Collection 3 - Year One Page 4

  "Yes," Illya said, but made no attempt to move.

  You stubborn, suspicious... Well, I can be equally stubborn. "Listen, Illya, just go to Washington and have a good time. It's been awhile since you took a day or two off. Raid little Michael's comic collection and get caught up with Superman and Batman and Dogman or whoever. Relax. You're getting paranoid."

  That got to Kuryakin; the tenacious gaze lowered. "Perhaps," he admitted reluctantly. "Are you sure there's nothing...?"

  Solo grinned reassuringly at him. "I'm sure. Everything is under control. Go. Get lost." He returned his attention to his paperwork, aware that his partner stood at the desk for another full minute before spinning and walking slowly from the office.

  Everything is under control, he repeated to himself.

  * * *

  Two hours later, Kuryakin was back, stepping into the office almost unwillingly and standing just inside the door. "Napoleon, I must talk with you."

  Solo sighed and gestured to a chair beside his desk. "Sit down."

  Kuryakin stayed at the door, leaning against the wall, not looking at his partner. When he spoke, his voice was tight with tension, the accent heavy. "Napoleon, regardless of what you say, I have this persisting nasty feeling that all is not as it should be. Perhaps I am paranoid after all; perhaps, as you say, I need some time off, but... but..." Kuryakin exhaled slowly, one hand nervously running through his thin hair. He shrugged helplessly as he glanced over to Solo, looking for confirmation one way or the other.

  But you feel something is wrong... Napoleon closed the file and leaned forward with his elbows on the desk, rubbing his forehead, trying to dull the throbbing.

  Keeping anything from this partner was difficult; the resonance between them that worked to their advantage as a team also had a flip side -- Illya knew intuitively that something was wrong, despite any reassurance otherwise. And if Napoleon continued to assert that all was well, he risked destroying that bond, for the Russian was already second-guessing himself, not trusting those instincts.

  That's right, Napoleon. Thoroughly confuse him. You've been telling him you want him by your side as an equal partner and friend, and yet all day you've ordered him around like a slave.

  "Serena's in town," he admitted, finally.

  Relief spilled across the pale face, followed closely by alarm, then concern. "What does she want?" Kuryakin came closer now, his fists clenching and unclenching.

  Solo shrugged. "I don't know."

  "You talked with her at the opera?"

  "No," Napoleon said, smiling at the other's insight. "I just had a glimpse of her there. She came over last night."

  "To your apartment?" Again the dark frown creased the Russian's features.

  "We... talked."

  "Right."

  "Actually that's all we did. I ended up taking her out for a cup of coffee."

  "Right," Illya said again.

  Napoleon laughed. "I'll take care of Serena. You go to Washington. Relax. Have a good time."

  Kuryakin turned away slowly, his eyes hidden. "I wish I could say the same to you," he said softly, leaving the other man alone with his thoughts.

  * * *

  Even though the popular Italian restaurant had major U.N.C.L.E. connections, the Friday night mid-evening dinner reservation had taken Solo half the day to secure. He was determined that their first formal dinner date be here; Serena had lured him from this location the last time they encountered each other and because of her, he had ended up wearing his meal instead of eating it. Tonight he intended on having it all.

  In the partially-curtained booth, Solo drummed his fingers restlessly on the table as he waited for her. She was two minutes late. Maybe she had forgotten the address. No, she had found him easily enough before. His mind jumped from thought to thought. When had he actually seen her last? The Alps? Yes, at the inn during the August Affair. She had saved his life.

  She had also damn near cost him his life.

  How long has it really been - a year or two? He shrugged. Long enough to get over her, he thought, then looked up as she walked into the restaurant. Maybe not long enough, he admitted, as she approached the table. Napoleon stood up, the boyish smile already fixed on his face, his dark eyes sweeping over her black cocktail dress and pearls, and the package they wrapped.

  "Good evening, Napoleon. Did you have fun at work?" She smiled confidently as she slipped into the booth.

  He grinned cautiously and said nothing, signaling for the waiter to bring the champagne he had ordered.

  "Don't you want to know what I did today, Napoleon?"

  "I'm afraid to ask. Spending time with you seems to get me in trouble."

  "And you are still convinced I want to take you somewhere and have a strange man hit you on the head," she said, a beautiful smile flashing across her face.

  "Yes," he said, and nodded for the waiter to pour the champagne.

  "But," she continued, raising the glass and toasting him with sparkling eyes, "but you are here anyway."

  "Yes, I am."

  "The... wondering... was too much for you, perhaps?"

  He nodded slightly. "Perhaps. I have taken precautions this time, though."

  "Not like last time, I hope."

  She sipped at the bubbling champagne. "Tell me, Napoleon, why did you send Illya Kuryakin away? Are you afraid he would interfere?"

  "I didn't send him away. He is simply on assign--" Solo stopped and smiled at her. She is good. Watch yourself, Napoleon, old boy. "Mr. Kuryakin has other plans," he amended.

  "I hope he took a warm coat. Washington, D.C., is so dreary this time of year," she said slyly, matching his smile. "One has to be careful on the roads."

  The waiter had returned with the menus and although Napoleon's attention was involved with listening to the evening's specials and discussing meal choices with Serena, he felt a growing concern for his partner's safety. Was Serena intimating that Illya was in danger?

  The waiter left and the teasing banter continued back and forth for several more minutes until finally Napoleon excused himself, slipped into a service corridor, and activated his transceiver.

  There was a long uncomfortable wait, then Illya's voice came over the cigarette case speaker. "Kuryakin here."

  "It's Napoleon. Where are you?"

  "Waiting for a cab at Dulles International Airport. Where should I be? You know my schedule. You booked my flight."

  "You don't sound too happy."

  "I am not happy. But I am obedient. Sir."

  "Don't pull that with me."

  "Why am I here then? -- Oh, yes. You said already. Mr. Waverly requested a courier."

  This was getting complicated. "Just be careful, Illya."

  There was an uneasy pause, then his partner's voice came again but the resentful tone had lessened. "Certainly. And may I say that you should follow your own counsel, my friend?"

  Napoleon glanced down at the transceiver, a faint smile on his face. "I'll keep that in mind. See you on Monday." He pocketed the cigarette case and returned to the restaurant, his step lighter.

  Serena looked up as he neared the table. "How is he?"

  "Fine."

  "He would not approve of me, would he?"

  Napoleon shook his head, pursing his lips and smiling.

  "He is too serious. And he has no adventurous spirit."

  "Illya simply does not approve of U.N.C.L.E. agents taking Thrush agents to dinner, no matter how beautiful they are." Napoleon shrugged. "His loss."

  "I know you, Napoleon Solo," Serena said and leaned forward invitingly across the table. "You are as attracted to me as I am to you. I am just more honest about it."

  "Honest? A new word in your vocabulary, Serena?" He tapped the table, unable to take his eyes off her. "By the way, still working on commission?"

  Serena smiled, her head coyly to one side. "Of course. But don't worry, darling. As I said last night, I'm on vacation."

  "Why are you here, Serena?"

>   "The truth, Napoleon?" She paused as the waiter came back for their final dinner selections, her subtle flirtation with the attendant irking Solo.

  "The truth -- or your version of it?" he asked when the waiter left.

  She gave a little shrug. "Whichever. Does it really matter?"

  It should... He took a sip of champagne. "Go ahead."

  "It is not complicated." She played with her glass, staring at the bubbles rising continuously to the surface. "I have discovered that I am bored in Europe. I wish to relocate here."

  "In New York?"

  "Yes. Are you surprised?"

  "So you came to New York while on vacation from Thrush and just -- thought you'd look me up."

  "Yes."

  "And you spent the day looking for an apartment to rent?"

  "Don't be absurd, darling. I'm looking for a house to buy."

  "Why New York, then?"

  She glanced down and blushed faintly, which did surprise him -- shocked him, actually. It took a moment for her to put what she was thinking into words, then she looked up and gazed steadily at him, unabashed, holding his stare. "I have not stopped thinking about you, Napoleon."

  He nodded casually as though the remark had been expected. "Of course."

  Her eyebrows twitched slightly, the beginnings of a frown threatening to crease the perfect brow. "It's the truth."

  Suddenly feeling tired, Napoleon looked away, one hand rubbing the tension from his forehead as his finger traced the edge of his glass. He was very aware of how much he wanted to believe her. How often had he thought of her over the past months? Wondering where she was or what she was doing? Wondering if there was a chance she would ever leave Thrush? Well, what if she wasn't lying? What if she really meant it?

  She's still Thrush, remember that.

  "Why me, Serena?"

  It was her turn to look away and her eyes fixed on a spot across the restaurant as she visibly wrestled with her emotions. "I like the best," she said, finally, candidly. "I haven't seen anything better and I got tired of looking." She met his eyes. "So, I came looking for you."

  It was going to be a long evening.

  * * *

  The small log crackled in the penthouse fireplace, sending a soft light across the otherwise dark hotel suite. His nerves were screaming, already tearing him in two directions. Stay or go? Which is it?

  She slipped her shoes off at the bar and padded across the room, handed him his brandy, and then curled up beside him and gazed at the flames dreamily.

  "It all worked out for you then?" Napoleon leaned his head back on the couch, staring at her eyes and trying not to lose himself in them.

  "With Thrush? After the August Affair? Of course. I fulfilled my assignment. I delivered you to them. That was all they really expected of me."

  He took a sip of the potent liquor, feeling the fire burn his throat. "They never found out you killed the duplicate instead of me?"

  "Remember, darling, my story was the only story. I didn't mention it and you don't hand your reports in to Thrush now, do you? So how would they know?"

  "You're still working for them?"

  "You've already asked me that."

  "Remind me of the answer." Serena smiled at him. "I am on vacation. And, yes, I still work on commission -- so I choose my assignments. And, no, you are not an assignment. A fringe benefit maybe... Must we talk about this?"

  "What would you like to talk about?" He let his fingertips wander down her cheek to her neck, stopping to unlatch the pearl necklace and deposit it on the coffee table.

  "Must we talk at all?"

  2

  Compromise

  Bundled warmly against the cold February air, they strolled aimlessly through the park, his arm securely -- possessively -- around her waist. As the brisk wind reddened their faces, they talked about her childhood growing up in her grandmother's home in Sicily and his early memories of being left for odd periods of time with his grandparents in their ambassadorial residence in Ottawa, Canada, while his parents traveled.

  It had been ten days since her arrival in the city. Nine days since seeing her at the opera. Eight days since an uncomfortable chat over coffee. Seven days since their dinner out and…

  He felt giddy. Reckless. His senses were aching with the thrill of risk and the intoxicating excitement of being with her. This is ridiculous. I should be at the office. We have an important case going down.

  He had worked half the night on it and at noon had announced to his staff that he was taking a few hours off. There was nothing left for him to do until evening and the building was suffocating him. He knew he would be tied to the desk all evening, but at this moment there was a lull while the undercover operatives, including Illya Kuryakin, got into place. As long as the chief enforcement officer was in the city -- and could return to the office at a moment's notice -- he wouldn't be missed. Waverly hadn't asked what his plans were and Solo hadn't volunteered the information.

  So he walked with Serena and they talked about their childhood, long before they knew about Thrush or U.N.C.L.E. or what their futures held. The similarities made sense. Same age, same interests, same hobbies. They grew up during the same war. Had read the same authors. Seen the same movies. At one point it became hilarious and they collapsed on a park bench, their sentences overlapping as they related to each other their favorite scene in one of those movies. The same one, of course.

  Neither of them wanted to broach the topic they knew they had to discuss, the topic that had hung over them the entire afternoon, ultimately robbing both of the carefree escape they had anticipated.

  "I guess we should head back," he said finally as the sky slowly darkened. "I'm due at headquarters soon and we have to talk..."

  "No, darling," she said too quickly, turning and placing a finger over his lips. "Not yet. Please, Napoleon. Let's just get some dinner first."

  "We can't put it off. It's five already and I said I'd be back by six. I have to work tonight."

  "Oh?"

  He heard it in her voice, the unspoken: 'What will you be doing? What assignment? Tell me.'

  "When will you be finished?" she asked aloud.

  "I don't know," he answered truthfully, not looking at her. "Late."

  She linked her arm in his as they walked. "Should I be worried?"

  He winced at her soft question, then stopped, considered it, and faced her. "Should I be?" he asked in Italian, staring into the depths of those dark eyes.

  "No. I have guaranteed your safety, Napoleon," she replied lightly, confidently.

  Solo frowned, his fingers tightening on her shoulders. "How?"

  She shrugged. "I have," she repeated, as though it were a solid fact requiring no further discussion. "Besides," she added, with a smile, "they know I have other plans for you."

  "Such as?" He knew he could not keep the smile from creeping into his eyes, but he fought to at least keep it off his face.

  "Oh, my hotel suite, a late dinner, a bottle of wine, and... who knows?" Serena said, her head bent coyly as she looked up at him.

  "Hmm. It's the 'who knows' that usually causes me grief. What if I say no?" he teased.

  She laughed, her head thrown back now in delight at his question. "Oh, Napoleon, you can no more say no than I can."

  Her comment hit him like a two-by-four. His mouth opened and the questions were out before he could stop them. "What are you doing back here, Serena? What do you want? Why did you come?" She seemed startled by the force behind his words, but he pressed on now that he had begun. "Am I just an assignment to you?"

  "No," she whispered, shaking her head at him, the same hurt smile on her face. "Never."

  If she was lying, she did it beautifully. Those eyes looking at him, tears welling them fuller than he could have imagined. He felt empty suddenly. "If this isn't a game to you -- If we're both serious about this --" There really was no way of finishing the sentences. "We have no future together, Serena. Not unless one of us changes employers."<
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  The eyes flashed now as she backed away from him. "I'm tired of all this, Napoleon! Why can't we have a present together? Can't we let the rest fall into place? Life is short. It's today that counts! And today," she calmed herself down, "today I am on vacation. What I choose to do with my time is my business. I want to be with you and I know you want to be with me. So what is the problem? Other couples have different careers -- why can't we?"

  "How?" he asked, trying to concentrate. He took her face in his hands. "How, Serena? How can we be enemies during the day and lovers at night and on weekends?"

  "By being careful. By not bringing our jobs home."

  "We don't have nine-to-five jobs that we can leave at the office."

  "We'd find a way," she insisted. "Maybe we could leave New York. Go somewhere else."

  "I can't. My job is here. I believe in what I do."

  Her jaw was set. "And you think I don't?"

  "I don't understand how you can," he admitted, still holding that beautiful face in his hands. "How can someone as gorgeous as you work for such a vile organization and not be tainted?"

  "You obviously don't understand the first thing about Thrush. You look at the world through U.N.C.L.E.'s tinted glasses and you see only what they want you to see! U.N.C.L.E. the good. Thrush the evil. Has it occurred to you that others may see it the opposite way? In any case, does it truly matter -- any of it? You and I, we are beyond our organizations and their philosophies. Give us time, Napoleon."

  "Time for what? I don't have time. Convince me your beauty is more than skin-deep, Serena. How far does it go? Will you ever change? Have I touched your heart? Does your soul really care? Convince me!" he urged. "I have to know before --"

  "Before we meet across the barrel of a gun?" She said it for him. "That's what you mean, isn't it?" she asked, blinking the tears from her eyes, only to have them run down her cheeks. Her face stayed calm though, the dark eyes demanding he see it her way. "You love me already, Napoleon Solo. Why can't you accept me the way I am?"

  Compromise. The word bounced through his thoughts and he closed his eyes and clasped her tighter. She wants me to compromise. How can I?

  But how can I let her go?

  * * *