Work Text:
1967
Napoleon tucked the sheaf of crisp bills into his wallet. “Thanks. Put it on my tab.”
Illya rolled his eyes. “The management will soon decline such requests if you do not settle up.”
Napoleon slid his wallet into the inside pocket of his coat. “I’ll take care of it on payday.”
“Ah, yes. The day you are always conveniently out of contact.”
“Talk to our management,” Napoleon said with a wink. “I just go where I’m told.”
Illya frowned into his empty coffee mug. “Have you filled out your questionnaire, or do you expect me to do that as well?”
Napoleon pointed to the outgoing basket. “All finished. How about you?”
“I will complete mine tonight.” Illya rose from his desk, mug in hand, and headed for the door.
Napoleon followed him into the corridor. “Chalk one up for Solo.”
“Its purported goal is romance. Rather an easy victory.”
“Home field advantage. Any other plans this evening?”
“I will probably go to the Vanguard.”
“With anyone I know?”
“Yes,” Illya said. “Me, myself, and I.”
“Maybe you should fill out that Spark questionnaire legitimately.”
Illya paused at the doors to the break room. “We are supposed to sound vain, ambitious, and amoral. The perfect Thrush recruits.”
“Waverly has plenty of agents filling them out like that. One authentic submission won’t hurt.” Napoleon prodded Illya’s shoulder. “And it’s matched by computer. Very scientific. Aren’t you curious?”
Illya pushed Napoleon’s hand away with his mug. “About whom Thrush Central would pair me with? Not at all. You will likely be matched with your spider lady.”
“Here’s hoping.” Napoleon strode away, calling, “Enjoy snuggling up with your paperwork.”
Shaking his head, Illya entered the small room reserved for Enforcement agents. The coffee was freshly brewed, so he skipped the cream and added only one packet of sugar.
As he stirred his coffee, he noticed a woman reading a magazine at the corner table. Honey-colored hair rested on her shoulders in a smooth flip. A blue double knit suit hugged a trim figure. Maggie Bryce. Section III.
He knew her only by observation and reputation. Pretty. Reserved. Adept at gathering intelligence. She looked up as he approached and neither blushed nor simpered. A promising sign.
“May I join you?” he asked.
The quartet finished their set. Seated beside him, wearing a green shantung cocktail dress, Maggie Bryce clapped politely. It had been a pleasant evening so far. Good food, better music, and a lovely companion, one who seemed amenable to extending their date through an equally pleasant night.
There was such a thing, however, as too amenable. Starting with her dinner entrée, Maggie had spent the evening deferring to his choices and opinions. Even now, she assessed his reaction to the music, ready to conform her views to his. Such methods probably helped her excel at gathering intelligence from the self-important, power-hungry types so often recruited by Thrush. His own ego, however, did not require such flattery.
“Would you like to come up for a drink?” Maggie asked when they stood outside the front door of her apartment building.
“Not tonight. I have reports due in the morning.”
She accepted his refusal with the same polite deference she had displayed all evening. She really was very pretty. He watched her disappear behind the door with a mild regret that there had not been more sparks between them.
Back at his apartment, Illya tossed his jacket over the arm of a chair, quickly followed by his tie, and unbuttoned the collar of his dress shirt. With an album playing and a nightcap poured, he stretched out on the couch and closed his eyes, attempting to concentrate on the music. He opened them again with a sigh. “Perhaps I should not have said goodnight so quickly.”
As he reached for his drink, the folio beside it caught his eye. Fed up with sitting home alone at night? Or fed up with dates that lack that certain je ne sais quoi? Let us find the flint for your steel.
Operation Spark, a computer dating service aimed at young professionals and a suspected Thrush front. So far UNCLE had focused on creating profiles that would likely be flagged as potential recruits. But the matches could just as easily lure unsuspecting victims into honey traps.
“Single white male seeks fascinating woman for intrigue and seduction.” He threw back his drink and rose to fix himself another. “Why should Napoleon have all the fun?”
Drink and pen in hand, he hunched over the coffee table and opened the questionnaire. He swiftly marked the basic demographics.
Sex: Male
Race: Caucasian
Age: 34 - 35
Height: 5’10” – 6’
Religion: Unaffiliated
He paused at Profession, running the capped end of the pen down his nose. International Relations
Hair Color: Blond
Eye Color: Blue
Hair Length: Average - Long
Build: Average - Light
For Attractiveness (to the opposite sex), there was no option of Cute. Attractive - Handsome seemed the nearest equivalent.
The next section asked him to rank various Interests from 5-Very to 1-Not at All. Russian Language & Customs was conspicuously absent from the list.
Jazz: 5
Food: 5
Dogs: 1
The ranking system continued into Attributes.
Talkative: 1
He erased his answer. Talkative: 3
The queries were far from scientific and objective. Should one answer from one’s own perspective or the likely perspective of others? How should one adjust for context and company? He frowned and erased his answer again.
Talkative: 2
Athletic: 5
Well-groomed: 3
Emotional: 2
He moved on to Attitudes, lest he endlessly reconsider his answers.
Would you characterize yourself as sexually experienced? 3
A modest response, but he did have Napoleon as a standard by which to measure.
How important is sex to a successful relationship? 5
How important is it that your date share your sexual attitudes/experience? 5
He probably should have accepted that invitation. A pleasant encounter was preferable to no encounter at all.
The final section presented hypothetical Situations with a selection of responses. Spontaneous answers are best. Go with your gut. He scanned the scenarios, which ranged from banal to bizarre. Fortifying himself with the rest of his drink, he forged ahead.
Your good friend, already considerably in your debt, asks to borrow money yet again. You…
C. Agree to the loan, but make your friend suffer for asking.
“What are you looking for?”
Illya ceased his rifling of the desk drawer and straightened abruptly. He pressed a hand to his head. “My questionnaire. I seem to have misplaced it.”
“No, you didn’t. I took care of it.”
“You what?” Illya barked, then winced.
“I saw it on the desk and didn’t want you to miss the mail. Waverly wanted them out today.” Napoleon waved his hand in salute. “You’re welcome.”
Illya lowered himself onto his chair. “It was not ready. I was…unsatisfied with my answers.”
“Worried it wasn’t sufficiently vain?”
“Something like that.”
“Don’t be. You gave yourself plenty of 5s.” Napoleon looked him over with a grimace. “I’d have put 3s at the most.”
Illya’s eyes narrowed. “Get out,” he growled, “before I have your teeth for cufflinks.”
Napoleon grinned. “Should’ve saved a 5 for Easily Angered.”
“How is your recruitment progressing?” Illya asked around a mouthful of sandwich.
“Slow but steady.”
“Which has suited you fine, I am sure.”
“She’s a very beautiful girl, as well as a cautious one.” Napoleon pointed a French fry at himself. “But I think I’ve persuaded her that Walter Dunlevy would make an excellent addition to Thrush. As long as she’s convinced by the background Section IV worked up, I should begin initiation tomorrow night.”
“Weren’t you taking Veronica out tomorrow?”
Napoleon twisted his lips. “That’s right. Maybe she’ll be open to a quiet dinner tonight instead. Speaking of dinners, have you arranged an assignation yet?”
“Stop calling it that.”
“Rendezvous, then. It’s time to move beyond letter writing.”
“What happened to the merits of slow but steady?”
“You’re supposed to be a pigeon ready for plucking, not a pen pal.”
“She is not a Thrush seductress. I believe this is an innocent young woman looking for romance. It would be kinder to simply break it off.”
“Oh, no. At the very least, Mr. Waverly wants a photograph for the database.” Napoleon looked at his watch. “I’d better catch Veronica before her shift ends. You make that date.”
Illya paused on a moonlit sidewalk in Little Hungary and, after shifting the bouquet to his other hand, patted his pocket once more. Her letters were still there. In the spirit of chivalry, he would offer to return them. He hoped she, in a similar spirit, would decline the gesture.
As he entered the restaurant, lively violin music and the pungent aroma of paprika enveloped him. The host behind the desk smiled in greeting. “Good evening, Mr. Kuryakin.”
“Good evening, Treven.” Illya pointed back to the coat check. “Zsuska looks very happy. How was the wedding?”
“Beautiful. When Jozsef serenaded her at the reception, everyone wept.” Treven lowered his voice. “Will you stay after closing and join us?”
Illya acknowledged the honor with a nod. “Perhaps. It will depend upon the lady.”
Treven rubbed his hands together. “Ah, yes, your lady. She waits for you at the bar.”
Illya surveyed the long stretch of Naugahyde and oak. A woman in red chiffon sat with her back to him. Number 237 dressed as promised.
He crossed the restaurant, nerves jangling with anticipation and regret. Number 237 smoothed her hair with one hand and with the other twisted the stem of her wine glass. It was a familiar gesture. He felt a flush of heat, then a chill.
The barman moved away from the cash register. Illya saw her face in the mirror. Their eyes met. A slow grin spread across her face.
Illya’s eyes narrowed. He yanked a single pink rose from the bouquet and handed it to a surprised waitress. Then he stalked over to the bar. He tossed the flowers in front of her and plunked himself onto the adjacent stool.
Faustina pressed the bouquet to her nose and slanted her gaze to him. “Make sure you get my good side.”
“I did not bring a camera. I knew my correspondent was not a Thrush agent.” Whether that was his victory or hers, he was uncertain.
She pointed to the handbag on the bar. “You can use mine.”
“You thought I was Thrush?”
“There was something furtive about your letters.”
His brow furrowed. Ostensibly he had presented himself as a target for blackmail. Yet more authenticity than he had intended had crept into those few letters.
She laid the roses down gently and raised her glass to him. “At least we get to expense a dinner date for our literary efforts.”
“Epistolary.”
“Gesundheit.”
“You may stay. I am going back to write up my report.”
She chuckled. “One for the Christmas party.”
“Absolutely not.” Illya signaled the barman. “If we craft our reports strategically, we can avoid being laughingstocks.”
“So you want me to doctor the files?”
“Yes.”
Illya turned his attention to ordering a drink. Faustina finished her wine and dabbed her lips with a napkin. “If I’m to keep my mouth shut, then I insist we go through with our evening.”
“Blackmail?” he asked, turning back to her. “I am not a Thrush agent, remember? Neither are you.”
“True. But neither did I throw on a fresh shirt, run a hand through my hair, and walk out looking like the fifth Beatle.”
He rolled his eyes as she gestured to herself. “This took time to put together,” she said, “and I want compensation for my efforts.”
A delicate arabesque, hand-painted in gold, and matching metallic braid decorated her dress of coral silk chiffon. Her hair was piled high at the crown with a Botticelli curl resting on one shoulder. Gilded lids, heavily lashed, flashed at him with every blink.
“I will take your next night shift,” he offered, knowing it was futile. Faustina was incapable of polite deference.
“Absolutely not. I want everything you promised.” She dragged a folded sheet from her handbag and tapped it with a shimmering gold nail. “Dinner and dancing and brilliant conversation.”
He quirked his brows. “I did not specify the kind of conversation.”
“I know. The brilliance will be my contribution.”
His lips twitched. “Anything else?”
“Yes.” She swiveled on her stool and leaned closer. Her grey eyes, beneath their burnished lids, held his. Tiny gold flecks surrounded each iris. “Since you were so churlish as to give me an even number of flowers, I demand an additional forfeit.”
His throat felt tight. He swallowed. How intimate a forfeit would she require? Whatever it was, he intended to refuse. But he often found, when dealing with her, that his mouth contravened his brain’s best intentions.
“And what would that be?” he asked.
“One good memory.”
He blinked. “Pardon me?”
“And not some schmaltzy fluff. I want a genuine, honest-to-God, good memory. The kind you reach for at the end of a long, hard day. One that goes down like cognac and warms you to your toes.”
It was a very intimate request. He reached for the tulip-shaped glass left by the barman and drained it. The pálinka burned a trail down his throat. He exhaled sharply. “I might fabricate something.”
“I’ll know.”
“You thought I was Thrush,” he scoffed.
“Not necessarily. I knew you were not being entirely forthcoming.”
A pleasant heat radiated from his stomach. In the dining room, Jozsef and his ensemble played westernized “gypsy music,” palatable to dinner-goers seeking a moderately exotic ambiance. After closing, there would be Romani folk music, rarely shared with outsiders. He would worry about the report later. Tonight he wanted to sing and dance and play the double bass. And, to his aggravation, he wanted Faustina to be there.
He tapped the glass on the counter. When the barman took it to refill, Faustina signaled for him to return with two.
“Since you are enjoying this ridiculous situation far too much,” Illya said, “I demand the same forfeit.”
She grinned. “Fair enough.”
“Nothing salacious.”
“Spoilsport.” She raised her glass of pálinka. “Egészségedre.”
Illya returned the toast, and they drank. “I did not know you spoke Hungarian,” he said, as the heat in his stomach rose into his chest and down his legs.
Faustina blinked rapidly and shivered. “Only a few words. Once in Rome I spent an evening with their Olympic sabre team.”
“I said nothing salacious.”
“It wasn’t at all,” she protested. “They were in training.”
The host approached with menus in hand. “Please, if you will follow me, I will take you to your table.”
“Thank you,” Illya said. He picked up the bouquet from the bar. “Treven, Miss Pemberley and I will be staying late this evening.”
“Wonderful. Such a night we’ll have,” the host cried, beaming. He looked at Faustina. “You will sing and dance with us, yes?”
Illya watched her. There would be no polite deference. If a night of music with his friends was unappealing to her, she would make it known.
“Yes, I will,” she said eagerly. “Does Mr. Kuryakin sing and dance too?”
“Just like one of us. And he plays the nagybőgő.”
The eyes she turned to him shone with unadulterated delight. “What’s that?”
Illya’s lips curved. “The double bass.” He removed another flower before presenting the bouquet back to her.
Her grin stretched to its full, impossible width. “You’re not off the hook.”
“Neither are you.” He handed the single rose to Treven. “For your daughter. May her life with Jozsef be long, happy, and filled with music.”
“Thank you. And tonight may you make good memories.”
Faustina chuckled as she grabbed her handbag and slid from the stool. “Current events are not admissible.”
The pálinka’s tingling heat had reached his fingertips and toes. He raised his elbow. As she linked her arm through his, he said, “Spoilsport.”