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The comparative hush of the night-shift had settled on UNCLE HQ, so that the clatter of Illya’s loose shoelace resounded sharply throughout the corridor. He crouched to tie it with an athletic grace that would have evoked sighs from the secretarial pool, were any members there to witness it. His wristwatch gave a single chime. Laces secure, he rose to face the nearby door, which slid open with a pneumatic hiss, then closed behind him.
Only the ticking of the clock and the gurgle of the water cooler greeted him in the deserted break room. Weaving his way between tables, Illya crossed to the red and white vending machine on the far wall. He pulled a roll of coins from his pocket and broke it open. As he raised a nickel to the slot, his hand paused. His lips curved downward at the sight of the new label: 10¢.
“Capitalism,” he grumbled, inserting the coin and reaching for another.
With the machine’s bourgeois greed sated, Illya pulled a knob marked #4. His purchase landed in the receptacle with a metallic thunk. The cellophane wrapper crinkled briefly as his practiced fingers tore it open. He popped a chocolate-coated square into his mouth, grunting in satisfaction. Then he slipped the remaining crackers into his pocket and fed the machine two more coins. Another packet disappeared into his jacket. The process repeated until the roll of change was depleted and his pockets stuffed.
Illya adjusted his cargo until his suit lay flat and any telltale rustling ceased. Before he left the break room, he filled a conical paper cup at the water cooler, sipping it as he made the return journey. The few personnel he passed paid him no unusual attention.
As his office door shut at his back, a voice growled, “You’re nicked.”
Faustina Pemberley sat curled in his desk chair, chin resting on one knee, looking nothing like a London police detective. He drained the last of his water, then asked, “Since when is it a crime to get a drink?” as he crumpled the cup.
She unfurled her legs and rose from the chair, circling the desk to stand in front of him. Her eyes flitted from the ball of waxed paper in his fist up to his face. “Thirsty, were you?”
“Parched,” he replied, as Faustina raised her hand and wiped the corner of his mouth.
His cool gaze remained steady at the incriminating smudge displayed on her thumb, though a muscle in his jaw tightened as she put it between her lips and sucked off the chocolate. His own lips twitched when her other hand held up the opened package of Coated Graham crackers, surreptitiously liberated from his pocket.
“‘Don’t go ‘round hungry,’” she said.
“The water made me peckish.” He attempted to sidestep her. She blocked his path, and they collided.
Her eyes widened. “Just how much did you drink?”
He pushed his face close to hers. “Maybe I’m just happy to see you?”
She chuckled. “Careful. One of these days I’ll believe you.”
They stared at each other, neither giving quarter. Illya’s gaze sparked like a lit fuse. Faustina’s mouth slowly widened into a grin that seemed to outstretch her face. The space between them narrowed. Cellophane rustled, the noise filling the quiet office. Their eyes held a moment longer, then they each stepped back.
Illya walked to his desk unimpeded. Faustina perched on the corner eating a purloined cracker. She watched with interest as he removed a tray of miscellany from a drawer and began loading packets into the cavity underneath. “I wondered how these sold out so quickly,” she said. “Fred swore he filled it up after every delivery.”
“Have you nothing better to do than police the vending machines?”
“Apparently not. Sad, isn’t it? When I think of the times I once had.”
He looked up to find her licking her fingers and quickly dropped his eyes. “Such as?”
“Another day, angelochek. You’re in the hot seat tonight, not me.” She handed him the half-finished pack, the excess cellophane twisted closed. Illya unwound the wrapper and, to her amusement, folded it carefully, securing it with a paper clip. “Actually,” she said, “I’m looking into it in an unofficial, official capacity.”
“What is that supposed to mean?”
“It means you’re not the only one who likes a sweet indulgence after a long day of world-saving.”
“Napoleon?”
She shook her head. “His sweet indulgences don’t come from a vending machine. Think higher.”
“Waverly?”
She nodded.
“He assigned you to this—”
“Coated Grahams Affair? Not directly. I just happened to be in his office recently when his secretary returned from the break room empty-handed.”
Illya snorted derisively. “Happened to be there? Summoned, more likely, regarding that Ingolstein incident.”
“Bones heal. In my defense, he was very handsy, and I had no idea he was the Prince.” She waved an arm airily. “Anyhow, Mr. Waverly was quite vocal in his displeasure, about his snacks, I mean. I gathered he’d appreciate anyone who took care of it.”
“‘Will no one rid me of this meddlesome priest?’” Illya quoted, replacing the tray over the neatly stacked crackers.
“Something like that.”
“Why can he not simply order a personal supply? Rank has its privileges.”
“Oh, Mrs. Waverly probably has him on a diet. Occasional rule-bending is one thing, but a drawer full of contraband lacks plausible deniability.” She leaned across the desk and reached for the tray. “Speaking of drawerfuls…”
He shut it firmly, almost catching her fingers. “I’ll thank you to stay out of my drawers.”
She blinked at him, then gave a hoot of laughter.
“I will rephrase that. What I keep in my drawers—”
Faustina slid off the desk, giggling madly.
Illya collapsed into his chair. “Stop being childish,” he said. After a moment, the tight line of his lips relaxed and his shoulders shook.
“Illya,” she called from the floor, her laughter subsided.
“What?”
Her eyes appeared over the edge of the desk, still dancing. “Why are you hoarding chocolate graham crackers?”
“Another day, pochemuchka.”