section7mfu | "Mistaken Identity"~for the Picfic Tuesday challenge 5/29

Illya Kuryakin sat on the floor of his filth-ridden cell, his legs drawn up to his chest, with his head resting on his knees.

He was handsomely dressed in a fitted set of black tails, with a small red rosebud pinned to his lapel, matching the red sash he wore beneath his jacket. An elegantly decorated black and red face mask lay discarded on the floor beside him.

He couldn’t move, as whatever drug was in his system had affected his equilibrium, making him quite dizzy. He’d opened his eyes periodically, and when they were working, the room would appear to be spinning, and when they weren’t, he was as blind as a bat.

Illya had never experienced this sort of reaction to a drug, and he found it most disconcerting, as well as the fact he’d been taken from the Viennese ball both he and his partner were attending, though he had no clue as to why.

Their recent assignment had come to a successful conclusion and Waverly graciously gave them a few days off. Napoleon had introduced Illya to an enchanting pair of sisters and the two men were asked to be their escorts to a well known masked ball in Vienna.

Though it was against his better judgement, for once the Russian did not object as his date didn’t have crossed eyes and buck teeth; on the contrary, she was beautiful as well as intelligent, and the two of them were now enjoying each others company, waltzing the evening away.

They’d stopped for some fresh air, and walked out onto the terrace. It was all quite romantic, Viennese waltzes...elegant costumes and now they stood under a moonlit sky.

Illya and the girl whose name was Giselle were both attracted to each other, and there amidst the heady floral scents of the garden, which didn’t make him sneeze for once, he kissed her. It was a delicious experience and no doubt, by her eager response, it would most likely lead to more interesting activities later in the evening.

She was captivating, and resembled a fairytale princess, dressed a pure white gown with a long flowing skirt. Her yellow hair pinned up with a sparkling diadem and a delicate white lace mask covered her face.

He nibbled at her throat, they kissed again, and then Giselle wiggled free of his embrace, asking for some champagne.

Placing his glittering red mask back over his face, the Russian left her there for a brief moment as he went to fetch some, hoping he hadn’t misread her and acted too forward. A waiter handed the Russian two glasses of bubbly, and he took a quick mouthful, trying not to get his hopes up for a night with Giselle, and that was the last thing he remembered.

Illya listened as he heard approaching footsteps outside, but hesitated opening his eyes for fear of the dizziness returning.

The cell door creaked open... a voice spoke to him, and he recognized the accent as Austrian, or was it Italian? His senses were definitely out of kilter.

“Oh my, I do apologize for these conditions. It’s so difficult to find decent help these days. Please let me help you up Count de Montoya You’re being taken to more suitable quarters befitting your station."

Illya cocked his head upon hearing that, and went with it. Obviously he’d been mistaken for this Count de Montoya, given it was a masquerade ball, and assumed he had been costumed similarly to the man.

“Yes that would be most agreeable, but it seems I am having difficulty not only maintaining my balance, but seeing as well. Your incompetent minions have dosed me with something and it is having an adverse effect upon me.”

“My humblest apologies my Lord.”

Illya heard fingers snap, more footsteps and a pair of very strong hands lifted him to his feet, keeping him steady. He lost his balance as he was guided out of the cell, and was simply hefted rather effortlessly into the arms of a seemingly very large man and was carried the rest of the way to wherever it was they were taking him.

The agent sensed being taken up several flights of stairs, heard a door unlocked and he was carried inside. Lastly, he was lowered down into a very soft chair. Illya ran his fingers along it, feeling the rich, velvety softness of it’s covering.

“I hope you’ll find these accommodations more to your liking Count de Montoya, though I’m sure your stay here will be a short one, once your country decides to pay your ransom.”

“My ransom?”

“Yes my Lord, you are being held for an obscene amount of money, which I won’t discuss to you and it is, shall we say, so very gauche? I do apologize, but it is a necessary evil now a days. May I get you something to drink or eat in the meantime?”

“Yes, might I have some water and perhaps some ginger tables....for my nausea, if you please. May I ask how long lasting are the side effects last on this particular drug I have been given?”

“Again, my apologies, but it should only be a few more hours before the symptoms begin to wear off. In the meantime I will see to your request. My man Fizzik will remain with you to take care of your needs.”

“Vielen Dank. Die meisten nett von Ihnen_thank you. Most kind of you.” Illya spoke German, deciding to take the risk and ask a question that might help him figure things out. He spoke, maintaining a haughty air.

“I beg pardon, but my head is quite fuzzy at the moment. I know my surname is De Montoya, and I am a Count, but I cannot for the life of me recall my first name, nor where I am from. That is most perplexing.”

“Beg pardon, but I do not speak German. Though Spanish or Italian are fine, if you wish. Again my apologies sir,” the voice oozed with sincerity, "Perhaps another unfortunate side effect of the drug you were given. You are Count Miguel De Montoya, a member of the ruling family of the island of Rodrigues, an autonomous outer island of Mauritius in the Indian Ocean, part of the Mascarene Islands which includes Mauritius, the Cargados Carajos and Réunion.”

Illya refrained from reacting, now recalling exactly who De Montoya was, and the fact that he was a blond of Galician extraction in Spain, boasting a connection to the ancient Celts. Kuryakin recalled hearing a rumor the Count was to have been in attendance at the ball.

He had no doubt, as polite as these men seemed to be, once they found out he was not the real Miguel De Montoya, his life expectancy would be cut quite short.

“And have you made the ransom demand for my release?”

“Not yet my Lord. We plan to do it in the morning. Once you are missed at the ball, your people will surely be looking for you.”

“Yes, no doubt. I will not ask how much as that would be quite gauch...tell me is there a bed in this room?”

“Why yes. Fizzik will help you to it.”

“Please, yes, as I am quite fatigued.” Illya pulled a small linen handkerchief from his inside pocket and acting the fop, dabbed his forehead, at the same time he was feeling for his weapon hidden there under his jacket.

“You have been relieved of your gun my Lord, so don’t trouble yourself looking for it,” the voice said.

“Not that I could use it given I am blind as a bad, but you cannot blame a man for trying,” Kuryakin shrugged.

“Understandable my Lord. I will take your leave now so that you may rest.”

Illya nodded his approval, ”One moment please, you know who I am but I do not know what to call you?”

“You may call me Carlos, “ the squat, balding answered. “I will return shortly with your water and ginger.”

Carlos brought the requested items, as well a tray of tea and churros, but the smell of the friend dough made Illya even more nauseous.. Carlos offered if the Count was feeling up to it, a late supper would be brought to him as well. Illya declined the offer.

His condition had seemed to have improved... the dizziness subsided but the poor vision was still dogging him. There were some changes, having gone from no sight whatsoever to light and shadows, though not enough for Kuryakin to extricate himself from his situation.

Napoleon wandered the ballroom, looking for his partner and finally bumped into him, tapping him on the shoulder.

“Hey tovarisch, there you are. Having a good time with the young lady I hope?”

The blond man lifted his red mask, revealing a face not that that of Illya Kuryakin. “I beg your pardon Señor, but I am not who you think I am.”

“Apparently not, my Lord,” Napoleon recognized the man instantly as the Count de Montoya. “My apologies as I was looking for my friend. You and he seem to be dressed the same for the ball.” Solo noted the tuxes were identical, he had on a red sash and the red rosebud pinned to his lapel, and the red mask with dark, glittering swirls was absolutely the same as Illya’s.

“Really?” De Montoya smiled. “Then your friend is obviously a man of discerning taste. I bid you good evening and hope you are able to locate him.” The Count noted the lovely lady on Napoleon’s arm. “Perhaps he has found himself a beautiful companion such as you have and is out enjoying the moonlit night with her.” He took Suzette’s hand, kissing it, and she giggled.

Napoleon retrieved her hand from De Montoya, suddenly feeling a bit possessive of his date. “Hmm, indeed and thank you my Lord.”

Napoleon and Suzette began searching in earnest now, and taking the Count’s advice, found Giselle waiting impatiently on the terrace.

“Napoleon where’s Illya?” She pouted. “He went to fetch us champagne nearly three quarters of an hour ago and never came back. I haven’t been treated so boorishly in my life. You should have warned me about your friend. Does he abandon women so readily?”

Solo’s internal alarm went up instantly.” Giselle, trust me this is very much unlike him. If you’ll excuse me a moment ladies.” Napoleon ducked into the shadows, pulling his communicator.

“Open channel F-Kuryakin.”

Illya lay on the bed, still fighting off the dizziness. The ginger tablets had helped his stomach, but his eyesight was still an issue.

He could hear Fizzik somewhere off to his right, snoring loudly, a big fuzzy figure of a man that Illya knew would be a challenge to overcome even with his eyesight restored.

His communicator, still apparently in his pocket began to chirp and he cursed himself for not checking to see if had still been there, but the vertigo and blindness had the Russian not quite himself. He quickly grabbed the device and opened it, lest it wake the sleeping giant of a man.

“Kuryakin,” he whispered.

“Where the hell are you?” Napoleon asked, though relieved to hear his partner’s voice.

“Keep your voice down. That is a good question, as apparently I have been mistaken for the Count Miguel De Montoya and have been kidnapped. My abductors plan to demand a ransom tomorrow morning, but I am afraid they will be in for a big surprise when they find out they got the wrong Count.” *

“Are you all right?”

“I have had an adverse reaction to the drug I suspect they slipped in my champagne...I am quite light-headed and my vision has been affected, though I have been told this is all only temporary. Can you home in on my signal?”

“Just a sec. let my try.” Napoleon flicked a switch on his pen, getting a very weak signal, but that was better than nothing. “Got one, but it’s not strong, so you could be anywhere in a five mile radius. In Vienna, that gonna be tough to manage.”

“Well please find me before tomorrow morning, otherwise I suspect once these people have discovered their error, there will be nothing left of me to find.”

“I’ll find you, I promise.”

“I will hold you to that my friend. Now, do not call me...I will call you. Out.”

Napoleon returned to the company of Giselle and Suzette, telling them Illya was indeed in trouble.

“Oh my? That’s terrible.”

“Ladies, I do apologize but I fear our evening has come to an end as I will need to search for my friend.”

Giselle and her sister Suzette were disappointed, but understanding and wished Napoleon luck as he saw them out to a taxi, taking them home.

Napoleon returned to the ball, this time going in search of the real Count De Montoya.

Morning arrived all too soon and Illya awoke, opening his eyes slowly. He could see, but his vision was still not completely clear, but thankfully the rest of the effects of the drug had disappeared.

Carlos brought in a breakfast tray, suspecting the Count was hungry as he had refused the light supper offered to him the night before.

Illya’s eyes opened wide, trying to see the food more clearly, though his sense of smell made him realize how hungry he now was. He ate and drank slowly...deliberate in his movements and minding his manners. Carlos had brought him café con leche, a strong coffee with frothy milk, sweet rolls called bollos with jam, toast accompanied by butter and a mild, soft cheese along with torrijas, a Spanish Bread Pudding topped with cinnamon and rich honey.

Surprising delicacies considering they were in Austria, and Illya wondered if somehow this Carlos had connections to the Spanish Embassy on the Argentiniersstrasse, as it was very near to where the masked ball had been held.

After his breakfast, Illya was permitted to wash up and was told it was time to leave for the exchange.

“I am sorry,”Carlos said,” but I am afraid I must blindfold you as we cannot permit you to see where you have been held.”

“Understandable,” Illya nodded; that telling him the location must be easily recognizable, such as the Spanish Embassy.

He was led to a waiting car and beside him sat the man Fizzik, as Illya could feel his hulking presence as well as his distinctive heavy breathing. Carlos was no doubt behind the wheel and he sensed a third person seated up front as well.

The car started, pulling out slowly and after a few minutes, by the feel of it, the vehicle was being driven in a circle, most likely to add to the supposed Count’s sense of confusion.

Finally the car continued on, and Illya could hear the thump-thump-thump-thump of cobblestones beneath the tires...there were cobblestones in front of the the grand hotel where the ball had been held? Given they’d travelled only a short time, Illya’s theory about the Embassy was growing stronger in his mind, as the traditional embassy district was not far.

The sedan pulled to a slow stop and Fizzik took hold of Illya’s bicep like it was a toothpick, but with surprising gentility, he helped the Russian from the car.

The blindfold was abruptly removed, and as his blue eyes adjusted to the light, he saw a limo parked a few yards away, bearing the diplomatic flags of the island of Rodrigues. Out stepped a dark haired man, holding a black briefcase in his left hand.

“My Lord are you well,” he called out.

Illya remained placid upon seeing and hearing his partner. “Yes, I am unharmed.”

“Khorosho . Bud'te gotovy, chtoby utka_good, be ready to duck,” Napoleon spoke in Russian.

“What’s this? No secret communications!” Carlos barked, not recognizing the language, and pulled his handgun, pointing it at Illya.

“Na schet tri_ on the count of three,” Illya called back,”

“Tri!” Napoleon yelled, pulling his weapon and fired it at Carlos and the other man beside him, hitting them both with sleep darts.

Illya threw himself at Fizzik, punching the huge man in the stomach with all his might, but to no avail.

The curly-haired giant grabbed the slight Russian by his shoulders, lifting him up to eye level. “Why are you trying to ‘urt me, I haven’t ‘urt you have I?”

“No I suppose not? If I promise not to hit you, will you put me down?”

“Of course,” Fizzik flashed a huge toothy grin at him.

Once back on his feet, Illya looked up at the man, whom he estimated to stand well over seven feet tall.

“I didn’t want to do this, “ Fizzik spoke in a heavy French accent," but Vizzinio, the one you know as Carlos made me do it. He said if I didn’t help him, then he would ‘urt me. He was planning to kill you once he got the money but I wasn’t going to let him do that....it was bad enough he kidnapped you. Am I going to be in big trouble Monsieur le Comte?”

“Maybe not, ”Illya said, “And to let you in on a little secret... I am not the Count De Montoya.”

“Really?”

“Really.”

Fizzik scratched his head. “Then I feel worse perhaps, as you are an innocent man caught up in Monsieur Vizzinio’s terrible plot.”

“Not as innocent as you think Fizzik,” Illya winked at him.

Napoleon was aiming his weapon at the giant, but as he saw his partner engaging him in a conversation, he held his fire.

The Austrian authorities quickly arrived on the scene, hauling away the unconscious body of Vizzino, and his accomplice along with Fizzik, though Kuryakin's instincts told him to do something about that. He spoke on the man’s behalf as he seemed simple and childlike and Illya believed he was indeed an innocent caught up in a foolish scheme.

“Well this was quite an adventure for you wasn’t it chum?” Napoleon said as he slipped onto the back seat of the limo next to his partner.

“Hardly .Everytime I go on a double date with you, something goes wrong. Why do I always have to be the one who gets kidnapped?”

Napoleon couldn’t come up with an answer but instead he opened a bottle of champagne with a ‘pop,’ pouring them each a glass, as the limousine slowly pulled away.

* a/n Illya’s grandfather Alexander Sergeivch Kuryakin was a Count under Tsar Nicholas and Illya being his only surviving male heir would have had the title passed onto him.