section7mfu | The Starting Gate Affair

Napoleon was at the center of a lively conversation when he spotted his partner being cornered by Miranda Denault. With all of the grace of a ballet dancer, he managed to pirouette his way from the admiring females who had surrounded him and begin a slow, deliberate journey to the end of the long room.

As Illya stood spellbound by curiosity at the object Miranda had dropped into his pocket, she was raising his glasses to just above the eyebrows that arched suddenly in response to the invasion.

“Ah, I see someone paid you a visit, Mr. Kuryakin. Trust me when I tell you that they aren’t with me, and that all I want is the money that will come from this deal. Ian Parker is a rogue among THRUSH agents.’

Miranda saw the recognition of Parker’s name in the one blue eye that wasn’t swollen and bruised. Illya’s heartbeat increased as he was reminded once again of the detestable Englishman.

“Yes, I see that you do know Ian. He’s dangerous, Mr. Kuryakin, something that I recognize in your bruised features. He doesn’t want to own racehorses; he wants to take over THRUSH’s interests in New York. I came into this unaware of the danger, but he is at the core of it.”

Illya regarded the blonde woman with a practiced glare. He didn’t trust anyone who would do business with THRUSH.

“Ahem… Is this a private party or can anyone come in?”

Napoleon came to stand behind Miranda and put his hand on her back in a familiar way. She didn’t flinch, but as she turned to look at the suave host, Illya fingered the item Miranda had dropped into his pocked; he recognized the shape of a key.

“Mr. Pike, Miss Denault was just telling me secrets. Perhaps she would like to share them with you as well.”

Napoleon flashed a smile that could have provided light for a room suddenly plunged into darkness. Miranda recognized his role in this charade now, understood that there would be no turning back once she let these two men take possession of the one thing that was keeping her alive.

“I think perhaps we might have more privacy in my…”

Miranda shook her head, causing one of the perfectly coiffed curls to bounce out of place and fall across her eye. The effect was the type of thing Napoleon lived for, and he subdued the urge to push it away and… what? Kiss her? This woman was more his type than he cared to admit.

“No, not here. I have those two men as escorts and, well… they wouldn’t like it if I snuck off with you.”

The smile she gave Napoleon was almost enough to make him reach for a cigarette, his mind raced with images.

“Where do you suggest… Miranda. May I call you Miranda?”

She smiled again, and this time it reached up to her hairline.

“I believe you just did… Worthington. Are you certain you want me to call you that? You don’t look like a Worthington, and something tells me that you probably aren’t. You’re UNCLE, just like Mr. Kuryakin is.”

Illya frowned, his curiosity over the key in his pocket now replaced by irritation that his cover had been so easily, and quickly, blown.

“What makes you think I am with this UNCLE? Why…?”

Miranda chuckled demurely, amused at how silly men could be, and how easily they were manipulated.

“I didn’t know for certain until you told Mr., mmm… you told Worthington…’

She paused for effect, and was rewarded with an icy glare.

“You invited him to join us in our conversation. I suspected you were UNCLE, but until you did that I wasn’t positive.”

Napoleon looked at his partner, hating that the young Russian would berate himself for the misstep for days, possibly weeks. If they failed, well, it might go on indefinitely.

“Okay, so Miranda, now that we’ve gotten the introductions out of the way…’

The blonde pursed her lips slightly, a tisking sound emanating from somewhere behind the full, slightly crooked smile…

“That is to say, we are UNCLE, and you are THRUSH. Introductions, as I was saying, have cleared the way for the next step. Would you care to enlighten us on that?”

Illya shifted a little, his unease with the situation clearly fighting with the need to remain unflustered by this little faux pas.

“Miranda has given me a key. I believe she was about to tell me what it belongs to. That is what you were intending, was it not?”

The glare was present, but of course it was completely lost behind the dark lenses. Illya glared anyway, his displeasure over this situation mandated it.

Miranda demurred slightly from the question, raising an eyebrow as she turned to Napoleon. She knew he was the one to deal with; the Russian was too uptight, a phrase she had only recently heard while visiting a jazz club in Soho.

One of Miranda’s escorts materialized from the crowd in the center of the room. Very quickly she said “It’s been grand”, and with a smoldering kiss that left Napoleon not caring if he was sporting red lipstick, she turned and left.

Miranda’s escorts received her, each man holding out an arm for her to take, and they made their way to the front door where the butler had her stole ready. She slipped into the fur and turned once more to wink at the two UNCLE agents… twice.

“Do you think that was a signal, tovarisch?”

Illya’s terse reply couldn’t hide his distaste for the woman.

“At least she can count. I suppose that means we are to meet her at two o’clock at Grand Central Station.”

Napoleon smiled, the feel of Miranda’s lips on his still lingered as he reached into his pocket to retrieve a handkerchief.

“Yep, that’s the message I got. So, you have a key and we have a destination. I wonder what she’ll have for us tomorrow?”

Illya shuddered involuntarily. His ribs were aching again; the pain medication he had taken earlier was definitely wearing off. His blackened eye was also complaining beneath the dark glasses, and he groaned audibly as a new hoard of curious would-be investors assaulted the pair of men that stood like models beside the handsome Eames chair.

By the end of the evening each member of the UNCLE team had done a job; the result of both cleaning, and sweeping the house for bugs had insured that the Long Island abode of Worthington Pike was safe and secure.

Illya decided to stay the night rather than make the drive back to the farm. Sturgess had left Illya the keys to the Jag when he left earlier in the evening with a very attractive woman dressed in a gown by Oleg Cassini. In a brief flashback to his days in Paris, the Russian agent had been surrounded, in his imagination, with silk dresses and razor thin women. Illya wondered about things sometimes…

“How about a nightcap.”

Napoleon was pouring as he spoke. Of course Illya would want something to drink.

“Yes, thank you. Bourbon?”

Napoleon smiled, no vodka tonight meant the Russian wanted to sleep, not talk.

“Do you have some medications with you? You don’t look so hot.”

The glasses had come off and now, at the end of this long evening, Illya’s face could be examined in full. The bruising looked painful to Napoleon, and he knew from experience that it truly was. The very thin blond half of this UNCLE partnership looked like the end of a long trip on a very rough road, and now the older agent wondered if Illya really would be able to ride on Sunday. The way he slumped down into the leather sofa elicited groans that were impossible to disguise.

“Illya?”

“I will be… I am fine.’

He scowled at his partner, hating to be the one injured and under watch.

“Napoleon, please do not be a … hmmm… mère poule. Clucking over me and fretting.”

“Mère poule… I don’t think I’ve ever been called that before. For some reason it sounds more like dinner in French than it does English.”

The Russian rolled his eyes. He needed to sleep, and this bourbon and a pain pill would do the job nicely.

“What do you make of Miranda Denault’s little game? We go to the station tomorrow and find the box that this key obviously belongs to, and then what? How can this possibly be something that will help her? Am I just too tired to figure this out, or is she slightly demented? I don’t trust the woman.”

That last disclosure of distrust was spoken with a growl.

Napoleon chuckled, a glimmer of that kiss still sending out sparks that would go untended tonight. Maybe after this affair was over…

“Oh, well… I don’t know, Illya. I guess we’ll just have to wait and see.’

A sigh escaped from Napoleon as he determined to help put his friend out of his misery.

“I think bed is what the doctor would prescribe for you, my friend. If you expect to ride on Sunday, you’re going to need as much rest as possible. I think you can sleep in tomorrow… well, today actually.”

Napoleon hadn’t looked at his watch for quite a while, and now he realized it was nearing two o’clock in the morning. Twelve hours from now they would get some answers.

Napoleon wondered what those answers would be as he entertained a few more moments of reliving that kiss.

Part 9