section7mfu | The Starting Gate

After sleeping in a little later than normal, Illya was up looking for coffee by eight o'clock. His years in Paris had given him an appreciation for caffeine delivered via a French press machine, and he had spotted one in Napoleon's kitchen the evening before.

As for Napoleon, he had already been on the phone with Mr. Waverly by the time the Russian was pouring his first cup and searching for something to eat.

"Napoleon, do you have anything in here besides high calorie, fattening foods? I need something with protein and I neglected to bring along one of the shakes."

Napoleon grinned, and it was an intolerable expression to Illya, considering how hungry he was and how smug his friend looked as he raised a cinnamon roll to his lips.

"Sorry. I do have some eggs in the fridge, and tomatoes that were brought in by the caterers last night. I think they used them on something…'

That sent Illya into the depths of the refrigerator, causing Napoleon to stop in mid-sentence to watch the scavenger like actions.

"Uh… umm… anyway… tovarsich, are you going to eat that?"

Illya had pulled out a tomato and two eggs along with the butter.

"Yes. Why are you looking like that?"

"I guess it just never occurred to me to mix the two, that's all."

Illya started his preparation, cracking the eggs and whipping them up with a fork. The tomato he washed and sliced, making certain that each segment was a little more than a half an inch thick.

"Where are your pots and pans…?'

Napoleon pointed, still wondering what this would taste like.

"Oh, thank you."

A small sauté pan was selected, and a burner lit beneath it. Illya cut a pat of butter and flipped it in, the sizzle telling him that it was just right. Onto that he placed his tomato slices.

The determined and hungry Russian located another small pan, repeated the butter and whisked his eggs again, adding a little water to them. This he poured into the butter and began to fold it into itself, rotating the pan so that the egg kept filling the outside.

Illya checked the tomato and flipped them, approving of the bubbling brown he had produced. Back to the eggs and then, to Napoleon's surprise, Illya placed the tomato slices on top of half of the eggs that were now recognizably an omelette, folded it over and slid the creation onto a plate.

"What, no cheese?"

Napoleon liked cheese, and an omelette without one was, well… he didn't think it would be very good.

"No cheese, just salt and pepper. Would you like to try it?"

It was a large enough portion to share just a bite, but no more. Illya was hungry and he needed all of this meal.

"No, just eat it. I'll fix something for myself. With Cheese."

Illya didn't rest on ceremony, but dug into his breakfast with relish. The caramelized flavor of the tomato was a nice contrast to the buttery eggs. At least he was learning to cook.

The morning proceeded, and the men each took showers and dressed for the day. The phone conference with Waverly had been illuminating for Napoleon, and he relayed the information now to his partner as they prepared for their meeting in New York City's Grand Central Station. Miranda Denault had assured them that questions would be answered by what was retrieved from the locker she was letting them into. Whether or not she would actually show up was still a question mark, and the information Napoleon had collected earlier made the blonde even more interesting than before.

Over yet another cup of coffee, the details of the early morning conversation were relayed.

"Mr. Waverly has run across some additional information about our Miss Denault."

Illya rolled his eyes and shook his head.

"She is not my Miss Denault, I giver her entirely over to you."

Napoleon was fine with that.

"I'll do whatever it takes to complete the mission… successfully."

He winked as he said that, and Illya saw again the effect the THRUSH woman had on his partner. Dangerous liaisons loomed ahead, he was certain of it.

"Well, just get on with this… What is new and how does it affect us?"

"First of all…'

The American intoned his amusement and smiled.

"Miranda Denault is not her real name. Waverly doesn't know for sure what it is, but apparently this identity belongs to someone who, had she lived, would be approximately seventy-three years old. Some old family that no has heard from for decades has provided this alias for our joli petit oiseau."

Illya made a face at the reference to a pretty bird.

"What type of accent is that?"

It wasn't the first time the upstart from the Ukraine had suggested that his friend's French lacked something, nor would it be the last. Whether he did it to goad Napoleon or was genuinely affronted by the Quebecoise accent, the dark eyes always responded with a touch of ire.

"Can we stay on the subject at hand, please? Now…'

Illya glared at his superior.

"Miss Denault, or whatever her name is, was apparently lured into THRUSH with the promise of attaining wealth and status without actually working for a living. She is well connected, and those two men from last night…'

He looked to Illya for a response, at which the blond nodded.

"… Those two guys are directly linked to one of the top men in France."

"Victor Marton."

Napoleon did a double take. How did Illya know that?

"How do you know that?"

The Russian tilted his head slightly, sort of like a dog does when he hears something and is trying to sort out what it is…

"I was stationed in Europe before coming here, you know that. Of course I know about Victor Marton. Everyone does."

Napoleon's brow creased as he drew his eyebrows into a scowl.

"All right, you're such a smart Russian, what do you think these two are up to then? She, Miranda… whatever…. She and Marton must be working together. And that business about the key holding her future… I don't believe any of it. They're setting us up, and it has something to do with the race. It must."

Now it was Illya's turn to knit his brow into a frown. The race, the farm, the horse… THRUSH. Ian Parker.

"Ian Parker. It's all about Parker. This entire set up has been to lure him out into the open, the same way that Waverly's plan was supposed to work. Both UNCLE and THRUSH want him, and this racing business is how they both decided to do it. Only now he isn't going to cooperate because…'

"Because he recognized you and now he knows. And if he knows UNCLE is involved, then…"

"Then Ian probably has already figured out that THRUSH is equally interested and involved in it."

The two agents were suddenly deflated, in spite of having figured out the hidden details of the THRUSH deception. Illya slumped back into the leather, once more relishing the comfort even as he silently cursed Parker for escaping once again.

"So, now what do we do? What's the point of the race if Parker is out of the picture? It is not likely that he will re-enter for any reason. Is it?"

Napoleon was looking as though perhaps there might actually be a reason, and it was a thought that required an alliance. A not altogether unpleasant alliance.

It was several hours later when the UNCLE men found a spot ideal for waiting; they could see the entire station from where they stood. The plan Napoleon had in mind would depend on Miranda Denault. Regardless of her name, the woman was essential to the scheme and, admittedly, a desirable aspect of it for the smitten American.

Illya disagreed, and would rather have been able to proceed without the woman, his instinctive dislike of her somehow a deepening and visceral response to someone he had only met once. The young agent had learned to respect that instinct, though, and the thought of being in league with her was distasteful, on many levels.

"I don't trust her, and I doubt that she will meet us here as promised. One cannot trust…"

As though on cue, Miranda appeared from among a crowd of travelers, dodging wayward suitcases with an elegant ease that made Napoleon's attraction to the woman intensify as she navigated with a swing of her hips and a swishing motion that was hypnotizing to the man watching.

"I think …"

Illya snorted, a derisive response in tow.

"No, you do not.'

He watched as the lithe blonde approached, hissing under his breath.

"O most pernicious woman!"

Napoleon turned to look at his grumpy partner.

"That's a little extreme, don't you think. Here she is, now be quiet.'

The agent was smiling as Miranda reached the men, a smile coyly appearing, slightly crooked and entirely sure of its effect.

"Mr. Kuryakin, Mister… Are we still going to play this little game, or shall I simply call you Napoleon?"

Illya snickered as Napoleon blushed slightly. He was no schoolboy, why was he so affected by this woman?

"And what shall we call you? We know that Miranda Denault is an alias, so perhaps you might fill us in. I mean, since we're being honest with one another."

She hesitated at that, unsure exactly how to proceed. It wasn't often that a man got the upper hand with this THRUSH operative. When Victor Marton had approached her about this little ruse, she was only too willing to go along. After all, she had her own reasons for wanting Ian Parker to face the music, so to speak. No man treated her the way Ian had and lived to tell about it.

Miranda looked up at Napoleon with a coquettish expression, willing him to climb into her web.

part 10