The Starting Gate Affair - part 10
Aug. 18th, 2012 06:38 pm![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
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section7mfuIllya was growing impatient and, in a motion intended to convey his dissatisfaction with the exchange between Napoleon and whoever this woman was, he thrust his hand into his trousers pocket and produced the key. The key was the reason they had all come to Grand Central, and now the locker required their attention.
“Do you think we might get on with it, or do you two intend to stand here all afternoon staring at each other?”
The abruptness of Illya’s comment made Napoleon smile, something mirrored in the woman’s expression as well. They understood each other, and it was both satisfying and unsettling to the American. He wasn’t supposed to be this attracted to the opposition, and he was definitely attracted to this one.
“Hold your horses, Illya. Oh, pardon the racetrack humor. But really, this is a big moment; we might as well savor every second.”
Miranda gave Napoleon a sidelong glance as she pushed back her hair.
‘Too blonde…’ thought Illya. What Napoleon saw in her was a mystery to the young Russian. He preferred his women to be…ummm… trustworthy. An admirable quality.
“You are a dour thing, aren’t you? I don’t suppose you ever do anything strictly for fun, do you.”
She had at first thought Kuryakin to be attractive, if a little thin, but upon meeting Solo she had quickly dismissed the younger man. A sophisticated man with a sense of adventure was much more to her liking, and Napoleon seemed to be adventurous to a fault. Perhaps something that might be played to an advantage.
The trio approached the row of lockers and stopped momentarily, checking the numbers until Napoleon spotted the one matching their key.
“Here it is. Illya, give me the key.”
Solo’s partner handed him the key and then stepped back so that he was standing behind the other two. Better to not be in a position that might be less than advantageous.
There was, seemingly, a lot riding on this discovery. ‘Miranda’ had indicated that she had a personal stake in the contents, almost a life and death type of interest. As Napoleon inserted the key, each person had a wave of anticipation, but only one could say with confidence that it would change everything.
So intense was their concentration that none of them sensed the approach of four men, three of whom held guns in their hands. Illya was the first to feel the muzzle of a gun in his back, a most unwelcome sensation considering who probably held it.
Ian Parker tapped Napoleon on the shoulder, a grin sliding across his face as reality dawned on his three new captives. He had every intention of flaunting this coup to both THRUSH and UNCLE, and enjoying it to the fullest. How did either organization think to control him? It was ludicrous, and now he had the contents of the locker as well as…
“Hello my love. I’ve missed you terribly…’
He puckered his lips in a faux kiss, causing the blonde to sneer at him.
“Ah, I see you’ve missed me as well. And you have new friends, I see. Perhaps you would introduce me to this one.”
Parker pointed to Napoleon, producing another sneer from the dark haired American. Ian turned to face Illya and was met with an icy glare that gave him just a momentary pause.
“This one I know already. Sorry about that business on the road, old man. You know how it is, though, trying to keep a house in order. You’ve rather rocked things with this latest gambit, I will admit. I never took you for a horseman, Kuryakin. I’m afraid you’ll never get a chance to ride in that race, not that I care who wins. It just won’t be you.”
Napoleon suddenly had the uneasy feeling that there was more to this story than Illya had told him. If Parker wasn’t interested in the race, then why the attack on the Russian? And what was the story behind him and … Miranda? And what was her real name, anyway?
There were more questions than usual for an affair of this nature. This one seemed more personal than the usual Save the World scenario, and it left the agent wondering just what they’d gotten themselves into.
As the two UNCLE agents and the woman backed away from the locker, Ian Parker turned the key and opened the door to the locker. He paused a moment, as though to savor it or, perhaps, wondering if it was all worth the trouble he’d gone to in procuring it.
One of Parker’s men had a strong grip on Illya, while Napoleon and Miranda were standing side by side between the other two henchmen. The only means of escape would be to overpower them while Parker was cleaning out the locker. In a moment of inspired abandon, Napoleon sank to the floor, allowing Illya a split second to take advantage of the lapse in his guard’s attention. It would have worked, too, but when Napoleon looked up just before he intended to pounce on one of the other guards, Miranda was standing over him with a gun in her hand.
Napoleon stopped, Illya was quickly grasped yet again by the strong-armed thug who held him a little more closely now.
“Just whose side are you on, anyway?”
Napoleon threw the question at the woman, his expression sour now as his arm was turned backwards and behind him.
Parker spoke up, the smirk on his face an answer that would stay with Illya for years.
“She’s on her own side, gentlemen, something you’d do well to remember. Am I right, pet?”
The blonde vixen smiled, and the crooked expression became emblazoned like a branding iron on Napoleon’s mind. He wanted her more now than ever, and he knew it was a form of insanity that he’d just have to learn to live with. As for Illya, that smile would serve as a warning for the future: This woman was dangerous, avoid her at all costs.
Parker reached into the locker, but neither agent saw what he brought out of it. With his back turned to them, the contents were still a mystery, and now they were at risk of never knowing what it was. Illya felt his ribs beginning to ache as the morning’s pain medication began to wear thin. Napoleon noted the look of fatigue on his partner’s face, and the equally exuberant expression on the woman he knew as Miranda. She locked arms with Ian Parker just as the three grunts that had accompanied him into the station now formed a wall behind Illya and Napoleon. There seemed to not be a good way out of this at present, but he didn’t intend to go without a ruckus of some sort.
Illya spotted a group of men standing near where they were going to pass, and remembering others like them from his youth, he had an idea that seemed worth trying.
Illya caught Napoleon’s eye and subtly motioned with his chin towards the ticket counter they were going to pass. Napoleon nodded with a slight move of his head. At the moment they were passing by the counter, Napoleon slumped down, causing the guard who held his right arm to falter slightly as he tried to retrieve the limp man. Illya likewise sank to the floor as he yelled something in Yiddish.
“Tʼán nyt lʼázn zyy nʻmʻn myr ẕw dy lʼgʻrn wwydʻr!”
Several men who were close by heard it and turned to the group of people from whence that phrase had come. They saw the thin blond fall to the floor, his face bruised and his body nearly emaciated. Instantly they were upon the four men who were escorting the UNCLE agents. In the impromptu melee Miranda was able to grab the envelope from Parker as he was manhandled by the angry group of Hasidic Jews.
Illya shouted his thanks to the men who had broken up their kidnapping as he and Napoleon sprinted after the blonde. Leaving Parker and his men in the hands of the black-coated, spontaneous activists was a little risky, and Illya sincerely hoped that there wouldn’t be any real violence.
Napoleon wondered about the scuttle.
“What did you say to those men? And, what language was that?”
Illya squinted as he surveyed the expanse of the station, disappointed that the woman had disappeared completely.
‘It was Yiddish, and I said ‘don’t let them take me to the camps again’. The Ukraine is home to many Hasidic Jews, and of course my plea for help… well, you can imagine the impact.”
Napoleon understood, and wondered why that particular phrase had come to his friend’s mind.
“Okay, that does make sense. I suppose we ought to get back in there and see about Parker. I have an idea UNCLE will seem like a safe haven after all of that.”
Illya and Napoleon turned to head back towards the near riot that had been instigated by the Russian’s pleading outburst. A crowd had formed around the men who circled Ian Parker and his bullies. Illya spoke to the men who had rescued him and Napoleon, thanking them for their intervention. All of it reminded him of a life he had left behind, of people and places… It did not pay to dwell on things in the past.
Napoleon called for back up as Illya was dispersing the crowd of onlookers. He managed to keep Parker and his buddies linked to one another by utilizing his and Napoleon’s cufflinks; one cuff on each wrist until he had them in a circle.
“Solo out.”
Illya nodded to the four would be villains.
“Help is on the way?”
Napoleon looked at his partner’s handiwork, amused at how ridiculous Parker and his companions looked, sort of like little girls playing ring around the rosy.
“Cute. You do nice work, tovarisch. And yes, help is on the way. I just wish we could have caught up with … Miranda. I wonder who she is, and what’s in that envelope?”
Illya thought he felt a cold chill run up his spine. There was something ineffably disturbing in his response to that woman.
“I believe we will need to continue on with our original plan, and see what transpires on Sunday after the race. She did, after all, leave you a check for her investment, did she not?”
Napoleon couldn’t help but smile. She had, indeed, cleverly slipped a check into his pocket while she was planting that kiss on his lips.
“Yes, a woman after my own heart…’
He saw Illya’s disapproving expression.
“But I will try to contain myself. Scout’s honor.”
His three-finger salute did little to assuage the Russian’s concerns about his partner and the mysterious woman.
“Sunday then, at the races. At least I know what I am doing when I get there.”
Napoleon smiled, too big a smile for Illya’s comfort.
“And I know what I’m looking for when I get there. A trim, blonde filly who likes to play with birds.”
The Russian hissed his disapproval.
“Be careful my friend, that woman is dangerous.”
Napoleon was still smiling.
Conclusion
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Date: 2012-08-19 12:25 am (UTC)no subject
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Date: 2012-08-19 02:55 am (UTC)no subject
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Date: 2012-08-19 05:09 am (UTC)Brilliant! Love our witty Illya and his dismay at Napoleon and his "Blonde"...
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Date: 2012-08-19 12:33 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2012-08-19 01:20 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2012-08-19 01:27 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2012-08-20 03:56 am (UTC)"He wanted her more now than ever, and he knew it was a form of insanity that he’d just have to learn to live with."
LOL Yes, Napoleon does seem to be prone to that kind of insanity. ;)
It's funny just how many comments there are about... Miranda. :)
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Date: 2012-08-20 04:05 am (UTC)no subject
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Date: 2012-08-20 12:34 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2012-08-20 10:09 pm (UTC)