The Starting Gate Affair - part 3
Aug. 2nd, 2012 09:26 am![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
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section7mfuThe days turned into weeks as Illya followed the program laid out for him. He was consuming the shakes every day, three times a day, with only vegetables and fruit in between. The shakes contained the essential protein and carbohydrates necessary to keep him going, and amazingly he felt really good. His energy never waned and for the most part he wasn’t hungry. Anytime he wanted to eat there were fresh vegetables for him to munch on, or fruit… lots of fruit.
The riding schedule was grueling, though. He was out at the farm by six in the morning, every morning. The early morning workouts were essential for both him and the horse, and Dawn’s Tomorrow was a horse with a mission. At only two years old, he was at the beginning of his career, and if he hadn’t been an impressive eighteen hands Illya would have dwarfed the grey stallion.
This morning found man and horse at the end of their fifth week together. Illya had already lost seventeen pounds, a feat that was the envy of every woman at headquarters and a few of the men as well. Napoleon was shocked at how the weight had come off of his friend, and periodically he thought him unrecognizable with the suddenly gaunt features and pronounced cheekbones. As part of the charade, Illya had started combing his hair back from his face, something that gave him a very somber look; his eyes were haunting, more deeply set than before. Napoleon hoped that Illya would gain back the weight quickly, because somehow this man just wasn’t his partner.
Mr. Waverly had been driven out to Harewood Farms to witness his agent in action. His friendship with Sturgess Harewood was one of long standing and silent agreements. Sturgess had been a pilot in the war, and afterwards had turned his attention to customizing airplanes for rich industrialists and tycoons. He had amassed a sizeable fortune in the process and decided upon a thoroughbred farm as the antidote to the stress of a successful business. He turned over the day-to-day operation to his son-in-law Anthony Decker, an Englishman he had lured across the Atlantic for his superb business acumen. The consequent romance between Anthony and Sturgess’s daughter Suzanne was an unexpected bonus, and had allowed the older man the luxury of retiring to his horse farm. And this is where he conspired periodically with Alexander Waverly, as he was doing now.
There was a long porch that ran the length of the house, and the two wizened old men sat there now in oversized wooden rockers that were flanked by potted palms and a dedicated staff. Sturgess signaled to one of the men for fresh coffee, and whatever fresh pastries had been baked this morning.
“Alexander, you must have some of this… ‘
Sturgess looked at the young man who had delivered the plump sweet rolls.
“Daryl, what are these again?”
Daryl, in his most urbane imitation of an apprentice to greatness, replied in a conspiratorial tone.
“Cinnamon rolls, sir. Mrs. Cocker has baked them fresh for you and your guest just this morning.”
“Ah, yes… cinnamon rolls, Alexander. Please, have one.”
And with that a china plate was set upon the table that was situated between Harewood and Waverly, and the men got down to their reason for being there on that great, long porch.
The air was crisp and heralded the onset of Autumn. The early mornings here had a feel that was lost on the concrete and asphalt of the city, and Waverly breathed in a little of the air, rare in more ways than one.
“How’s he doing, Sturgess? Mr. Kuryakin, that is, how is he progressing?”
Sturgess Harewood had been around horses all of his life, had loved them that long. When he saw that same affinity for the animals he raised it buoyed his hopes. He wanted to raise a champion, desired to know the thrill of a horse that could take on the competition and win against all odds. He had seen the great Seabiscuit run once, as a youth. It was a memory he knew would remain with him until his dying day.
“Your Mr. Kuryakin is a good rider, talented even. His height is, of course, unusual for the sport, but he’s slender. Damn it, Alexander, you’ve nearly starved him into a waif for this mission. Is it worth it, putting him through this?”
Alexander Waverly nodded slowly, his eyes never leaving the young man on horseback as he put the grey horse through his paces. Illya Kuryakin was talented at many things, and it had been a stroke of luck to find he had yet one more useful skill to place at UNCLE’s disposal.
“Yes, Sturgess, it is all worth it.”
The other man followed the gaze of his friend, watched Illya stand up in the stirrups and assume the familiar posture of a jockey as Dawn’s Tomorrow broke into a gallop. Within a few seconds they were out of sight of the two old men as horse and man disappeared behind a stand of trees that lined the drive leading up to the house.
“It is imperative that he post times that will garner enough interest to warrant investment. We must have that syndicate of investors to work with. You’re certain that no one will discover…”
Sturgess broke in, his mind already following Waverly’s train of thought.
“The records show that your man Solo has purchased the horse from me when he was a yearling. It’s all completely proper and binding, no one will know that it was only just transacted. The rules are strict, Alexander, and I can’t be found to be violating them. You must make certain of that.”
“Indeed, Sturgess. It will all be perfectly legal and no one will ever know that you are cooperating with UNCLE in this. The horse, Dawn’s Tomorrow, he’s as good as the profile you created?”
Harewood laughed at the absurdity of his horse not being worth all of the enthusiasm that his animal deserved.
“Yes, Alexander. And if your man can ride him the way he’s looking to me, then we might actually win that race in October.”
Two identical grins emerged in the shadows on that long porch.
As Illya let Dawn’s Tomorrow run full out on the track, he was concentrating on holding his own with the monolith. It was grueling to sit atop a horse like this, and perched as he was his legs would be aching by the end of the ride. He was almost too tall to do this without great risk, but the exhilaration of it was addicting to the Russian, and he knew that the longer he stayed here, the greater the desire to get on the real racetrack and win aboard this gallant horse.
As they passed the last quarter mile post Illya could sense Dawn’s Tomorrow getting ready to surge forward. That was his pattern; the big grey would lay up for the first part of the circuit and then, with the finish line in sight, he would gather all of his speed into one spectacular burst. The small amount of experience Tom, as he was called, had on the track had inspired this tactic and, although he had never won a race yet, it seemed like a good strategy to the man riding.
“Go, Tom! Bystryee… faster!”
The big grey dug in and both horse and rider sailed across the imaginary finish to the roar of an invisible crowd that rewarded the pair with silent cheers.
Part 4
The riding schedule was grueling, though. He was out at the farm by six in the morning, every morning. The early morning workouts were essential for both him and the horse, and Dawn’s Tomorrow was a horse with a mission. At only two years old, he was at the beginning of his career, and if he hadn’t been an impressive eighteen hands Illya would have dwarfed the grey stallion.
This morning found man and horse at the end of their fifth week together. Illya had already lost seventeen pounds, a feat that was the envy of every woman at headquarters and a few of the men as well. Napoleon was shocked at how the weight had come off of his friend, and periodically he thought him unrecognizable with the suddenly gaunt features and pronounced cheekbones. As part of the charade, Illya had started combing his hair back from his face, something that gave him a very somber look; his eyes were haunting, more deeply set than before. Napoleon hoped that Illya would gain back the weight quickly, because somehow this man just wasn’t his partner.
Mr. Waverly had been driven out to Harewood Farms to witness his agent in action. His friendship with Sturgess Harewood was one of long standing and silent agreements. Sturgess had been a pilot in the war, and afterwards had turned his attention to customizing airplanes for rich industrialists and tycoons. He had amassed a sizeable fortune in the process and decided upon a thoroughbred farm as the antidote to the stress of a successful business. He turned over the day-to-day operation to his son-in-law Anthony Decker, an Englishman he had lured across the Atlantic for his superb business acumen. The consequent romance between Anthony and Sturgess’s daughter Suzanne was an unexpected bonus, and had allowed the older man the luxury of retiring to his horse farm. And this is where he conspired periodically with Alexander Waverly, as he was doing now.
There was a long porch that ran the length of the house, and the two wizened old men sat there now in oversized wooden rockers that were flanked by potted palms and a dedicated staff. Sturgess signaled to one of the men for fresh coffee, and whatever fresh pastries had been baked this morning.
“Alexander, you must have some of this… ‘
Sturgess looked at the young man who had delivered the plump sweet rolls.
“Daryl, what are these again?”
Daryl, in his most urbane imitation of an apprentice to greatness, replied in a conspiratorial tone.
“Cinnamon rolls, sir. Mrs. Cocker has baked them fresh for you and your guest just this morning.”
“Ah, yes… cinnamon rolls, Alexander. Please, have one.”
And with that a china plate was set upon the table that was situated between Harewood and Waverly, and the men got down to their reason for being there on that great, long porch.
The air was crisp and heralded the onset of Autumn. The early mornings here had a feel that was lost on the concrete and asphalt of the city, and Waverly breathed in a little of the air, rare in more ways than one.
“How’s he doing, Sturgess? Mr. Kuryakin, that is, how is he progressing?”
Sturgess Harewood had been around horses all of his life, had loved them that long. When he saw that same affinity for the animals he raised it buoyed his hopes. He wanted to raise a champion, desired to know the thrill of a horse that could take on the competition and win against all odds. He had seen the great Seabiscuit run once, as a youth. It was a memory he knew would remain with him until his dying day.
“Your Mr. Kuryakin is a good rider, talented even. His height is, of course, unusual for the sport, but he’s slender. Damn it, Alexander, you’ve nearly starved him into a waif for this mission. Is it worth it, putting him through this?”
Alexander Waverly nodded slowly, his eyes never leaving the young man on horseback as he put the grey horse through his paces. Illya Kuryakin was talented at many things, and it had been a stroke of luck to find he had yet one more useful skill to place at UNCLE’s disposal.
“Yes, Sturgess, it is all worth it.”
The other man followed the gaze of his friend, watched Illya stand up in the stirrups and assume the familiar posture of a jockey as Dawn’s Tomorrow broke into a gallop. Within a few seconds they were out of sight of the two old men as horse and man disappeared behind a stand of trees that lined the drive leading up to the house.
“It is imperative that he post times that will garner enough interest to warrant investment. We must have that syndicate of investors to work with. You’re certain that no one will discover…”
Sturgess broke in, his mind already following Waverly’s train of thought.
“The records show that your man Solo has purchased the horse from me when he was a yearling. It’s all completely proper and binding, no one will know that it was only just transacted. The rules are strict, Alexander, and I can’t be found to be violating them. You must make certain of that.”
“Indeed, Sturgess. It will all be perfectly legal and no one will ever know that you are cooperating with UNCLE in this. The horse, Dawn’s Tomorrow, he’s as good as the profile you created?”
Harewood laughed at the absurdity of his horse not being worth all of the enthusiasm that his animal deserved.
“Yes, Alexander. And if your man can ride him the way he’s looking to me, then we might actually win that race in October.”
Two identical grins emerged in the shadows on that long porch.
As Illya let Dawn’s Tomorrow run full out on the track, he was concentrating on holding his own with the monolith. It was grueling to sit atop a horse like this, and perched as he was his legs would be aching by the end of the ride. He was almost too tall to do this without great risk, but the exhilaration of it was addicting to the Russian, and he knew that the longer he stayed here, the greater the desire to get on the real racetrack and win aboard this gallant horse.
As they passed the last quarter mile post Illya could sense Dawn’s Tomorrow getting ready to surge forward. That was his pattern; the big grey would lay up for the first part of the circuit and then, with the finish line in sight, he would gather all of his speed into one spectacular burst. The small amount of experience Tom, as he was called, had on the track had inspired this tactic and, although he had never won a race yet, it seemed like a good strategy to the man riding.
“Go, Tom! Bystryee… faster!”
The big grey dug in and both horse and rider sailed across the imaginary finish to the roar of an invisible crowd that rewarded the pair with silent cheers.
Part 4
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Date: 2012-08-02 02:31 pm (UTC)You "draw" the scene amazingly and I can see the race...
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Date: 2012-08-02 02:36 pm (UTC)I'm guessing a steak and baked potato will be on the menu at some point ;)
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Date: 2012-08-02 03:15 pm (UTC)