the room, not wanting to wake Nicolette should she actually be sleeping. She heard him and sat up, not trying to disguise the fact that she had been awake.
“Hi dad. What’s going on?” Illya’s heart skipped a beat as he considered how best to answer. The truth, he supposed, would be the best.
“We have a lead, Nicolette, and Napoleon and I are going to check it out. I want you to stay here…’
She started to protest, but Illya put his hand up to halt the objections.
“No. You are not going with us, I need for you to stay here. Janice Friday is at her desk and a Section III agent will be sitting guard in the next room. I need for you to be safe, otherwise…”
Nicolette wrapped her arms around her father’s neck, no longer crying but in need of reassurances just the same.
“Dad, I don’t understand any of this, but I trust you. I won’t do anything to get in the way, I promise. Just…’
She pulled away and looked into his eyes, the ones that were so much like her own. The two communicated more in those few seconds than many people could with endless words.
“I love you, you know.”
Illya kissed her forehead and stood, reluctant to leave but anxious to finish this miserable piece of business and put it behind him; as well as he could put the memory of Marion behind him, that is.
“I love you too, Nicolette. I promised your mother that I would take care of you, protect you. I won’t let anything stop me from fulfilling that promise. Wait here for me, and we’ll talk about what comes next when I get back.”
Nicolette was nodding her head as her father walked towards the door.
Conclusion
~~~~~:
Napoleon had allowed Illya the first opportunity to interrogate Harold Bolero. It was incomprehensible to him that a woman could train her own children to be murderers, but too many years with the Command had convinced that anything was possible. People were completely unpredictable regarding the extremes to which they would go to have power. There was a fleeting moment of doubt concerning his decision to accept the top spot here in New York, and then it was gone. He wouldn’t turn his back on UNCLE a second time.
An hour was the agreed upon time frame for the first round of questioning. Napoleon didn’t expect much, not if the son was anything like his mother. There were no reports of sightings of Gervaise Ravel, and now it seemed the daughter was similarly off the radar. She was not in her apartment, nor had anyone seen her since sometime the previous day. It was most likely the two women were together, in hiding now that they had done their worst deeds.
Illya had succeeded in scaring some information out of Gervaise’s son, the prospect of being left alone with the Russian slightly more terrifying than facing Ravel. At her worst she diidn’t seem quite as dangerous as the blond man whose threats of retribution were taken very seriously.
After sending Harold to a holding cell to further contemplate his tenuous fate, Illya met with Napoleon to discuss what he had learned.
The big office was a throwback to the previous occupant’s English heritage. It was somehow not suitable for the new Chief, and both men realized that they yearned for the familiarity of Alexander Waverly’s version of the U.N.C.L.E. It had been less inclusive, perhaps, with its female employees in their tight fitting skirts and flirtatious mannerisms. Certainly in the post-feminism 80’s, the Old UNCLE would have some explaining to do regarding the old standards to which many men, Solo and Kuryakin included, might wax nostalgic after a couple of drinks.
Illya disliked the room in which the two now sat at the oversized, Baroque inspired desk. He preferred the simplicity of that big round table around which all the agents would sit and receive their orders; Waverly in his domain and the knights of his order in submission to the needs of the many and the few.
“Our young Bolero/Ravel/Bufferton…’ Illya had to grin at the absurdity of the man’s name, the cruelty of his mother in assigning it to him.
“… has decided to save his own skin rather than risk losing it completely to my wrath. I am still, it would appear, a formidable foe to some.”
Napoleon had never doubted it, and would stake his own life on Kuryakin’s ability to save him from any situation. It was not surprising that the young man had succumbed to the Russian’s lethal looking glares, opting to save his life over protecting the woman who had done little more than give him birth.
“So, where do we go from here, tovarisch?”
The blond looked tired, suddenly every bit of his fifty-one years. He felt it as well; this business of losing people and righting wrongs was wearing on a man, especially now.
“He’s given me a location, the house in which Gervaise has established a type of base of operations. She and Bufferton had quite a lot of money hidden away, as well as jewels that she has managed to convert to cash. Hopefully we can get to her before she decides to leave the country.”
Napoleon waited, aware that there was more. Why was Illya hesitant?
“What aren’t you telling me, Illya? It can’t get any worse than what we’ve already experienced.”
Kuryakin’s expression became suddenly less stoic, his eyes a deeper shade of blue that beckoned comparisons to thunderstorms and turbulent seas.
“Gervaise has, apparently, been in contact with THRUSH. If she is able to get out of the country, she will be welcomed to THRUSH Central and awarded a position within the Hierarchy.’ Napoleon whistled at this revelation. Some things never changed.
“We must stop her from leaving the U.S. Napoleon.”
“Yes. Yes, we must do that. Does Harold think his mother and sister are still at the house?”
Illya nodded even as he checked his gun and replaced it in the holster.
“Yes, he was supposed to me them there at noon. We’re almost at that hour, and we have no time to spare in order to get there in time to intercept them.”
Napoleon mimicked his partner’s actions with the gun and then called in Janice Friday. As she entered the office, it was clear that she was still in need of rest, although her attitude suggested nothing short of competence and expediency.
“Yes sir?”
“Janice, I need a car ready to go immediately. And Janice, no one is to enter Harold Bolero’s cell. No one, do you understand?”
The girl known as Friday tilted her chin up and responded firmly.
“Yes sir, Mr. Solo. No one. You car will be waiting for you, sir. Is there anything else?”
Solo smiled, suddenly thinking of Lisa Rogers again and her no-nonsense approach to the job. Janice Friday was following in worthy footsteps.
“That will be all, Janice, thank you.’'
Napoleon turned to look at his friend, wondering again at the loss of Marion, of the girl in the next room who was still sleeping after the tumultuous events of the preceding evening.
“I’m going to have a Section III agent come up here and keep watch on Nicolette. She’ll probably want to come after us, but…”
“No, she can’t leave here. Let me go in and check on her, and then we’d best be on our way. It’s …’ A quick check of his wristwatch told Illya it was a quarter after eleven.
“We do have time, but there can’t be any sign of trouble or else Gervaise will bolt for sure. I want her, Napoleon… I need for this to end.”
Napoleon was slipping into his jacket as he watched Illya head into the next room to check on his daughter. He wondered what the girl would do, how she would react to the news that they were close to catching the woman who killed Marion.
Illya walked as quietly as possible into the room, not wanting to wake Nicolette should she actually be sleeping. She heard him and sat up, not trying to disguise the fact that she had been awake.
“Hi dad. What’s going on?” Illya’s heart skipped a beat as he considered how best to answer. The truth, he supposed, would be the best.
“We have a lead, Nicolette, and Napoleon and I are going to check it out. I want you to stay here…’
She started to protest, but Illya put his hand up to halt the objections.
“No. You are not going with us, I need for you to stay here. Janice Friday is at her desk and a Section III agent will be sitting guard in the next room. I need for you to be safe, otherwise…”
Nicolette wrapped her arms around her father’s neck, no longer crying but in need of reassurances just the same.
“Dad, I don’t understand any of this, but I trust you. I won’t do anything to get in the way, I promise. Just…’
She pulled away and looked into his eyes, the ones that were so much like her own. The two communicated more in those few seconds than many people could with endless words.
“I love you, you know.”
Illya kissed her forehead and stood, reluctant to leave but anxious to finish this miserable piece of business and put it behind him; as well as he could put the memory of Marion behind him, that is.
“I love you too, Nicolette. I promised your mother that I would take care of you, protect you. I won’t let anything stop me from fulfilling that promise. Wait here for me, and we’ll talk about what comes next when I get back.”
Nicolette was nodding her head as her father walked towards the door.
Conclusion
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Date: 2013-03-17 08:27 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2013-03-17 10:49 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2013-03-18 04:30 am (UTC)Zheng Zhi- Why is the country sufficient be always said so can't bear- _1
Date: 2013-05-09 08:21 pm (UTC)Zheng Zhi: Why is the country sufficient be always said so can't bear?
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