section7mfu | The Starting Gate Affair

As Illya drove back to Harewood Farms, he reflected on the evening he had spent with his friend and partner. Napoleon had been given the role of a player once again, and Illya that of the perennial worker bee. It was usually this way; the need for a suave and sophisticated agent often meant that Napoleon was called in. Illya wondered what it was that made him decidedly not fit for those parts.

“You are a Bolshevik at heart, Illya Nickovetch Kuryakin.”

He mused to himself about origins and fate, and then imagined a scene in which he rode Dawn’s Tomorrow into Napoleon’s party in a display of Soviet pique at the outlandish display of bourgeois decadence gone wild.

The blond smiled at that, reveled slightly in the notion that he could pull it off somehow. As he was reviewing the scene once more Illya pulled through the gate and onto Harewood’s property. The long drive meandered through a stand of trees that stood atop a bank hanging precariously above a now full creek. As Illya reached the turn that would take him to the stables, someone was crawling out of the darkness and onto the narrow road.

Illya put on the brakes and lurched to a sudden stop, not completely confident that he hadn’t run over who ever was in the road. Jumping out of the car, it took mere seconds before the truth of the situation was apparent to the would-be Good Samaritan.

Two men rushed Illya just as he realized that the man in the road was not injured at all. With as much defiance as was physically possible, the Russian thrashed and delayed the inevitable with less finesse than he would have liked. Three to one was not good odds, and in spite of being truly fit, their bulk alone made it a foregone conclusion as to who would be, finally, the victim.

Crushing blows were landed on the smaller man, especially around the ribcage. Illya felt himself drifting away from the pain, darkness invading the night that was itself nearly bereft of stars and moonlight.

After an exhibition of brutality, the three thugs determined that the jockey was damaged enough and carried him into the woods, rolled him down the shallow bank and into the little creek; no one expected to see the blond on a horse again, if at all.

Illya landed on his back in a portion of the creek that was raised above the flow of water. Fortuitous could have been used to describe this circumstance, although it might have been slightly more optimistic than it felt. The pain was intense, and Illya was fairly certain that at least one rib was broken. He managed to gain control of his right arm and willed it to go in search of his communicator. Amazingly, his attackers had not taken it from him.

With waves of pain coursing through his arm, Illya located the tin box and managed to remove it from the pocket of his jeans and brought it up as near to his mouth as he was able.

“Open… channel…”

But that was as much as he managed before passing out.

Napoleon was settling in for the evening, his satisfaction in having fed his waif-like friend was a preliminary to the glass of Kentucky bourbon he had poured for himself. It made him hesitate only slightly when he thought of Illya heading back to the stables and dramatically less than opulent conditions. Living the life of a jockey had to be better than what the Russian was experiencing.

Tomorrow night the party at the center of this affair was scheduled to light up the night. Miss Denault would be here, as would several other rich women alongside their equally prosperous husbands. THRUSH was backing Miranda Denault financially, although they had no intention of actually letting her keep anything purchased with the Hierarchy’s money.

Waverly had not divulged all of his plan to his agents. He determined to have as few possible problems as he could manage. The point of this little game UNCLE was playing was to create a syndicate of investors who wanted to be part owners of Dawn’s Tomorrow. It was a common practice, and the investments were rewarded according to the wins and subsequent breeding of a stallion. UNCLE hoped to get THRUSH to tie up enough money in this venture to cripple them in some of their other endeavors. More than the money, however, was the person that Waverly was hoping to tie up with this gambit. Waverly had put this venture out like bait, and he believed that it was working, would work, and that they would have this man very soon.

If all things worked as Waverly hoped, the man he sought would step out of the shadows in order to back up Miss Denault’s bid to be a part of the syndicate. This individual had vexed Waverly for years, had been part of an operation in England in which large amounts of money had been brought into the country illegally, under the guise of imports.

Getting the mark here had required great amounts of deception, purposefully placed misinformation and the sureness of the man’s greed. If Waverly could get him to show up and bid on the syndicate, then he would have him. He just needed the man to show his face.

It was risky, to be sure, and part of the strategy involved the race in which Illya was to ride on Sunday, and hopefully win. Waverly was asking a lot of the Russian, but then he expected a lot from his operatives.

As Waverly reflected on the likelihood of success in this affair, Napoleon wondered about having the kind of money that would allow a person to sink thousands into a racehorse, all in the hopes of winning a few races and then, sending the poor animal off to breed. Well, maybe not such a bad life…

As he mussed on the subject of good fortune, Napoleon was dismayed slightly at the sound of his own communicator.

“Solo here.”

“Mr. Solo, is Mr. Kuryakin with you?”

Alexander Waverly’s voice had the edge of concern that rarely showed in his dealings with agents.

“Uh, no sir. Illya… Mr. Kuryakin left here about an hour ago. I expect he’s nearing Haregate Farms by now… Is there something wrong, sir?”

The pause on the other side of this technology gave Napoleon a bad feeling.

“Mr. Kuryakin opened a transmission about ten minutes ago, but stopped in mid sentence. The communicator is still open, and it sounds rather, to my ear and that of Mullins in communications, like running water…outdoors.”

Napoleon immediately thought of the conversation with Illya, of the man he had recognized as a THRUSH operative. Parker…

“Sir, Illya recognized a man at Harewood today, an Ian Parker. He was touring the stables with Anthony Decker. Illya… Mr. Kuryakin didn’t think he recognized him, or that Anthony knows about THRUSH, but still… “

“Yes, yes quite so. It is cause for some concern, and now Mr. Kuryakin is not answering, has seemingly dropped off and… “

Waverly stopped, dismayed at the idea now that Kuryakin was in a body of water, possibly already drowned.

“I suggest you get out to Harewood Farms immediately, Mr. Solo. I will have Sturgess send someone to look for Mr. Kuryakin as well.”

“Sir, could we not use a helicopter…”

“I am sorry, Mr. Solo, but in light of the mission, we should not let on that UNCLE is involved. If Mr. Kuryakin is… if he is not injured or… worse… Well, you understand.”

Napoleon didn’t understand, not enough to forfeit Illya’s life in order to save the illusion of whatever it was they were trying to accomplish.

“Yes, of course sir. I’m leaving now, I’ll report in as soon as I get on the scene. Solo out.”

Ian Parker. Waverly hadn’t expected him to show up at Sturgess’ farm, not in company with Anthony Decker. And now Kuryakin was in danger, possibly dead. No, this was not going as he had planned.

Napoleon had been on the move as soon as he realized that Illya was probably in danger. From Long Island to Harewood’s place was an hour drive at the very least. He hoped it wouldn’t be too late when he finally arrived there.

Sturgess Harewood had immediately sent out two of his men in search of Illya at Waverly’s call. He liked the young man with the odd accent and piercing blue eyes. He was intelligent, and Harewood wondered at him playing this part; according to Alexander, Kuryakin had an advanced degree in physics. It just didn’t make sense, and now this mysterious disappearance.

What was perhaps even more concerning to Sturgess Harewood was the possibility that his own son-in-law had somehow, either knowingly or not, brought this on through his association with the Englishman, Parker. First thing in the morning there would be some inquiries made.

Illya was lying on something like a sandbar, although it was smaller and in a creek rather than a river. It was due entirely to his assailant’s lack of familiarity with this property and the creek itself that had produced this seemingly good luck for the Russian. Had it been daylight rather than a cloudy night, he would have been face down in the running water.

Sturgess’ two men found the spot. The car had been left in the road, the door still open. Apparently, whoever had jumped Illya felt no need to hide anything. They must have been confident in the permanence of his silence.

Daryl, the young man who had served sweet rolls to Waverly and Harewood, was with another employee from the farm. Moving away from the car, they turned on powerful flashlights and began to search through the trees. Going in a straight line from the car, they soon saw what appeared to be a body lying in the creek.

Quickly and efficiently the two lifted the injured man and hauled him up to the road where they laid him into the back of the truck they had driven. Daryl hopped in next to Illya and motioned for the other man, Michael, to go. Neither man had asked why or how regarding this incident, they had merely obeyed when ordered to go find the jockey. Both of them now wondered why anyone would want to beat up a jockey, and both just as quickly realized that, considering the stakes, someone wanted Dawn’s Tomorrow at a disadvantage.

Without a doubt, losing his regular jockey would accomplish just that.

Part 6

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