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The sun had just begun to set, playing hide-and-seek amongst the tall buildings that lined Michigan Avenue. Although the early evening had seemed warm when the research staff and their spouses (and dates) boarded Paul's Pinnacle, the chilly mid-June temperature of Lake Michigan and the light easterly breeze drove most of the partygoers inside the yacht.
Although the yacht could easily accommodate 120, most of those 120 weren't supposed to be in the enclosed part of the top deck. Eight or more people crammed into booths meant for four; the path to the built-in bar wasn't so much a path as an obstacle course. Still, the guests didn't mind. They had all been imbibing for nearly 2 hours. Agnetha from BioLab 8 poured the company's signature Zombie, kindly marking the less-potent versions for the ladies with a pink flamingo skewer in the orange slice. Avalon Pharmaceuticals' finest (and their dates) celebrated their just-announced breakthrough in anti-anxiety medication in style.
Paul Avalon, the CEO of the pharmaceutical firm, took in the scene from his vantage point leaning against the bar. He had an untouched Zombie in his right hand; his left arm wrapped around his glamorous brunette wife. "Ah, Whitney, this is truly the life. My own company, my own yacht, my own fortune, my own beautiful wife, my delightful family ensconced in my own enchanting Kenilworth villa… It doesn't get any better than this."
"No, Paul, of course it doesn't." Whitney forced her expression to remain serene as she added casually, "You haven't touched your drink, though."
"Eh, I've had a sip or two." Paul shrugged. "A little too sweet for me."
"It's a Zombie, darling, it's supposed to be sweet."
"I guess I'm not in the mood for 'sweet' tonight."
Whitney nodded, the model of understanding. "I'm sure Agnetha could mix you something else, if you'd prefer."
Paul gave his wife a pointed look. "What's with Agnetha bartending, anyway? I mean, sure, she's a great lab assistant, but still…. It's kinda weird, know what I mean?"
"Oh, just trying to help her out, that's all."
"Huh?"
"Think about it a minute." Whitney leaned closer to her husband, standing on tiptoes to better murmur in his ear. "With looks like hers, it's not like she's going to get a date, right? And, if she talks to some of the bachelors here while tending bar, perhaps they'll realize she's a great gal despite her looks, and they'll maybe think of her as a woman and not a lab assistant."
Paul gave his wife a dubious look, but nevertheless studied the young lady mixing up another round of Zombies. Although blonde, buxom, and blue-eyed, her eyes were too close together, her chin was too large, and her nose was too prominent to make her seem anything but plain. But… the way she was smiling at the slight, fair man to whom she was passing a pair of Zombies, it lit up her face, made her seem kinda cute despite her flawed features. "Maybe you're right, Whitney." He raised his voice, so the man would hear him over the conversational din. "Excuse me, sir?"
"Yes?" The man gave a bland half-smile. "Oh, you're Mr. Avalon, aren't you?"
"I am indeed." He indicated his wife with a jerk of his head. "My wife, Whitney."
"Ma'am." He made to offer a hand, realized both hands were full, and gave an apologetic grin.
"You one of the new lab boys?"
"Me? Oh, no, no I'm not. I'm Miss Dancer's plus-one." At the Avalons' confused expression, he added. "New lab assistant, Biolab 8."
"Oh, right, right." Paul didn't actually remember the details of new lab assistants; he felt it politically correct, though, to feign interest so as to support the chemists, biologists, and other scientists who depended on their help so. "So, then, what do you think of a woman tending bar?"
"I find it quite unexceptional, actually. Then again, female bartenders are becoming quite common throughout Europe."
"I thought I detected a bit of an accent there!" Paul exclaimed, impressed at meeting someone foreign.
"You'd be Mr… Kensington, then?" Whitney added. "I heard the Biolab 8 gals talking about the new girl's dishy date at our lunchtime toning session today."
"Kuryakin, actually. Illya Kuryakin."
"And you're a professor, right? University of Chicago?"
"Northwestern. Russian History and Language."
"With a name like that, it would be unnatural if you taught anything else." Whitney blushed despite herself. Something about Mr. Kuryakin made her feel all naughty and giggly inside, like she was still that sorority sister breaking into the lab to sabotage Hank Crumbley's experiment notes just 'cause he dumped her for a Tri-Delt.
"Miss Dancer tells me that all the time. If you'll excuse me…?" Illya tried to break off.
Whitney, though, placed a hand on his forearm. "Make sure you enjoy that Zombie, Mr. Kuryakin. Agnetha worked so hard to master the recipe, and, being from Sweden and all, she doesn't get the purpose of tropical drinks, you know?"
"Oh, yes, indeed, quite." He glanced at Agnetha; she was between customers, and was giving him a hopeful smile even as she focused on his untouched drink. He noted Whitney had fixed her attention on his drink, too, even as she gave him a placid smile. Obviously, they both wanted him to sample the Zombie. Warning bells pealed through his mind.
But… perhaps he was overreacting? Easily 100 people had sampled the rum-and-juice concoction, with no obvious untoward effects. (One couldn't count standard drunkeness, not in a culture that equated consuming copious amounts of alcohol with being an adult.) The trouble with being a spy was that one so easily took an innocent offer of a drink as an attempt to compromise an operative. Sometimes, a stupid rum drink was just a stupid rum drink.
Illya raised his glass to both women and sipped the drink. It wasn't actually bad, for being a stupid rum drink, and he had a second swallow almost before he realized it. Neither Agnetha nor Whitney reacted to him drinking it; he gave them another bland smile and another glass-raise before drifting off to find his associate.
"Ooh, hon, you got it made!" Ruthie Raymond squealed, latching onto her New Best Friend's upper arm and giving it a happy squeeze. "I'd go for the ring, if I were you!"
April Dancer gave her companion a truly flummoxed look. "Whatever are you talking about?"
"He's drinking a Zombie!" Ruthie pointed vaguely toward the bar; Illya could just be seen chatting with a trio of Biolab 8 scientists, all of them sampling the drinks as they talked.
"Just like everyone else here, Ruthie. And it's not like he's going to get drunk off of it, he doesn't do that."
Ruthie gave her a pitying look. "You really don't know, do you?" She grabbed April's arm again, tugging her out onto the yacht deck proper. She leaned in, threatening to smear April with her overly-made-up face as she whispered, "Look, I shouldn't really be telling you this, but you're a nice girl, April, and, well, why shouldn't you benefit, too?"
"Benefit? Benefit how?" April appeared confused; in reality, she waited for what would surely be confirmation of what she had been investigating all week.
"Ya know the company's just launched Panazac, right?"
"Right. It's a new breakthrough in anti-anxiety medication. Doesn't have the same side effects as Valium and Lithium, lasts longer, acts quicker. What does that have to do with anything?"
"Well, Agnetha discovered that, if you mix Panazac with a combination of alcohols and fruit juices, you get a combo that not only makes a person totally complacent, but also makes him or her not remember it twelve hours later."
"And this drug is being released to the general public?"
"Shh! That's not gonna happen. See… a bunch of us gals is taking over the company tonight."
"What?!"
"Yeah, Agnetha's been lacing the guys' Zombies with the Panazac. That's why there's those pink flamingo thingies—it's to keep us gals from drinking the wrong drink. We're gonna get them to sign over all sorts of company resources in about an hour, and—uh oh! Here comes Cheryl. Let's not say anything to her, all right?"
"All right…." April watched the new arrival—short, stocky, a bottle blonde with a pleasant face currently marred by a scowl, approach them. "Hi, Cheryl," the agent greeted.
"Hi, April. Ruthie, I have to talk to you. Right away!" Cheryl pulled Ruthie back inside.
April scanned the crowd, looking for Illya. She spotted him talking to… oh, dear… Harry Neimczyk, one of the up-and-coming local Thrush boys. The Russian's stance, usually primed for action, seemed much too relaxed, especially considering who stood in front of him. That Panazac cocktail must already be affecting him. Damn.
She casually pulled out a compact from her kicky little purse, and, under the guise of powdering her nose, called for reinforcements.
"So, what brings you to this neck of the woods?" Harry Neimczyk asked, swirling the bourbon in his glass as he sipped it.
"I could ask you the same thing," Illya countered.
"But you won't."
Kuryakin contemplated the statement a moment. "No, I won't. Don't particularly feel like it at the moment, thanks to whatever's been put into the Zombies. Thrush doing?"
"'fraid not—not that we won't take over the drug, natch. It will be a crowning feather in Muguet Chemicals ever-expanding portfolio of drugs."
"Ah, Muguet. French for Thrush. Not all that clever, you know."
Neimczyk shrugged. "Eh, I didn't come up with it. I'm just a muscle guy."
"Oh, Illya, there you are, you silly boy!" April breezed in, kissing him firmly on the cheek as she grabbed one of the Zombies out of his hand. "I've been waiting forever for this!" She pretended to sip the drink, then, realizing Neimczyk was staring at her, she smiled at him and offered up a free, bejeweled hand. "Why, hello, there! You must be Cheryl's charming cousin, Harry. I've heard so much about you!"
Neimczyk, eyes narrowed with suspicion, nevertheless did the gallant thing: he kissed April's hand. Mist puffed forth from the ring on April's hand. Neimczyk collapsed to the ground. April went to pick him up, noticed Illya wasn't doing much more taking in the scene with a somewhat bemused expression, and sighed. "Illya? Help me move him?"
"What?" Kuryakin shook himself. "Oh, yes, of course, let me…." He hauled the unconscious Thrush agent off the floor, dragging him over to a quickly-emptied booth and tossing him unceremoniously onto a seat.
Cheryl, Ruthie at her side, appeared nearly instantaneously. "Harry! Oh my God! What happened?" She slid into the booth across from her cousin, and tried to slap him awake.
April feigned ignorance. "I don’t know—he was kissing my hand and just keeled over!"
"He wasn't drunk or anything, was he?" Cheryl demanded.
Only April detected the millisecond of hesitation before Illya answered. "He seems to like his bourbon a great deal."
Cheryl rolled her eyes. "Oh, that louse! Ruthie, go get me some water—I'm gonna wake him up the hard way!"
As Ruthie headed for the bar, April took Illya by the hand and pulled him out on deck. Several other couples had now found refuge there, but as they were completely wrapped up in each other, Dancer felt it was as safe a place as any to confer with her fellow operative. "Well?"
Kuryakin struggled to find the words. "I am compromised," he finally managed.
"What?!"
"Wrong word. Can't translate well at moment."
April put her arms around Illya's neck, to make it look like they were canoodling. She was surprised that he wrapped his arms around her waist. "What do you mean?"
"Drug effects. Happy to take behavior suggestions. Can't find English words well. Not drunk. Not harmed physically. All mental. Fuzzy."
"Do you know how the Panazac's being mixed into the drinks?"
"Simple syrup, women. Sugar bowl, men. Only difference in drinks." Kuryakin pulled Dancer in closer. "Don't like this. Can't support you."
"Oh, don't worry, the cavalry is already en route. If it's any consolation, you won't remember any of this tomorrow. It's one of the effects." She rested her temple against his. "And with Mr. Thrush out of the way for the moment, it's all going to work out fine in the end."
Kuryakin held her even tighter, to the point where she wasn’t sure if she could still breathe. "Also, am compelled to tell truth."
"And what truth would that be?"
"The truth that I could be very happy with you as a partner."
"I think Napoleon might have an objection or two to that. And if he didn't, Mark would."
"Not that sort of partner."
"They might still object."
"Don't think I care." With that, he brushed his lips against hers.
April returned the kiss, and sighed as he increased the pressure. He kissed really well, and she thoroughly enjoyed it. She had no idea, though, if he really meant it—and, if he did mean it, did she return the meaning?
She was spared from having to figure it out by someone clearing his throat. "Ah… it doesn't look like we have an agent down. What do you think, Mark?"
"Oh, I don't know, Napoleon, I think it's somewhat suspect."
April pushed Illya away gently, then glared at her partner. "I keep telling you, Mark, those office rumors will be the death of you!"
"I thought you said Illya was drugged."
"I did."
"There you go, then. Not in his right mind."
Solo could tell that the banter was about to dissolve into an argument, so he intervened with, "Status?"
"One Thrush agent knocked out." April wiggled her ring for emphasis. "Although the Panazac effects are annoying, they're as far as we know not debilitating permanently."
"And have the ladies staged their coup?"
"I—" April blanched, realizing that one particular part of the mission had slipped her attention. "I'd better go find out." She slipped back into the party. Mark, after exchanging a significant glance with Solo, followed.
Napoleon could thus devote full attention to the Russian. Kuryakin stood with arms folded across his chest, looking exquisitely annoyed. "Am not stupid. Merely slow. Talk to me, not around me, yes?"
"Sorry, Mr. K—I was trying to be efficient." A clank off the aft end of the yacht distracted him. He noted a pair of large metal hooks that hadn't been on the rail a moment before. The rest of the back-up had arrived. "Are you able to work a rope ladder?"
"Yes. Only mentally disabled at moment. And that only in some areas." He headed for the ladder; Solo went with, as if they were simply having a chat. They lingered for a moment, nonchalantly glancing at the other people on deck to see if anyone was paying attention to them. No one had interest in anyone but the person they were kissing. Napoleon stood in front of Illya; Illya lifted himself over the railing, perching momentarily on one of the top rungs of the rope ladder. " YA sozhalyeyu, ya ne v sostoyanii zavershit? zadanie." He shook his head, irritated with himself for speaking Russian when he didn't need to. "Sorry for not finishing mission," he added before disappearing completely.
Solo sighed, allowing himself a second of worry for his friend and partner before blending into the party.
Once inside the party, April pointed out the still-unconscious Thrush agent, who now was soaked as well as out like a light. "Can you handle that? I'm going to have a listen-in over by the bar."
"Right-o, love." Mark sauntered over to the booth, where Cheryl was threatening to drown her cousin with an entire pitcher of ice water. Ruthie shook his shoulder half-heartedly. "Trouble, ladies?" he asked, giving them his most boyish grin.
"So nice of you to notice," Cheryl snapped. "You couldn't have come by ten minutes ago?"
"Sorry, darling, I was on the lower deck, enjoying the buffet. And you are--?"
"I'm Cheryl, this is Ruthie, and the louse here is my cousin Harry. He had one too many bourbons."
"Pity."
"Yeah. He could least have had a Zombie. It is the house drink, yanno."
"Don't drink, m'self. At least not stupid rum drinks."
"Oh. Too bad!"
Ruthie agreed, adding, "Who you with?"
"Does it matter? I noticed the coast guard pulling up beside the yacht, and wandered up here to see who or what needed help. Shall we get Harry off the ship before he embarrasses you further?"
"Yeah, I guess…." Cheryl couldn't help look wistfully around the room.
"Ah, you'd rather stay, right? Not to worry, I'll drop him off with the guard, and then be right back to attend to your every need. Both of you."Slate scooped Harry up and, throwing him over his shoulder and lugging him out of the room.
Ruthie grabbed Cheryl's arm and squealed. "You got yourself a live one, hon!"
"Yeah, I do." Cheryl sighed. "Too bad he didn't have a Zombie or two, though—might have gotten him into bed that way."
April placed both elbows on the bar. She had planted herself right next to Whitney Avalon, so she could hear most of the conversation between her and her husband. Agnetha held up a Zombie glass and cocked her head; April nodded, to keep appearances. Once served, she rested her chin in the hand nearest the Avalons, and toyed with her straw as she gazed at nothing in mock-boredom while listening in.
"Aw, will you just lay off, Whitney?" Paul exclaimed, slamming his glass onto the bar behind him. "Geez, I'd think you'd be happy I wasn't boozin' it up for once."
"I'm trying to get you to loosen up a bit, Paul. I've been trying all night! You have every right to celebrate! Panazac's gonna make a million dollars for us! We'll never have to worry about, well, anything again! And here you've been, some sad sack milking a single Zombie for what? For me? That's really stupid." She opened up her cocktail purse and pulled out a wadded stack of papers and a pen. "Here."
"Here what?" Paul unfolded the papers and glanced at the first page, blanching as he spotted paragraphs upon paragraphs of legalese. "Y-you're not divorcing me, are you?"
"No, Paul, I'm just taking over the company." She fished out a delicate, ivory-handled pistol from her purse and pointed it directly at her husband. "Sign the transfer papers, sweetie."
Paul glanced around for help, saw that no one was interested in what was happening, and gulped. "B-but why?"
"Because I'm tired."
"Well, hire a nanny, then, don't just threaten me with a gun."
Whitney gave him a pitying look. "You really don't get it, do you? Who founded Avalon Pharmaceuticals?"
"I did."
"We did. We were equal partners—and, actually, I was more equal, because it was my inheritance we used for seed money. I was the one who formulated our first big success! You didn't have to kick me to the curb like you did when you got me pregnant… unless that was your plan all along. Get my money, then get me out of your hair by chaining me to the family you kept creating."
"Um… you couldn't have brought this up sooner? And not while pointing a gun at me? Besides, being a wife and mother is all you gals care about, really."
"No, it's not. Tell me, Paul—why are there no lady scientists at Avalon Pharmaceuticals?"
"Uh…." Sweat broke out on his forehead. "'cause they're gonna get married and leave someday. What if that happens in the middle of a project? And, sure, we could hire ugly ones, but, geez, who wants to be around ugly broads all day? No self-respecting man would dream of it!"
Whitney's eyes narrowed. "Give me one more reason, Paul, go ahead. I'm more than willing to pull the trigger right now."
April recognized a cue when she heard it. Her hand shot out, grabbing the gun away from Whitney as she pulled the trigger. The shot went wild, lodging in a wooden beam in the ceiling. Several nearby partiers jumped; the other 80 or so didn't really notice. April tucked the weapon down her cleavage momentarily. "Oh, come now, surely violence doesn't really solve anything, does it?" She caught Whitney's wrist and, with a firm jerk, spun her into the arriving Napoleon's welcoming grasp. Whitney started to protest; Solo silenced her with a disarming grin and a purposeful yank toward the yacht's aft deck.
Paul watched his wife depart with wide eyes. "What the hell just happened?"
"My suggestion, Mr. Avalon, is that you catch up with them. It will be the easiest way to sort everything out." April smiled encouragingly. Paul shrugged and hurried after his wife and the senior agent.
"April?" Agnetha wondered. "Is no takeover?"
"No takeover, Agnetha. If you're interested, though, I know of a place where your talents can be put to better use. Why don't you gather up that special sugar mixture you've been putting in the men's Zombies, and come talk to my uncle?" Dancer produced a sealable plastic bag from the recesses of her purse. "This should help…."
Kuryakin sat in an unoccupied office, scribbling quickly on a legal pad. The number of pages stacked on his right indicated he had quite possibly been writing ever since his arrival at U.N.C.L.E's Chicago headquarters. He noted April's hovering in the doorway with a glance, then finished his thought and put the pen down.
She smiled at his displeased expression. "I thought you were supposed to be in the infirmary, under observation."
Illya waved at the security camera working silently in a corner of the ceiling. "Am under observation."
"Oh, don't get so pedantic on me."
"Wit not available until drug wears off. Mission wrapped?"
"Oh, sure. We turned Whitney over to the local authorities, got Paul to delay the introduction of his drug, and have recruited Agnetha for Section IV. And I only got a minor lecture from Napoleon, since I managed to save Paul from being shot."
"What?" Illya dived into his note stack, skimming pages until he found the proper paragraph. "Oh, yes, Napoleon said that."
April raised an eyebrow. "If you already know how things resolved, why did you ask me?"
"Didn't remember. Things not sticking in brain more than five minutes right now. Have to write it down."
"We would all tell you again, once the drug was out of your system."
The Russian shrugged. "I will believe it if is in my handwriting."
"Recording it too easy?"
"Too frustrating. Words easier to find on paper."
"True enough." April leaned against the doorway. "So, what do you still remember about tonight?"
"Everything prior to drink clear as glass. Afterwards… fuzzy, fading, an old memory at tip of tongue. Don't like it."
"No one wants a hole in their memory."
"Don't want to forget tonight." Kuryakin locked eyes with her. His intense look told her exactly what part of the evening he meant.
The sense memory of them together, lips melding, came to her unbidden. With a gaze like that, he had to be offering more than a one night stand, or even some kind of fling. The problem: was it actually Illya doing the offering, or was it the Panazac in his system?
It would be safest—and easiest—to lob the ball back into his court. "Well, then, you'd best make sure you write everything down. And since you're already doing that, I won't bother you any more tonight. Ta-ta!" She gave him a little wave as she departed.
Illya returned to his pad and wrote another sentence, underlining it to emphasize to his future amnesiac self the importance of it. He then tore the paper off of its pad, ordered it with the other pages, and rolled them up all together. Leaving the pad and pen behind, he took his notes with him as he returned to the infirmary.