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section7mfuAnd here is the end of the story.
Kuryakin’s next inquiry regarding Talia Barne had to be with Carla Drosten herself. That was a tricky maneuver. Carla had been with the Command a good many years and was highly regarded in the managerial circles of the organization. So Illya knew his approach had to be diplomatic, minus even a subtle suggestion that maybe Carla had overstepped the bounds of acceptable influence-peddling at U.N.C.L.E. by supporting Talia Barne’s request to be assigned as Napoleon’s temporary assistant.
After a discreet knock, Illya let his badge automatically open the pneumatic door to Carla Drosten’s office.
“What can I do for you, Mr. Kuryakin?” Carla greeted the Russian in her doorway with a ready smile.
“Could I perhaps impose upon you for a moment of your time, Miss Drosten?”
“Of course. Always especially happy to help out our Section IIs however I can. You men are truly the backbone of this organization.”
“It’s just a question on standard policy,” Illya initiated the meat of the discussion as he made his way fully into the precincts of the office. At her wordless gesture of invitation, he sat himself in a chair opposite Carla’s desk.
“Ah,” remarked Carla simply. “Then privacy is required I think,” she further noted as she set the manual lock on the pneumatic entrance to her domain.
“A simple question really,” Illya assured her.
“And that question is?” prompted Carla with another ready smile.
“Well, I was wondering… I know all administrative personnel here at HQ are strenuously investigated for security purposes.”
“They are indeed,” confirmed Carla. “We leave nothing to chance.”
“And there are of course the routine psychological tests to insure mental and emotional stability.”
“Published policy, the details of which are provided every employment candidate who has first passed the security check. Where is this line of discussion going, Mr. Kuryakin?” Carla requested a more straightforward route to the Russian’s point, whatever that might be.
“Well…” Illya considered how to best word what he would ask. “What is the usual period of initial adjustment for any new administrative employee? How long before such a new employee is considered acceptable for more… sensitive positions?”
“All positions within U.N.C.L.E. are sensitive,” Carla meaningfully reminded the enforcement agent.
“Yes, of course that’s true,” back-peddled Kuryakin, “but what I mean is—”
“I do know what you mean,” interjected Carla. Then she leaned forward and neatly folded her hands on the tidy surface of her organized desk. “This is about Talia Barne, isn’t it?” she queried without prologue.
Looking the woman across the desk directly in the eye, Illya admitted without further prevarication, “Yes.”
Carla gave a resigned if dramatic sigh. “I realize, with her still so new to the Command, I probably shouldn’t have championed her application to serve as Napoleon’s temporary assistant. But you see…” She paused for a moment; then resumed her explanation. “She is so desperate to make her mark here. She wants a real career very badly, a career that includes future advancement. And I just…’ Carla bit her lip. “I know how that feels,” she confessed, “to want that. And it’s difficult for a woman to achieve… even here.
“Don’t get me wrong,” she assured Illya. “U.N.C.L.E. offers women within its corporate structure much more opportunity for advancement than is usual. But still, it’s a challenge. I know. I took on that challenge myself some years ago.”
“So you empathize with her?” suggested Illya.
Carla nodded. “Likely more than I should have in this particular instance. However, she has the prerequisite security clearance and the necessary skills,” she guaranteed the other U.N.C.L.E. employee. “So it wasn’t any true violation of policy to assign her. Questionable skirting of accepted practice perhaps, but no more than that.”
“And you skirted accepted practice because you saw yourself in her? Yourself back at the start of your career?”
Carla nodded. “I’m embarrassed to admit my rationale for backing her request came down to no more than that. Still, our life experiences make us all who we are, and no doubt influence our actions and reactions even when we don’t consciously realize it.”
“But in this case you did consciously realize it, yes?”
Again Carla nodded. “I did. Undoubtedly much as you consciously realize your experiences with roaming packs of wild dogs as a child influence your persistent aversion to even people-friendly pet dogs now.”
This was not something Illya wished to discuss with the head of Personnel. Yes, he realized she knew of his past fear and current dislike of canines because it was all there in his core background file. And, as head of Section VI, there were few if any portions of that file inaccessible for her perusal. Yet his personal antipathy when it came to dogs was a private matter he declined to discuss with anyone other than the psychiatric professionals Waverly insisted counsel his operatives on a regular basis.
“I am also fully cognizant of the fact my… going with my gut feelings on this occasion may have been less than judicious.” Carla saved Illya the trouble of veering the conversation back on track. “As head of Personnel, I am aware of some things kept private from the rank and file. I know Mr. Waverly has had some issues recently with Mr. Solo’s performance as CEA. And I do realize all that seemed to start with Talia Barne taking up the temporary position as his assistant.”
“And have you spoken to Mr. Waverly regarding this possible adverse connection?” demanded Illya a bit harshly. Alerting Waverly was her prerogative, not his. And if she hadn’t acted on that prerogative…
“I approached Napoleon directly, suggesting that mayhap Miss Barne was not yet up to the level of accountability necessary to act as his assistant,” Carla surprisingly informed Illya. “I guaranteed him it would neither be measured as a damaging reflection on her record nor negate her chance at future advanced assignments should he decide his preference would be to have someone else assigned as his secretary for the remainder of Mitzi’s absence.”
Illya schooled himself to keep from gaping outright at this revelation. Perhaps all this could be resolved to everyone’s satisfaction. Napoleon would get a more experienced temporary assistant who would be less prone to making newbie mistakes, Miss Barne would not be accused of anything that would limit her future with the organization, and Mr. Waverly would never have to be advised of the detailed ins-and-outs of what had gone on in this regard.
“And Mr. Solo’s decision was?” he prompted.
Carla shook her head sadly. “He said no. He would keep her on until Mitzi returned.”
Again Illya fought his reaction to simply gawk. “He what?” he requested confirmation.
“He refused to have another temporary assigned,” repeated Carla frankly.
Illya simply could not believe it. Napoleon had been offered an “honorable” way out of his current dilemma with the unseasoned Miss Barne and he had turned it down flat.
“So have you now approached Mr. Waverly?” Illya regained his mental composure enough to ask of Drosten.
Carla bit her lip. “I have no proof that Miss Barne is even partially responsible for Napoleon’s recent lapses of judgment as he has taken all reprimands for such failures fully upon himself. And knowing Napoleon’s…” she hesitated, searching for acceptable words. “Affectionate tendencies with regard to women,” she finally settled on a fairly neutral statement, “I didn’t want to bring down any unneeded wrath upon his head, especially at this time.”
Illya ran a hand through his hair in complete frustration. It seemed his friend’s Don Juan reputation had really backfired on him this time. The Russian more than suspected Carla Drosten was somewhat smitten with Solo, but that her attentions had gone substantially unrequited. So, if Napoleon was having an affair with Talia Barne and was thus desirous of keeping her for the moment close at hand… Well, Carla Drosten would simply let the CEA stew in his own sauce (or was it juice?), as the saying went.
But then again Miss Drosten had been amazingly forthcoming. When he considered more carefully, that she had confided to him as much as she had was quite an unexpected boon. Perhaps such was her means of righting the situation without explicitly interfering, if indeed Napoleon was in essence exchanging antics in the bedroom for silence in the conference room. And, if that was indeed why Carla had spoken so freely to him, it seemed likely that it was Solo’s charm prompting this candor from an infatuated Miss Drosten. Though that still placed the whole messy business right back in Illya’s own lap.
“I thank you for your time and honesty, Miss Drosten,” Illya politely expressed his gratitude as he rose to leave.
Carla nodded as she pushed the button to unlock the pneumatic door for Kuryakin to make his departure.
Illya Kuryakin barreled through yet another pneumatic door in New York HQ, this one granting access into the office of the Chief of Enforcement for U.N.C.L.E. Northwest.
Slamming his fist hard down on the desk in front of his seated friend, he demanded brusquely, “Are you sleeping with her?”
Napoleon gazed up at him through startled eyes. “Her who?” he asked in complete bewilderment.
“Talia Barne!” Illya spat out almost as if the name itself was a form of venom.
“Whatever gave you that idea?” Napoleon questioned.
“Carla Drosten let you know you could have Miss Barne ‘unassigned’ from the position as your assistant without negative consequences to her, and you refused.”
“Why the hell would Carla tell you about something that is absolutely none of your business?” queried Napoleon, now somewhat angry himself.
“Why did you refuse?” Illya ignored his supervisor’s legitimate query as he made his own demand.
“That’s private,” quietly stated Napoleon through clenched teeth.
“So you are sleeping with her!”
“Is that what you think of me? That I’m someone who cannot fail but lead with his cock?” Napoleon’s fury was palpable as his voice became even softer and his words very noticeably deliberate.
“I want an answer!” pressed Illya.
“And I want you to leave,” countered Napoleon.
“No!” stubbornly counter-countered Illya.
“That’s not a wise choice,” threatened Solo.
“So report me for insubordination,” egged Kuryakin. “You’re my superior: do it!”
“You think I won’t?”
“I want you to!” the Russian pushed.
“I don’t think you want me to call security in here,” the American warned.
“I do! Because then you’ll have to provide the specifics on why to Mr. Waverly and finally, finally the truth about Talia Barne will come out!”
Napoleon’s anger deflated like a popped balloon. “What is it with you and her, Illya? Why are you so against her?”
“She’s destroying your career.”
“Let’s not be melodramatic.”
“She’s destroying your career,” uncompromisingly repeated Illya, “and you’re letting her do it.”
“Illya, she is just a wide-eyed gal with a temporary job that sometimes overwhelms her.”
“Then send her back to the secretarial pool where she belongs.”
Napoleon sighed sadly. “That would be the same as confirming her misgivings about not being good enough.”
Illya felt the facts in his head about Talia Barne begin to whirl in confusion. He sat down abruptly, as if dizzy from the ensuing mental chaos. “Her what?” he questioned with a blink.
Napoleon sighed once more. “She’s convinced she isn’t good enough to really make a go of it within U.N.C.L.E.”
“Good enough how?” Illya wanted something more concrete to aid in his understanding of the matter.
Napoleon shrugged and then responded, “Not smart enough, not quick enough, not disciplined enough, not worthy of trust.”
“Yet she desperately wants to rise high within U.N.C.L.E.,” Illya added.
“I don’t know about that,” Napoleon quickly reflected on the notion, his brow furrowing in thought. “I just know she really doesn’t feel she will ever measure up.”
“To what?”
“Expectations,” finalized Napoleon.
Illya glanced askance at his friend. Was he seeing a pattern here? With Carla Drosten Talia Barne had played the “woman seeking professional advancement in a biased world” card. With Napoleon Solo she was playing the “afraid of not being what everyone expects of you” card.
He was familiar of course with the gist of Waverly’s expectations for his friend. Yet Illya Kuryakin was not privy to the contents of Napoleon Solo’s personnel file. He did not have the clearance status within U.N.C.L.E. necessary for such access. He did know, however, that Napoleon had been raised from infancy by his maternal grandparents, and that his maternal grandfather had served as U.S. ambassador to several different countries under several different American presidents. He was indeed a highly regarded diplomat with a pristine reputation. Undoubtedly such a man had his own expectations with regard to the grandson he had nurtured basically from birth.
There was no doubt Napoleon exuded an extreme self-confidence. Yet Kuryakin was keenly aware of the methods one learned to cope with personal stresses. He had his own psychological demons and had no doubts Solo possessed his own as well. And it would seem that Talia Barne was uniquely talented at tapping into those private anxieties people kept hidden on the surface, even those that kept them as well concealed as likely did Napoleon Solo.
“That’s one manipulative little bitch,” Illya mentally condemned the absent Miss Barne. But in that moment Illya Kuryakin realized to defeat the skillful manipulations of Talia Barne, he was going to have to abandon any attempt at an understated approach.
“You understand what I want you to do then?” Illya Kuryakin demanded of the muscular brute who stood here in this alley facing him.
The man nodded, albeit reluctantly.
“Good,” stated Illya tersely. “Then this conversation is at an end.”
As Illya turned to leave, the man spoke out in what could honestly only be called a whine. “Look, Kuryakin, I’m doing this because—”
“Because you have no choice,” interjected Illya brusquely.
“Thanks to you!” the brute spat back at the Russian. “Ever since that raid on the Brooklyn satrap where you threatened to make it look to the bigwigs—”
“If such a term can rightly be applied to the small minds of Thrush,” Illya interrupted again, disdain dripping from his every word.
“You left me no options other than to become an informant for U.N.C.L.E.!”
Illya shrugged. “There are always options.”
“Yeah, well, I rather wanted to live then and I still want to live now. Heat is starting to scorch me, Kuryakin. Those toadies setting their sights on a position at Central are always looking for ways to pull themselves up by their bootstraps. Stepping on a few bodies crisped through the slightest suspicion of betrayal is a very viable means of doing just that. And I see them all glancing my way, analyzing the possibilities as they calculate the cost.”
“My heart bleeds for you.”
“You goddamn Commie bastard, I want a guarantee!”
“I can guarantee you that all men die. It is the nature of the beast.”
“If I do this, I want a guarantee,” persisted the Thrush, ignoring Illya’s brutal sarcasm, “that U.N.C.L.E. will relocate me with a new identity.”
“And I’ve already told you I will endorse such a plan with Mr. Waverly.”
“I want it in writing!”
“You have my word.”
“No, not good enough. I—”
“You complain of having no options,” interposed Illya flatly. “Well, now I am giving you options. You can either take your chances with me or with the self-serving members of Thrush. It is entirely your choice in whom it would be shrewdest to place your trust.”
The brute chewed on his lower lip, shifting his shoulders uncomfortably in his ill-fitting cheap suit. None of this was going his way. But again he really did want to live. So he’d take his chances with Kuryakin.
“It was an attempted kidnapping?” Alexander Waverly requested verification from the Section II agent now briefing him on the regrettable situation.
“Apparently so, sir,” stated Illya Kuryakin with an emphasizing nod.
“Thrush initiated?” The Continental Chief pressed for further confirmation of the details on which he was being updated.
Kuryakin nodded once more.
“I do recognize that Thrush often needs little logical motive for its actions,” granted the first administrator within U.N.C.L.E. “However, in this particular instance, with Miss Barne being no more than a member of the secretarial pool—”
“For the past three weeks she has been subbing for Mitzi Harrington during her medical leave.”
“Ah yes, Mr. Solo’s assistant. Bad ankle fracture while taking one of those learn-to-ski courses at the Craigmeur resort in New Jersey.”
This garnered yet another corroborating nod from the Command’s Russian operative.
“So is this nasty business related to Miss. Barne’s temporary assignment?”
“We believe so, sir,” substantiated Kuryakin. “Prior to the incident Miss Barne and a few of her colleagues from the secretarial pool were chatting in a Manhattan bar. Miss Barne admits Mr. Solo’s name came up in conversation.”
Mr. Waverly raised one bushy eyebrow.
“No mention was made of U.N.C.L.E. itself, sir,” the agent forestalled his boss’ concerns. “Nor of Mr. Solo’s particular position within the Command. Yet… Well, we have been aware for some time that Thrush is cognizant of Mr. Solo’s recent promotion.”
“Indeed,” spoke Waverly with a short nod of his own. The speed of Thrush’s information network was a constant trial to both this man and the organization he had founded. “Continue with your report, Mr. Kuryakin.”
“Miss Barne and her companions left the drinking establishment around 9 p.m. She separated from her friends to walk home to her nearby apartment. A man, who had apparently followed her from the bar, then physically accosted her and attempted to force her into a nearby vehicle. During the scuffle that ensued he tried to inject her with a syringe, saying something to the effect of having no intention of letting her get away because grabbing Mr. Solo’s assistant on his own initiative would surely raise his image with Central. Those of Thrush do often have loose tongues, sir,” added the Section II agent by way of personal commentary.
“Lips, Mr. Kuryakin.”
“Excuse me, sir?”
“The English colloquialism…” began Waverly. “Never mind,” he then broke off that line of discussion. “Yes, we are agreed that Thrush minions do tend to speak without considered thought. Miss Barne managed to overpower her attacker?”
“The self-defense training the Command provides its staff aided her to doing so, sir. She – uh… Simply put, sir, she utilized her purse to strike her male assailant in the gonads and then made a hasty retreat.”
If a small smirk appeared momentarily on Alexander Waverly’s face at this blunt summation of how Talia Barne made good her escape, such was perfectly understandable. It was definitely satisfying to receive evidence that the physical training programs of his organization paid off at all levels, not just the ones dedicated to enforcement.
“And she is substantially unhurt?”
“Some cuts and bruises. Medical is giving her a once-over right now to ensure nothing in the syringe actually made it into her bloodstream from where the needle scratched her. She is naturally emotionally shaken, however, and the psychiatric personnel have advised she thus be housed overnight at HQ for her personal peace of mind.”
“Of course, Mr. Kuryakin. I’ll authorize her temporary use of one of the personnel lodgings here in headquarters immediately.”
Kuryakin made his nod of acknowledgement apropos to his superior’s decision.
“And the man that assaulted Miss Barne.” Waverly required particular information. “Has he been apprehended?”
Kuryakin gave a dissatisfied shake of his head. “Security was summoned by Miss Barne to her apartment. So, by the time said Section V personnel had received the necessary details on the location of the actual attack, the man had long vanished. We do have feelers out on the ground, sir.”
“And a description?”
“Miss Barne was unable to provide one. The man seized her from behind and never faced her. She performed the defensive maneuver with her handbag by slamming it backward toward where, by gauging his height relative to her own, she sensed his privates to be.”
“Unfortunate that she never saw his countenance.”
“Indeed, sir,” agreed Kuryakin. “And with regard to that, I would like to make a further suggestion concerning Miss Barne’s future safety.”
“Go on, Mr. Kuryakin,” consented the Section I head.
“Though we have no evidence that the man in question tracked Miss Barne to her nearby apartment after the failed abduction, I still believe it would be prudent to outfit her living space with upgraded security equipment. As a member of the general secretarial pool within U.N.C.L.E., the security with which her home was previously fitted is only first level. I would suggest it be upgraded to third level.”
“That routinely given to full-time assistants of Section Chiefs?”
Kuryakin nodded. “For the nonce, sir. It can be downgraded again once Miss Barne’s temporary assignment is completed.”
Waverly nodded in his turn, thus approving the plan. “Have it done at once, Mr. Kuryakin.”
“Yes, sir. I will see to it personally,” pledged Illya more meaningfully than was the general wont.
“Thank you, gentleman,” Illya properly expressed his gratitude to the Section V personnel who had taken on the quick-turnaround, late-night/early-morning task of outfitting the apartment of Talia Barne with an upgraded security system. “I can handle the final coding input myself. Go home to your families.”
The men all nodded their own gratitude and then willingly packed up their equipment and made their departures. After their exits, Kuryakin properly set up the new coding sequence for the system as he had stated he would. Then, however, he wandered throughout the apartment. This was not done aimlessly, but rather with an eye toward finding something that might prove of use in his self-appointed task of removing Miss Barne from her temporary assignment as assistant to U.N.C.L.E.’s North American CEA.
He didn’t know specifically what he was looking for and he was well aware he would most likely find nothing at all. Talia Barne was simply an ambitious and manipulative go-getter who was looking to advance her position within the Command through shortcut methods. What evidence could be found to block her current chosen path of too hasty advancement, he had no clue. Still, it was an absolute certainty he would indeed find nothing if he never took the time to look.
Illya mentally congratulated himself on how smoothly his scheme to get privately into Miss Barne’s living quarters had come to fruition. Making use of one desperate Thrush contact who had all but outlived his worth as an informant and dropping a subtle hint around some of the more gossipy members of the typing pool that Talia Barne might wind up a permanent replacement for Napoleon’s assistant was all the setup that had been necessary. Of course it always paid to keep an ear to the wall and thus have a ready handle on when and where members of the secretarial klatch regularly socialized outside the office.
Illya methodically searched through Talia’s apartment, taking care to examine everything yet alter nothing from its current placement. He surmised Miss Barne had a French background from the personal photos and memorabilia he discovered amongst her things. Odd that he had detected no accent with regard to her speaking of English. Apparently she also had something of a green thumb, as many types of thriving plants grew in painted clay pots perched on the windowsills of the entire living area: herbs in the kitchen, verdant greenery in the parlor, flowers in the bedroom. She seemingly preferred coffee to tea, wine to hard liquor or beer, and baguettes to pre-sliced bread. Her refrigerator contained a large assortment of paper-wrapped wedge cheeses, her bookshelves a modest selection of tawdry romance novels, and her linen drawer a carefully stored collection of handmade and likely antique lace table coverings. None of what Illya observed within the space gave him anything with even the remote potential of aiding him in his mission.
He was in his final tour of the premises, meticulously rummaging through Talia’s bedroom closet, when he at last came across something that held the promise of making his painstaking search worthwhile. There was a wall safe at the back of the walk-in wardrobe. Sealed via a combination lock of course, but then Illya Kuryakin was an expertly trained spy. There were few if any locks he couldn’t defeat and this one proved no exception. He cracked the code with surprising ease, yet was puzzled to find within that small safe not money or jewelry or documents but simply another combination lock attached to one of the unit’s side partitions. Expecting his ready foiling of the second combination to at last reveal whatever trove of treasures Miss Barne was striving so diligently to keep protected, Illya was taken aback when what resulted was the entire rear wall of the closet opening onto a secret room beyond.
Quickly regaining his composure and instinctively drawing his weapon, the U.N.C.L.E. agent entered the admittedly cramped confines of that exposed chamber. A plethora of open shelves lined the walls of the room, as if indeed its original intent had been for the hidden storage of valuables. Yet what Miss Barne was warehousing within seemed to Illya far from meriting such extreme safeguarding techniques. Candles by the score – a few in holders but most lying flat upon the shelves, a multitude of bells of various sizes and metal compositions, and perhaps a dozen thick and, judging by their outward condition, rather old tomes. Those books might indeed have some intrinsic worth, but the rest?
For the moment the room was lit only by the flame of a single candle set in an iron holder on one of the middle shelves. Holstering his special, Illya drew closer to that one current source of illumination with the idea of examining the nature of the volumes housed here. Subsequently he discovered the ledge holding that candle also held one of the brass bells, the thickest of the tomes open midway through its breadth, …and a burgundy-framed, 3½x5 black-and-white photograph of Napoleon Solo.
“I’ll be damned!” remarked Illya in astonishment.
He didn’t understand this. Was it intended as some kind of shrine? It made no sense.
“Are you mayhap unwholesomely obsessed, Miss Barne? Psychologically unbalanced?” he rhetorically queried the absent woman.
Then a cold trail traveled the length of his spine. The title reference of that movie he and Napoleon had viewed the month before came unbidden to his mind.
“Ring the bell, open the book, light the candle," he murmured quietly. “I don’t believe in any of that,” he then sternly reminded himself in a much louder voice.
Still, he suspected he now had a means to his desired end.
And still before closing back up the hidden room, he did something he had purposely avoided doing anywhere else within Talia’s apartment; that is, leave outward evidence that someone had been snooping here. With simple determination: he lifted the bell and shook it once quickly, setting its clapper in brief sound-filled motion, slammed the book loudly shut, and then snuffed out the flame of the candle between the thumb and forefinger of his left hand.
Talia Barne was definitely surprised by the knock on the door of the living quarters in HQ that had been given over to her. Glancing at the clock on the nightstand, she saw it was yet some minutes before five in the morning. Whoever was seeking her attention so early?
“Just a moment,” she called through to the unknown visitor beyond the portal. From the foot of the bed she gathered up the standard dressing gown she had been provided by housekeeping as returning to her own apartment to pack an overnight bag had not been an option. Pulling the oversized robe on over her likewise standard issue and likewise oversized pajamas, she moved to the small reception area of the quarters, switched on a light, and then pressed the button to release the manual lock on the pneumatic door.
“You should have asked who was seeking entrance, Miss Barne,” Illya Kuryakin reminded her from his spot in the now open doorway.
“Here within headquarters, I didn’t think—”
“It is always advisable to think,” interjected Illya. “May I come in?” he then immediately queried.
Talia nodded mutely and Illya walked into the standard suite, letting the pneumatic door swoosh shut automatically behind him.
“Please have a seat,” Talia invited her uninvited guest with a gesture toward the one overstuffed chair within the ‘living room’
“Thank you.”
“I’d offer you coffee, but I’m afraid I haven’t put a pot on yet,” she explained pointedly as she herself sat on the sofa in that living room.
“You are very kind, but I am here on official business. So there is no need for standard hostess amenities.”
“Official business?” Talia queried uncertainly.
The Section II agent nodded briskly. “I wanted to inform you that the new security system has been installed in your apartment and is now fully functional.”
Talia nodded her gratitude, all the while wondering why this very standard news couldn’t have waited at least another hour to be delivered.
“Nothing within your permanent living space was found to be compromised,” further forwarded Kuryakin.
Talia sat up straighter. “Did you expect it would be?”
“As an enforcement agent, I don’t go into any situation with preconceived expectations, Miss Barne. To do so could prove extremely dangerous.”
Something about the way he was speaking to her sent her mind into turbulent motion. She instinctively realized it was not what he was saying, but what he wasn’t saying that was of real import.
“You’re Russian, yes, Mr. Kuryakin?” she asked with an ingenuous smile. “We have, therefore, a similar background in some regards I think. As a young child, I lived in Dijon during the Nazi occupation. I remember very little of that time of course. Except the fear.”
Kuryakin didn’t respond. Talia moved her head a bit so the ambient light caught her eyes in a certain way, bringing out their unique burgundy highlights.
“The imperfect memory of childhood allows one to forget particular horrors once you reach adulthood,” she continued undaunted, “but never the base fear.”
Kuryakin set his gaze directly on hers.
“Miss Barne, we could mayhap commiserate about our lost childhoods as we confide to one another barely remembered tales of woe, but we will not,” he stated straight-to-the-point. “I have come to you to ask a particular question.”
“And that question is?” required Talia with a slightly furrowed brow.
“Are you a practicing Wiccan?”
“Whatever prompts such a question?”
“During standard security inspection, I came across an oddity in your home. A kind of shrine.”
Though caught off-guard, she was honestly somewhat amused by this scenario. The Russian enforcement agent was resistant to her mystical talents it would seem. Or perhaps he was constraining his inner being to remain resistant.
“A shrine? That’s an uncommon reference.”
“Are you a practicing Wiccan?” Kuryakin steadfastly repeated his question.
“You mean a practicing witch?” insinuated Talia bluntly.
“A practicing Wiccan,” emphasized Kuryakin uncompromisingly.
“Would that be a problem for U.N.C.L.E.?”
Illya shook his head in negation. “U.N.C.L.E. is tolerant of all religious beliefs. And of course at hiring you made specific mention of your own affiliation with such religion for notation in your personnel record.”
Talia laughed her musical composition of a laugh. “You know I did not.”
“No, I didn’t know,” he assured her. “At least not until you just told me. However, therein does lay a problem: not with your religious beliefs themselves but with your purposeful concealment of them.”
“Perhaps it wasn’t purposeful,” she suggested.
“And perhaps the moon really is made of green cheese,” countered Illya rhetorically.
Another laugh bubbled out of Talia’s throat. This was all so wonderfully droll. “You really are a cynic, aren’t you?” she then queried of her ‘interrogator’.
“So everyone tells me,” Illya observed without a single qualm.
“What happens now?”
He shrugged. “Nothing earthshattering. There will be an investigative review regarding your background: all very standard. Likely you will receive an official reprimand and there will be the end of the matter. Of course you understand,” he then dropped the bombshell, “it would be an unacceptable breach of security for you to continue in your temporary assignment as assistant to the Command’s Northwest Chief of Enforcement during any such review. Or indeed be assigned again to any similar advanced position within the organization for a standard period of probation after receipt of such an official reprimand.”
Talia smiled wryly. “Must everything be standard to satisfy your peace of mind?” she baited him.
“Not everything,” hedged Illya with a wry smile of his own.
“My one pressing question now asked and answered,” he noted further as he rose to his feet, “I’ll leave you to resume your interrupted sleep. My sincere apologies for so disturbing your rest.”
The pneumatic door had already opened when Illya turned back into the room. “By the by, I quenched the candle in your safe room. Fire hazard you know.”
“Indeed,” spoke out Talia as she focused her burgundy-brown eyes steadfastly on his blue ones.
He was halfway out the door when she called out his name to regain his attention. As he obligingly turned back yet again, she inquired, “If I do have powers, don’t you fear me using them against you?”
“You have no powers, Miss Barne,” determined Kuryakin unequivocally. “Certainly none to compare with those I face on a constant basis as an instrument of order battling the forces of would-be human chaos.”
Then he was gone.
For a few moments she simply sat staring forward at nothing. Then she began to laugh once more: her enchanting symphony of a laugh. She would leave U.N.C.L.E. voluntarily of course. There was no further reason for her to be here. She had no fear of any form of retribution from those of Thrush. Push come to shove, she could manipulate them as easily as she could anyone else. Anyone, that is, expect perhaps Illya Kuryakin.
In truth Thrush had no reason for complaint. She had performed as promised. That Napoleon Solo would rather easily and quite quickly regain any status her machinations had cost him, she had no doubt. But she had never promised Thrush that it would be impossible for Solo to redeem himself in the estimation of his U.N.C.L.E. superiors. Only a very foolish witch would ever make such an unsustainable pledge. No magic was ever foolproof.
Several weeks later…
“I want to congratulate you, Mr. Solo,” Alexander Waverly praised his Chief of Enforcement. “The strategy you set in motion for the Caracas mission was nothing less than brilliant.”
“I appreciate the compliment, sir,” stated Napoleon Solo as a heady mix of pride and satisfaction filled his inner being.
“It was a touchy thing, a touchy thing indeed,” continued the Old Man, “and you pulled it off without a hitch.”
“Thorough intelligence and careful coordination provided the key, sir.”
Waverly nodded. “And the suggestions you have made with regard to future enforced policy for the temporary assignment of administrative personnel here in HQ,” he furthered as he glanced down briefly at the open contents of the top folder of the pile on his desk. “Quite thoroughly thought out, young man. I very much approve.”
“Your approval means much to me, Mr. Waverly.”
“And that I can give it to you wholeheartedly means much to me,” ventured Waverly with somewhat surprising sentiment. “I will admit the seeds of doubt had been planted in my mind with regard to you. I’m glad in the end I refused to water them to let them grow into confidence-strangling weeds. From our first meeting, Mr. Solo, I have sensed something in you. I am pleased I did not sense wrong.”
Napoleon made no return comment, but Waverly honestly expected none. He knew, though Solo gave no outward expression of this, he was flustering the young man with his open verbal show of confidence.
“Now, get back to work, Mr. Solo,” Waverly considerately ended the private conference. “World disorder and Thrush intrigues wait upon the convenience of no operative of U.N.C.L.E.”
“Yes sir,” responded Napoleon as he rose swiftly to his feet.
After the exit of his Section II head, the Continental Chief pondered on recent events. It never ceased to amaze him how those under his authority imagined that, because he said nothing outright, he remained ignorant of what was going on under his own roof here at headquarters. He was a seasoned spymaster. He knew you always waited upon the right moment and the right operative to handle any situation.
“So, Mr. Kuryakin,” he spoke quietly to no one but himself, “you took it upon yourself to have Mr. Solo’s back. That has possibilities. Definite future possibilities,” he finalized with a wry spymaster smile.
—The End—
Kuryakin’s next inquiry regarding Talia Barne had to be with Carla Drosten herself. That was a tricky maneuver. Carla had been with the Command a good many years and was highly regarded in the managerial circles of the organization. So Illya knew his approach had to be diplomatic, minus even a subtle suggestion that maybe Carla had overstepped the bounds of acceptable influence-peddling at U.N.C.L.E. by supporting Talia Barne’s request to be assigned as Napoleon’s temporary assistant.
After a discreet knock, Illya let his badge automatically open the pneumatic door to Carla Drosten’s office.
“What can I do for you, Mr. Kuryakin?” Carla greeted the Russian in her doorway with a ready smile.
“Could I perhaps impose upon you for a moment of your time, Miss Drosten?”
“Of course. Always especially happy to help out our Section IIs however I can. You men are truly the backbone of this organization.”
“It’s just a question on standard policy,” Illya initiated the meat of the discussion as he made his way fully into the precincts of the office. At her wordless gesture of invitation, he sat himself in a chair opposite Carla’s desk.
“Ah,” remarked Carla simply. “Then privacy is required I think,” she further noted as she set the manual lock on the pneumatic entrance to her domain.
“A simple question really,” Illya assured her.
“And that question is?” prompted Carla with another ready smile.
“Well, I was wondering… I know all administrative personnel here at HQ are strenuously investigated for security purposes.”
“They are indeed,” confirmed Carla. “We leave nothing to chance.”
“And there are of course the routine psychological tests to insure mental and emotional stability.”
“Published policy, the details of which are provided every employment candidate who has first passed the security check. Where is this line of discussion going, Mr. Kuryakin?” Carla requested a more straightforward route to the Russian’s point, whatever that might be.
“Well…” Illya considered how to best word what he would ask. “What is the usual period of initial adjustment for any new administrative employee? How long before such a new employee is considered acceptable for more… sensitive positions?”
“All positions within U.N.C.L.E. are sensitive,” Carla meaningfully reminded the enforcement agent.
“Yes, of course that’s true,” back-peddled Kuryakin, “but what I mean is—”
“I do know what you mean,” interjected Carla. Then she leaned forward and neatly folded her hands on the tidy surface of her organized desk. “This is about Talia Barne, isn’t it?” she queried without prologue.
Looking the woman across the desk directly in the eye, Illya admitted without further prevarication, “Yes.”
Carla gave a resigned if dramatic sigh. “I realize, with her still so new to the Command, I probably shouldn’t have championed her application to serve as Napoleon’s temporary assistant. But you see…” She paused for a moment; then resumed her explanation. “She is so desperate to make her mark here. She wants a real career very badly, a career that includes future advancement. And I just…’ Carla bit her lip. “I know how that feels,” she confessed, “to want that. And it’s difficult for a woman to achieve… even here.
“Don’t get me wrong,” she assured Illya. “U.N.C.L.E. offers women within its corporate structure much more opportunity for advancement than is usual. But still, it’s a challenge. I know. I took on that challenge myself some years ago.”
“So you empathize with her?” suggested Illya.
Carla nodded. “Likely more than I should have in this particular instance. However, she has the prerequisite security clearance and the necessary skills,” she guaranteed the other U.N.C.L.E. employee. “So it wasn’t any true violation of policy to assign her. Questionable skirting of accepted practice perhaps, but no more than that.”
“And you skirted accepted practice because you saw yourself in her? Yourself back at the start of your career?”
Carla nodded. “I’m embarrassed to admit my rationale for backing her request came down to no more than that. Still, our life experiences make us all who we are, and no doubt influence our actions and reactions even when we don’t consciously realize it.”
“But in this case you did consciously realize it, yes?”
Again Carla nodded. “I did. Undoubtedly much as you consciously realize your experiences with roaming packs of wild dogs as a child influence your persistent aversion to even people-friendly pet dogs now.”
This was not something Illya wished to discuss with the head of Personnel. Yes, he realized she knew of his past fear and current dislike of canines because it was all there in his core background file. And, as head of Section VI, there were few if any portions of that file inaccessible for her perusal. Yet his personal antipathy when it came to dogs was a private matter he declined to discuss with anyone other than the psychiatric professionals Waverly insisted counsel his operatives on a regular basis.
“I am also fully cognizant of the fact my… going with my gut feelings on this occasion may have been less than judicious.” Carla saved Illya the trouble of veering the conversation back on track. “As head of Personnel, I am aware of some things kept private from the rank and file. I know Mr. Waverly has had some issues recently with Mr. Solo’s performance as CEA. And I do realize all that seemed to start with Talia Barne taking up the temporary position as his assistant.”
“And have you spoken to Mr. Waverly regarding this possible adverse connection?” demanded Illya a bit harshly. Alerting Waverly was her prerogative, not his. And if she hadn’t acted on that prerogative…
“I approached Napoleon directly, suggesting that mayhap Miss Barne was not yet up to the level of accountability necessary to act as his assistant,” Carla surprisingly informed Illya. “I guaranteed him it would neither be measured as a damaging reflection on her record nor negate her chance at future advanced assignments should he decide his preference would be to have someone else assigned as his secretary for the remainder of Mitzi’s absence.”
Illya schooled himself to keep from gaping outright at this revelation. Perhaps all this could be resolved to everyone’s satisfaction. Napoleon would get a more experienced temporary assistant who would be less prone to making newbie mistakes, Miss Barne would not be accused of anything that would limit her future with the organization, and Mr. Waverly would never have to be advised of the detailed ins-and-outs of what had gone on in this regard.
“And Mr. Solo’s decision was?” he prompted.
Carla shook her head sadly. “He said no. He would keep her on until Mitzi returned.”
Again Illya fought his reaction to simply gawk. “He what?” he requested confirmation.
“He refused to have another temporary assigned,” repeated Carla frankly.
Illya simply could not believe it. Napoleon had been offered an “honorable” way out of his current dilemma with the unseasoned Miss Barne and he had turned it down flat.
“So have you now approached Mr. Waverly?” Illya regained his mental composure enough to ask of Drosten.
Carla bit her lip. “I have no proof that Miss Barne is even partially responsible for Napoleon’s recent lapses of judgment as he has taken all reprimands for such failures fully upon himself. And knowing Napoleon’s…” she hesitated, searching for acceptable words. “Affectionate tendencies with regard to women,” she finally settled on a fairly neutral statement, “I didn’t want to bring down any unneeded wrath upon his head, especially at this time.”
Illya ran a hand through his hair in complete frustration. It seemed his friend’s Don Juan reputation had really backfired on him this time. The Russian more than suspected Carla Drosten was somewhat smitten with Solo, but that her attentions had gone substantially unrequited. So, if Napoleon was having an affair with Talia Barne and was thus desirous of keeping her for the moment close at hand… Well, Carla Drosten would simply let the CEA stew in his own sauce (or was it juice?), as the saying went.
But then again Miss Drosten had been amazingly forthcoming. When he considered more carefully, that she had confided to him as much as she had was quite an unexpected boon. Perhaps such was her means of righting the situation without explicitly interfering, if indeed Napoleon was in essence exchanging antics in the bedroom for silence in the conference room. And, if that was indeed why Carla had spoken so freely to him, it seemed likely that it was Solo’s charm prompting this candor from an infatuated Miss Drosten. Though that still placed the whole messy business right back in Illya’s own lap.
“I thank you for your time and honesty, Miss Drosten,” Illya politely expressed his gratitude as he rose to leave.
Carla nodded as she pushed the button to unlock the pneumatic door for Kuryakin to make his departure.
Illya Kuryakin barreled through yet another pneumatic door in New York HQ, this one granting access into the office of the Chief of Enforcement for U.N.C.L.E. Northwest.
Slamming his fist hard down on the desk in front of his seated friend, he demanded brusquely, “Are you sleeping with her?”
Napoleon gazed up at him through startled eyes. “Her who?” he asked in complete bewilderment.
“Talia Barne!” Illya spat out almost as if the name itself was a form of venom.
“Whatever gave you that idea?” Napoleon questioned.
“Carla Drosten let you know you could have Miss Barne ‘unassigned’ from the position as your assistant without negative consequences to her, and you refused.”
“Why the hell would Carla tell you about something that is absolutely none of your business?” queried Napoleon, now somewhat angry himself.
“Why did you refuse?” Illya ignored his supervisor’s legitimate query as he made his own demand.
“That’s private,” quietly stated Napoleon through clenched teeth.
“So you are sleeping with her!”
“Is that what you think of me? That I’m someone who cannot fail but lead with his cock?” Napoleon’s fury was palpable as his voice became even softer and his words very noticeably deliberate.
“I want an answer!” pressed Illya.
“And I want you to leave,” countered Napoleon.
“No!” stubbornly counter-countered Illya.
“That’s not a wise choice,” threatened Solo.
“So report me for insubordination,” egged Kuryakin. “You’re my superior: do it!”
“You think I won’t?”
“I want you to!” the Russian pushed.
“I don’t think you want me to call security in here,” the American warned.
“I do! Because then you’ll have to provide the specifics on why to Mr. Waverly and finally, finally the truth about Talia Barne will come out!”
Napoleon’s anger deflated like a popped balloon. “What is it with you and her, Illya? Why are you so against her?”
“She’s destroying your career.”
“Let’s not be melodramatic.”
“She’s destroying your career,” uncompromisingly repeated Illya, “and you’re letting her do it.”
“Illya, she is just a wide-eyed gal with a temporary job that sometimes overwhelms her.”
“Then send her back to the secretarial pool where she belongs.”
Napoleon sighed sadly. “That would be the same as confirming her misgivings about not being good enough.”
Illya felt the facts in his head about Talia Barne begin to whirl in confusion. He sat down abruptly, as if dizzy from the ensuing mental chaos. “Her what?” he questioned with a blink.
Napoleon sighed once more. “She’s convinced she isn’t good enough to really make a go of it within U.N.C.L.E.”
“Good enough how?” Illya wanted something more concrete to aid in his understanding of the matter.
Napoleon shrugged and then responded, “Not smart enough, not quick enough, not disciplined enough, not worthy of trust.”
“Yet she desperately wants to rise high within U.N.C.L.E.,” Illya added.
“I don’t know about that,” Napoleon quickly reflected on the notion, his brow furrowing in thought. “I just know she really doesn’t feel she will ever measure up.”
“To what?”
“Expectations,” finalized Napoleon.
Illya glanced askance at his friend. Was he seeing a pattern here? With Carla Drosten Talia Barne had played the “woman seeking professional advancement in a biased world” card. With Napoleon Solo she was playing the “afraid of not being what everyone expects of you” card.
He was familiar of course with the gist of Waverly’s expectations for his friend. Yet Illya Kuryakin was not privy to the contents of Napoleon Solo’s personnel file. He did not have the clearance status within U.N.C.L.E. necessary for such access. He did know, however, that Napoleon had been raised from infancy by his maternal grandparents, and that his maternal grandfather had served as U.S. ambassador to several different countries under several different American presidents. He was indeed a highly regarded diplomat with a pristine reputation. Undoubtedly such a man had his own expectations with regard to the grandson he had nurtured basically from birth.
There was no doubt Napoleon exuded an extreme self-confidence. Yet Kuryakin was keenly aware of the methods one learned to cope with personal stresses. He had his own psychological demons and had no doubts Solo possessed his own as well. And it would seem that Talia Barne was uniquely talented at tapping into those private anxieties people kept hidden on the surface, even those that kept them as well concealed as likely did Napoleon Solo.
“That’s one manipulative little bitch,” Illya mentally condemned the absent Miss Barne. But in that moment Illya Kuryakin realized to defeat the skillful manipulations of Talia Barne, he was going to have to abandon any attempt at an understated approach.
“You understand what I want you to do then?” Illya Kuryakin demanded of the muscular brute who stood here in this alley facing him.
The man nodded, albeit reluctantly.
“Good,” stated Illya tersely. “Then this conversation is at an end.”
As Illya turned to leave, the man spoke out in what could honestly only be called a whine. “Look, Kuryakin, I’m doing this because—”
“Because you have no choice,” interjected Illya brusquely.
“Thanks to you!” the brute spat back at the Russian. “Ever since that raid on the Brooklyn satrap where you threatened to make it look to the bigwigs—”
“If such a term can rightly be applied to the small minds of Thrush,” Illya interrupted again, disdain dripping from his every word.
“You left me no options other than to become an informant for U.N.C.L.E.!”
Illya shrugged. “There are always options.”
“Yeah, well, I rather wanted to live then and I still want to live now. Heat is starting to scorch me, Kuryakin. Those toadies setting their sights on a position at Central are always looking for ways to pull themselves up by their bootstraps. Stepping on a few bodies crisped through the slightest suspicion of betrayal is a very viable means of doing just that. And I see them all glancing my way, analyzing the possibilities as they calculate the cost.”
“My heart bleeds for you.”
“You goddamn Commie bastard, I want a guarantee!”
“I can guarantee you that all men die. It is the nature of the beast.”
“If I do this, I want a guarantee,” persisted the Thrush, ignoring Illya’s brutal sarcasm, “that U.N.C.L.E. will relocate me with a new identity.”
“And I’ve already told you I will endorse such a plan with Mr. Waverly.”
“I want it in writing!”
“You have my word.”
“No, not good enough. I—”
“You complain of having no options,” interposed Illya flatly. “Well, now I am giving you options. You can either take your chances with me or with the self-serving members of Thrush. It is entirely your choice in whom it would be shrewdest to place your trust.”
The brute chewed on his lower lip, shifting his shoulders uncomfortably in his ill-fitting cheap suit. None of this was going his way. But again he really did want to live. So he’d take his chances with Kuryakin.
“It was an attempted kidnapping?” Alexander Waverly requested verification from the Section II agent now briefing him on the regrettable situation.
“Apparently so, sir,” stated Illya Kuryakin with an emphasizing nod.
“Thrush initiated?” The Continental Chief pressed for further confirmation of the details on which he was being updated.
Kuryakin nodded once more.
“I do recognize that Thrush often needs little logical motive for its actions,” granted the first administrator within U.N.C.L.E. “However, in this particular instance, with Miss Barne being no more than a member of the secretarial pool—”
“For the past three weeks she has been subbing for Mitzi Harrington during her medical leave.”
“Ah yes, Mr. Solo’s assistant. Bad ankle fracture while taking one of those learn-to-ski courses at the Craigmeur resort in New Jersey.”
This garnered yet another corroborating nod from the Command’s Russian operative.
“So is this nasty business related to Miss. Barne’s temporary assignment?”
“We believe so, sir,” substantiated Kuryakin. “Prior to the incident Miss Barne and a few of her colleagues from the secretarial pool were chatting in a Manhattan bar. Miss Barne admits Mr. Solo’s name came up in conversation.”
Mr. Waverly raised one bushy eyebrow.
“No mention was made of U.N.C.L.E. itself, sir,” the agent forestalled his boss’ concerns. “Nor of Mr. Solo’s particular position within the Command. Yet… Well, we have been aware for some time that Thrush is cognizant of Mr. Solo’s recent promotion.”
“Indeed,” spoke Waverly with a short nod of his own. The speed of Thrush’s information network was a constant trial to both this man and the organization he had founded. “Continue with your report, Mr. Kuryakin.”
“Miss Barne and her companions left the drinking establishment around 9 p.m. She separated from her friends to walk home to her nearby apartment. A man, who had apparently followed her from the bar, then physically accosted her and attempted to force her into a nearby vehicle. During the scuffle that ensued he tried to inject her with a syringe, saying something to the effect of having no intention of letting her get away because grabbing Mr. Solo’s assistant on his own initiative would surely raise his image with Central. Those of Thrush do often have loose tongues, sir,” added the Section II agent by way of personal commentary.
“Lips, Mr. Kuryakin.”
“Excuse me, sir?”
“The English colloquialism…” began Waverly. “Never mind,” he then broke off that line of discussion. “Yes, we are agreed that Thrush minions do tend to speak without considered thought. Miss Barne managed to overpower her attacker?”
“The self-defense training the Command provides its staff aided her to doing so, sir. She – uh… Simply put, sir, she utilized her purse to strike her male assailant in the gonads and then made a hasty retreat.”
If a small smirk appeared momentarily on Alexander Waverly’s face at this blunt summation of how Talia Barne made good her escape, such was perfectly understandable. It was definitely satisfying to receive evidence that the physical training programs of his organization paid off at all levels, not just the ones dedicated to enforcement.
“And she is substantially unhurt?”
“Some cuts and bruises. Medical is giving her a once-over right now to ensure nothing in the syringe actually made it into her bloodstream from where the needle scratched her. She is naturally emotionally shaken, however, and the psychiatric personnel have advised she thus be housed overnight at HQ for her personal peace of mind.”
“Of course, Mr. Kuryakin. I’ll authorize her temporary use of one of the personnel lodgings here in headquarters immediately.”
Kuryakin made his nod of acknowledgement apropos to his superior’s decision.
“And the man that assaulted Miss Barne.” Waverly required particular information. “Has he been apprehended?”
Kuryakin gave a dissatisfied shake of his head. “Security was summoned by Miss Barne to her apartment. So, by the time said Section V personnel had received the necessary details on the location of the actual attack, the man had long vanished. We do have feelers out on the ground, sir.”
“And a description?”
“Miss Barne was unable to provide one. The man seized her from behind and never faced her. She performed the defensive maneuver with her handbag by slamming it backward toward where, by gauging his height relative to her own, she sensed his privates to be.”
“Unfortunate that she never saw his countenance.”
“Indeed, sir,” agreed Kuryakin. “And with regard to that, I would like to make a further suggestion concerning Miss Barne’s future safety.”
“Go on, Mr. Kuryakin,” consented the Section I head.
“Though we have no evidence that the man in question tracked Miss Barne to her nearby apartment after the failed abduction, I still believe it would be prudent to outfit her living space with upgraded security equipment. As a member of the general secretarial pool within U.N.C.L.E., the security with which her home was previously fitted is only first level. I would suggest it be upgraded to third level.”
“That routinely given to full-time assistants of Section Chiefs?”
Kuryakin nodded. “For the nonce, sir. It can be downgraded again once Miss Barne’s temporary assignment is completed.”
Waverly nodded in his turn, thus approving the plan. “Have it done at once, Mr. Kuryakin.”
“Yes, sir. I will see to it personally,” pledged Illya more meaningfully than was the general wont.
“Thank you, gentleman,” Illya properly expressed his gratitude to the Section V personnel who had taken on the quick-turnaround, late-night/early-morning task of outfitting the apartment of Talia Barne with an upgraded security system. “I can handle the final coding input myself. Go home to your families.”
The men all nodded their own gratitude and then willingly packed up their equipment and made their departures. After their exits, Kuryakin properly set up the new coding sequence for the system as he had stated he would. Then, however, he wandered throughout the apartment. This was not done aimlessly, but rather with an eye toward finding something that might prove of use in his self-appointed task of removing Miss Barne from her temporary assignment as assistant to U.N.C.L.E.’s North American CEA.
He didn’t know specifically what he was looking for and he was well aware he would most likely find nothing at all. Talia Barne was simply an ambitious and manipulative go-getter who was looking to advance her position within the Command through shortcut methods. What evidence could be found to block her current chosen path of too hasty advancement, he had no clue. Still, it was an absolute certainty he would indeed find nothing if he never took the time to look.
Illya mentally congratulated himself on how smoothly his scheme to get privately into Miss Barne’s living quarters had come to fruition. Making use of one desperate Thrush contact who had all but outlived his worth as an informant and dropping a subtle hint around some of the more gossipy members of the typing pool that Talia Barne might wind up a permanent replacement for Napoleon’s assistant was all the setup that had been necessary. Of course it always paid to keep an ear to the wall and thus have a ready handle on when and where members of the secretarial klatch regularly socialized outside the office.
Illya methodically searched through Talia’s apartment, taking care to examine everything yet alter nothing from its current placement. He surmised Miss Barne had a French background from the personal photos and memorabilia he discovered amongst her things. Odd that he had detected no accent with regard to her speaking of English. Apparently she also had something of a green thumb, as many types of thriving plants grew in painted clay pots perched on the windowsills of the entire living area: herbs in the kitchen, verdant greenery in the parlor, flowers in the bedroom. She seemingly preferred coffee to tea, wine to hard liquor or beer, and baguettes to pre-sliced bread. Her refrigerator contained a large assortment of paper-wrapped wedge cheeses, her bookshelves a modest selection of tawdry romance novels, and her linen drawer a carefully stored collection of handmade and likely antique lace table coverings. None of what Illya observed within the space gave him anything with even the remote potential of aiding him in his mission.
He was in his final tour of the premises, meticulously rummaging through Talia’s bedroom closet, when he at last came across something that held the promise of making his painstaking search worthwhile. There was a wall safe at the back of the walk-in wardrobe. Sealed via a combination lock of course, but then Illya Kuryakin was an expertly trained spy. There were few if any locks he couldn’t defeat and this one proved no exception. He cracked the code with surprising ease, yet was puzzled to find within that small safe not money or jewelry or documents but simply another combination lock attached to one of the unit’s side partitions. Expecting his ready foiling of the second combination to at last reveal whatever trove of treasures Miss Barne was striving so diligently to keep protected, Illya was taken aback when what resulted was the entire rear wall of the closet opening onto a secret room beyond.
Quickly regaining his composure and instinctively drawing his weapon, the U.N.C.L.E. agent entered the admittedly cramped confines of that exposed chamber. A plethora of open shelves lined the walls of the room, as if indeed its original intent had been for the hidden storage of valuables. Yet what Miss Barne was warehousing within seemed to Illya far from meriting such extreme safeguarding techniques. Candles by the score – a few in holders but most lying flat upon the shelves, a multitude of bells of various sizes and metal compositions, and perhaps a dozen thick and, judging by their outward condition, rather old tomes. Those books might indeed have some intrinsic worth, but the rest?
For the moment the room was lit only by the flame of a single candle set in an iron holder on one of the middle shelves. Holstering his special, Illya drew closer to that one current source of illumination with the idea of examining the nature of the volumes housed here. Subsequently he discovered the ledge holding that candle also held one of the brass bells, the thickest of the tomes open midway through its breadth, …and a burgundy-framed, 3½x5 black-and-white photograph of Napoleon Solo.
“I’ll be damned!” remarked Illya in astonishment.
He didn’t understand this. Was it intended as some kind of shrine? It made no sense.
“Are you mayhap unwholesomely obsessed, Miss Barne? Psychologically unbalanced?” he rhetorically queried the absent woman.
Then a cold trail traveled the length of his spine. The title reference of that movie he and Napoleon had viewed the month before came unbidden to his mind.
“Ring the bell, open the book, light the candle," he murmured quietly. “I don’t believe in any of that,” he then sternly reminded himself in a much louder voice.
Still, he suspected he now had a means to his desired end.
And still before closing back up the hidden room, he did something he had purposely avoided doing anywhere else within Talia’s apartment; that is, leave outward evidence that someone had been snooping here. With simple determination: he lifted the bell and shook it once quickly, setting its clapper in brief sound-filled motion, slammed the book loudly shut, and then snuffed out the flame of the candle between the thumb and forefinger of his left hand.
Talia Barne was definitely surprised by the knock on the door of the living quarters in HQ that had been given over to her. Glancing at the clock on the nightstand, she saw it was yet some minutes before five in the morning. Whoever was seeking her attention so early?
“Just a moment,” she called through to the unknown visitor beyond the portal. From the foot of the bed she gathered up the standard dressing gown she had been provided by housekeeping as returning to her own apartment to pack an overnight bag had not been an option. Pulling the oversized robe on over her likewise standard issue and likewise oversized pajamas, she moved to the small reception area of the quarters, switched on a light, and then pressed the button to release the manual lock on the pneumatic door.
“You should have asked who was seeking entrance, Miss Barne,” Illya Kuryakin reminded her from his spot in the now open doorway.
“Here within headquarters, I didn’t think—”
“It is always advisable to think,” interjected Illya. “May I come in?” he then immediately queried.
Talia nodded mutely and Illya walked into the standard suite, letting the pneumatic door swoosh shut automatically behind him.
“Please have a seat,” Talia invited her uninvited guest with a gesture toward the one overstuffed chair within the ‘living room’
“Thank you.”
“I’d offer you coffee, but I’m afraid I haven’t put a pot on yet,” she explained pointedly as she herself sat on the sofa in that living room.
“You are very kind, but I am here on official business. So there is no need for standard hostess amenities.”
“Official business?” Talia queried uncertainly.
The Section II agent nodded briskly. “I wanted to inform you that the new security system has been installed in your apartment and is now fully functional.”
Talia nodded her gratitude, all the while wondering why this very standard news couldn’t have waited at least another hour to be delivered.
“Nothing within your permanent living space was found to be compromised,” further forwarded Kuryakin.
Talia sat up straighter. “Did you expect it would be?”
“As an enforcement agent, I don’t go into any situation with preconceived expectations, Miss Barne. To do so could prove extremely dangerous.”
Something about the way he was speaking to her sent her mind into turbulent motion. She instinctively realized it was not what he was saying, but what he wasn’t saying that was of real import.
“You’re Russian, yes, Mr. Kuryakin?” she asked with an ingenuous smile. “We have, therefore, a similar background in some regards I think. As a young child, I lived in Dijon during the Nazi occupation. I remember very little of that time of course. Except the fear.”
Kuryakin didn’t respond. Talia moved her head a bit so the ambient light caught her eyes in a certain way, bringing out their unique burgundy highlights.
“The imperfect memory of childhood allows one to forget particular horrors once you reach adulthood,” she continued undaunted, “but never the base fear.”
Kuryakin set his gaze directly on hers.
“Miss Barne, we could mayhap commiserate about our lost childhoods as we confide to one another barely remembered tales of woe, but we will not,” he stated straight-to-the-point. “I have come to you to ask a particular question.”
“And that question is?” required Talia with a slightly furrowed brow.
“Are you a practicing Wiccan?”
“Whatever prompts such a question?”
“During standard security inspection, I came across an oddity in your home. A kind of shrine.”
Though caught off-guard, she was honestly somewhat amused by this scenario. The Russian enforcement agent was resistant to her mystical talents it would seem. Or perhaps he was constraining his inner being to remain resistant.
“A shrine? That’s an uncommon reference.”
“Are you a practicing Wiccan?” Kuryakin steadfastly repeated his question.
“You mean a practicing witch?” insinuated Talia bluntly.
“A practicing Wiccan,” emphasized Kuryakin uncompromisingly.
“Would that be a problem for U.N.C.L.E.?”
Illya shook his head in negation. “U.N.C.L.E. is tolerant of all religious beliefs. And of course at hiring you made specific mention of your own affiliation with such religion for notation in your personnel record.”
Talia laughed her musical composition of a laugh. “You know I did not.”
“No, I didn’t know,” he assured her. “At least not until you just told me. However, therein does lay a problem: not with your religious beliefs themselves but with your purposeful concealment of them.”
“Perhaps it wasn’t purposeful,” she suggested.
“And perhaps the moon really is made of green cheese,” countered Illya rhetorically.
Another laugh bubbled out of Talia’s throat. This was all so wonderfully droll. “You really are a cynic, aren’t you?” she then queried of her ‘interrogator’.
“So everyone tells me,” Illya observed without a single qualm.
“What happens now?”
He shrugged. “Nothing earthshattering. There will be an investigative review regarding your background: all very standard. Likely you will receive an official reprimand and there will be the end of the matter. Of course you understand,” he then dropped the bombshell, “it would be an unacceptable breach of security for you to continue in your temporary assignment as assistant to the Command’s Northwest Chief of Enforcement during any such review. Or indeed be assigned again to any similar advanced position within the organization for a standard period of probation after receipt of such an official reprimand.”
Talia smiled wryly. “Must everything be standard to satisfy your peace of mind?” she baited him.
“Not everything,” hedged Illya with a wry smile of his own.
“My one pressing question now asked and answered,” he noted further as he rose to his feet, “I’ll leave you to resume your interrupted sleep. My sincere apologies for so disturbing your rest.”
The pneumatic door had already opened when Illya turned back into the room. “By the by, I quenched the candle in your safe room. Fire hazard you know.”
“Indeed,” spoke out Talia as she focused her burgundy-brown eyes steadfastly on his blue ones.
He was halfway out the door when she called out his name to regain his attention. As he obligingly turned back yet again, she inquired, “If I do have powers, don’t you fear me using them against you?”
“You have no powers, Miss Barne,” determined Kuryakin unequivocally. “Certainly none to compare with those I face on a constant basis as an instrument of order battling the forces of would-be human chaos.”
Then he was gone.
For a few moments she simply sat staring forward at nothing. Then she began to laugh once more: her enchanting symphony of a laugh. She would leave U.N.C.L.E. voluntarily of course. There was no further reason for her to be here. She had no fear of any form of retribution from those of Thrush. Push come to shove, she could manipulate them as easily as she could anyone else. Anyone, that is, expect perhaps Illya Kuryakin.
In truth Thrush had no reason for complaint. She had performed as promised. That Napoleon Solo would rather easily and quite quickly regain any status her machinations had cost him, she had no doubt. But she had never promised Thrush that it would be impossible for Solo to redeem himself in the estimation of his U.N.C.L.E. superiors. Only a very foolish witch would ever make such an unsustainable pledge. No magic was ever foolproof.
Several weeks later…
“I want to congratulate you, Mr. Solo,” Alexander Waverly praised his Chief of Enforcement. “The strategy you set in motion for the Caracas mission was nothing less than brilliant.”
“I appreciate the compliment, sir,” stated Napoleon Solo as a heady mix of pride and satisfaction filled his inner being.
“It was a touchy thing, a touchy thing indeed,” continued the Old Man, “and you pulled it off without a hitch.”
“Thorough intelligence and careful coordination provided the key, sir.”
Waverly nodded. “And the suggestions you have made with regard to future enforced policy for the temporary assignment of administrative personnel here in HQ,” he furthered as he glanced down briefly at the open contents of the top folder of the pile on his desk. “Quite thoroughly thought out, young man. I very much approve.”
“Your approval means much to me, Mr. Waverly.”
“And that I can give it to you wholeheartedly means much to me,” ventured Waverly with somewhat surprising sentiment. “I will admit the seeds of doubt had been planted in my mind with regard to you. I’m glad in the end I refused to water them to let them grow into confidence-strangling weeds. From our first meeting, Mr. Solo, I have sensed something in you. I am pleased I did not sense wrong.”
Napoleon made no return comment, but Waverly honestly expected none. He knew, though Solo gave no outward expression of this, he was flustering the young man with his open verbal show of confidence.
“Now, get back to work, Mr. Solo,” Waverly considerately ended the private conference. “World disorder and Thrush intrigues wait upon the convenience of no operative of U.N.C.L.E.”
“Yes sir,” responded Napoleon as he rose swiftly to his feet.
After the exit of his Section II head, the Continental Chief pondered on recent events. It never ceased to amaze him how those under his authority imagined that, because he said nothing outright, he remained ignorant of what was going on under his own roof here at headquarters. He was a seasoned spymaster. He knew you always waited upon the right moment and the right operative to handle any situation.
“So, Mr. Kuryakin,” he spoke quietly to no one but himself, “you took it upon yourself to have Mr. Solo’s back. That has possibilities. Definite future possibilities,” he finalized with a wry spymaster smile.
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Date: 2013-10-20 11:40 pm (UTC)Yes, Waverly is always more informed than anyone guesses. [Chuckle].
I really think Illya's confrontation showed to advantage his rather unexpected style of getting his message across. ;)