Part 1

[leethet]

 

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The Substance XX Affair

 

 

 Illya Kuryakin stood on the balcony, champagne flute in hand, scanning the well-groomed shrubberies. Was it ironic or simply a fact of life that the more festive the occasion, the less opportunity he had to enjoy it?

Seeing only UNCLE’s people in the underbrush outside the hotel, he turned around to reenter the hall, pausing at the French doors to observe his partner making the rounds of the assorted international dignitaries and celebrities.

As always, Illya marveled. Tuxedo-clad as he was himself – but eminently more comfortable in it – Napoleon worked the room like a politician, never stopping for long, managing to speak to, or listen to, nearly everyone, leaving smiles in his wake as he passed untouched through a sea of potential enemies.

Illya smiled to himself. He could do it if he had to, but he’d rather leave it to Napoleon. Accommodating the average human was a lot of effort for him. He preferred the dirty work – even if he did like to grouse about it.

And there was no denying his partner had a gift. Many gifts, to be honest. Illya stayed by the door, watching as Napoleon chatted up the German ambassador and his wife – persons proximate to their goal for the evening, the former Nazi chemist Dr. Hans Holberg.

Napoleon was on his game: charming, sophisticated, amusing. Though impressed by the show, Illya thought idly that he preferred the real Napoleon – although even the real Napoleon had two faces. There was the hard-as-diamond professional agent Illya unhesitatingly trusted with his life in the direst circumstances, and the boyish all-American who would drag his protesting partner to a baseball game, or kite-flying, at the drop of a hat. Though he’d never confess it to Napoleon, once he’d gotten used to that fun-loving side of his partner, he’d grown to cherish it.

That admission, private though it was, surprised him, even discomfited him a little. That he, the dour introverted Russian, actually delighted in that most un-dour, un-Russian side of his partner, was a blow to a once-solid self-image that had already been shaken a few times during the last five years.

Illya glanced at his glass. Half full. No blaming the sudden burst of sentimentality on alcohol.

Mr. Waverly, resplendent in a slightly out-of-date tuxedo, strolled up to him.

“Have you or Mr. Solo made contact?”

“No sir. I haven’t seen Dr. Holberg yet.”

Both men scanned the crowd. “Well, he should be here. After all, he contacted us. Whatever he has that he doesn’t want his own government to have must be of some significance. He’s been the Germans’ top chemical man since the war. He’s also been rumored to have KGB ties.”

“KGB?” Illya echoed, puzzled. “And the Germans? Strange bedfellows.”

“Indeed. And we’d prefer neither of those ... bedfellows learn this information before we do.”

Napoleon was circulating again, and Illya realized one thing that marked him as an agent, at least to a trained eye: the way he moved, strong, smooth, controlled...bottled mayhem. The tuxedo hid the highly trained body, but couldn’t hide the power and grace.

Again Illya glanced at his glass, surprised at himself. Empty. But this was only his second glass. Or was it the third? Enough, in any case; his mind was wandering into Here Be Dragons territory. Or was it Abandon All Hope, Ye Who Enter Here?

“Why do you suppose Dr. Holberg has had a change of heart?” he asked, setting the glass on a side table.

“He didn’t say,” Mr. Waverly said. “Presumably we’ll find that out once we bring him home. Which I don’t need to remind you needs to be done with all speed  –  and discretion. We don’t want an incident here.”

Illya sighed mentally. “Yes sir.”

His boss moved off into the crowd again, accepting a glass of champagne from a waiter. The string quartet began to play again, and Illya was caught for a moment listening. They were excellent.

“Very nice.”

He realized Napoleon was at his elbow. Without looking at his partner he said, “Tales from the Vienna Woods.”

Napoleon chuckled, drawing Illya’s gaze.

“I was referring to the tux,” he said, looking his partner up and down. His glance had the warmth of a caress, and Illya steeled himself, wondering why his partner, as he occasionally did, was wasting it on him. He was able to charm both sexes, probably all the way into his bed if he wanted, although as far as Illya knew he’d stuck to women there. “You clean up pretty well.”

Illya snorted a soft laugh. “I’d be clean all the time if it weren’t for the impossible, dangerous, violent and dirty situations in which my partner constantly embroils me.”

Napoleon smiled briefly. “A little dirt’s good for the soul.” He raised his glass. “How’s it look?”

Illya met his partner’s eyes, said, straight-faced, “Half empty.”

Caught off guard, Napoleon stopped in mid-sip to chuckle. “I meant the situation, you pessimist.”

“No sign of Holberg yet. Nor of anything untoward.”

A tall brunette in a diamond-studded gown strolled past, running her gaze up and down both Napoleon and Illya and smiling.

Napoleon finished his drink, set the empty glass beside Illya’s. “I feel a dance coming on.” He adjusted his tie, glanced at his partner. “Unless you prefer to take her up on her, ah, invitation?”

A little surprised at the offer, Illya said, “Go ahead. I enjoy watching you work.”

“It’s no work at all,” Napoleon said, suave smile back in place. “You should try it sometime.”

Poker-faced, Illya said, “Who would lead?”

Napoleon’s doubletake was priceless, but he came back quickly, touching his chest. “Senior agent, two years.”

Illya snorted. “Go cut a rug.” He gently shoved his grinning partner in the direction of the brunette, discreetly waiting a few yards away.

 

Illya spotted Dr. Holberg a few minutes later, standing against the wall near the French doors. He worked his way through the crowd and approached the stocky, grey-haired man.

“Dr. Holberg?”

The man glared at him; Illya realized he was deeply unsettled.

“Who are you?”

“Illya Kuryakin.” He reached into his jacket for his identification and Dr. Holberg’s eyes widened comically. He backed into the wall, trembling, hands upraised.

“No! I told you already – “

Illya pulled out his ID. “Dr. Holberg, I am with the UNCLE.”

Other guests, glancing their way curiously, returned to their sedate merrymaking as the scientist deflated, seeming to shrink within his tuxedo.

“I apologize,” he said. “I thought you were from ...”

“From?” Illya prompted.

“It doesn’t matter.” He mopped his brow. “I think I need a drink.” He scanned for a waiter while Illya considered his overreaction. Who had he thought he was? They’d never met before; the only clue would have been his obviously Russian name. Had he been in contact with the KGB recently? If so, it hadn’t concluded on a friendly note – hardly surprising considering the animosity between Germany and the Soviet.

A waiter walked past the French doors, tray of glasses upraised; Dr. Holberg advanced on him and laid claim to a glass, turning back to Illya. The Russian declined the offer of champagne. The orchestra finished the piece to a smattering of polite applause.

“Now, doctor. You said you have something for us?”

Holberg nodded, moved a little closer. “I developed it for my government, but ... I cannot let this be used. Once I fully realized what I had, I knew – “

Three sharp cracks shattered the quiet. Holberg’s arms splayed; the champagne glass flew from his hands and he slammed into Illya with a gasp.

Illya caught him, eased him to the floor, feeling hot blood on his fingers. He drew his weapon and crouched over Holberg, scanning the screaming, stampeding crowd of tuxedoes and evening gowns. Napoleon, gun drawn, raced for the balcony and leapt over the marble balustrade into the gardens.

“Everyone remain calm!” A voice called out – one of UNCLE’s men, Illya thought. “Please, move toward the foyer. Remain calm!”

Illya stripped off the doctor’s jacket, ripped open the dress shirt; two, no, all three bullets had entered his back, well grouped. The man’s heartblood was pumping out the holes. Illya shouted, “Can someone call an ambulance?”

The doctor, eyes gaping, strained to rise, reaching for Illya. “Substance ...” he gasped out. “Substance ... double ... X ...” Illya grasped his hand and felt something small and hard.

“Take it ...” Dr. Holberg whispered. “To UNCLE ...” He fell back. Illya quickly slipped the disk into his jacket pocket. Running feet approached as he pressed his hand to the doctor’s wound, trying in vain to stanch the flow of blood. He glanced up.

“You all right?” Napoleon asked. Gun still in hand, he scanned the room. Their people had managed to herd the terrified guests into the foyer, and the hall echoed in emptiness.

“Better than he is,” Illya said.

“There’s an UNCLE med team on the way.” Napoleon went down on one knee, ran his eye over the man on the floor.

“The shooter?”

Napoleon shook his head. “From the balconies, but he’d already taken out our two men before he took his shot. He was gone before we got out there.” He looked his partner over. “You’re sure you’re not hit?”

The sarcastic retort with which Illya generally favored such silly questions soured in his mouth when he saw the concern in his partner’s eyes.

“No. I mean, yes.” He stopped. What is wrong with you? “The blood is Dr. Holberg’s. They hit the man they were aiming for.”

Napoleon glanced down. “So much for coming in from the cold.”

Illya followed his gaze. Dr. Holberg was still. Illya removed his red-drenched hands from the bullet holes.

Mr. Waverly approached, looked the scene over, and said, “The med team is here. I take it too late?”

“Yes sir,” Illya said, rising. It was at that moment he knew he’d had more champagne than was good for him. His head and stomach spun in markedly different directions. Looking toward the balcony, he glimpsed a quick movement, a face in the darkness, a face he knew from somewhere, a face that knew him.

He drew his weapon. Reading the movements Napoleon spun, gun upraised, putting himself between Waverly and the French doors as Illya darted toward them, through them, onto the balcony.

The cool night air slapped him in the face, helping to clear his head. The balcony was deserted; no movement in the trees or bushes. In that instant his mind dug up the name to put to the narrow pale face he’d seen, a name, and a face, that he’d not thought about in 10 years.

Napoleon came out, half-crouched, straightening when he saw Illya holster his gun. “What was it?”

Illya turned around. “I saw someone.”

Napoleon examined his partner’s face. “Someone you knew?”

Illya started to speak, stopped. “I don’t know.”

Brows raised, Napoleon holstered his weapon. “I’d say you do.”

Irritated, Illya strode past his partner. “It was a glimpse. It looked like someone I knew a long time ago. But I can’t be sure.”

Napoleon trailed him, sending out palpable concern waves that for some reason irritated Illya more.

“There’s nothing wrong with me,” he snapped.

Napoleon chuckled. “Hm. I’d have said there’s plenty wrong with you. But I kind of like you anyway.”

“Waverly’s gone. Let’s get back to headquarters.” He headed for the door, circumventing the med team collecting Dr. Holberg’s body. One of them glanced up, took in the congealing blood on his hands, and silently passed him a towel. Illya wiped himself as clean as he could and kept walking. Napoleon caught his arm.

“Uh, I’ll drive, if you don’t mind.”

Illya again started to protest. Then stopped. “All right. I’m too drunk to argue,” he snarled, fighting to hold on to his scowl as Napoleon laughed out loud.

“Remind me to keep you away from Champagne,” he said, guiding his partner out the doors. “Then again ...”

“What?”

“Nothing.”



Illya slid the disk out of his pocket and set it on the table. “There it is. Presumably it’s some sort of miniaturized data chip.”

“Substance Double X...” Mr. Waverly mused aloud. Illya shrugged.

“That was what he said.”

“Mr. Solo, I’d like you to follow up on Dr. Holberg tomorrow. Who killed him and why. See what forensics and pathology turn up.”

Napoleon rose. “Yes sir.”

“Mr. Kuryakin, take this down to the lab and see what you can do with it in the morning. You have some expertise in the area; I’m assigning you to oversee the project, at least for the time being. If these data are worth a man’s life, it behooves us to see his final wishes are carried out.”

“Yes sir.” Illya hesitated. “I’m sorry, sir.”

Waverly blinked, looked up. “Mr. Kuryakin.”

“About Dr. Holberg. If I had been more ... alert...”

Waverly shook his head, more impatient than forgiving. “Nonsense. You weren’t on guard duty; you were on escort duty. The guards ... well, they’ve paid the penalty for their failure, I’m afraid.”

Illya still didn’t shift; he was very aware of Napoleon watching him. Evidently Waverly hadn’t noticed the effects of his overindulgence, but Illya knew Napoleon had.

“Go on,” Waverly said, his tone holding no more irritation than usual. “You’re dismissed, both of you.”

Napoleon touched Illya’s arm, and the Russian followed his partner out.

“Headache?” Napoleon asked sweetly.

“No thank you; I have one,” Illya said through gritted teeth.

“I’ve heard it’s better to stay awake through a hangover than go to sleep,” Napoleon remarked.

“Then it’s a good thing I plan to stay awake working on this chip,” Illya muttered.

“Well, that wasn’t exactly what I had in mind,” Napoleon said. “Besides, Mr. Waverly said in the morning.”

“I’m curious about it,” Illya said.

Napoleon shrugged. “Suit yourself.”

Illya eyed him sidelong. “What did you have in mind?”

Airily Napoleon said, “Never mind. You wouldn’t have liked it.”

“Oh.”

“It would have been fun. Frivolous.”

“I see.”

“Playful. Decadent. Self-indulgent. All those things you can’t stand.”

“All right.” Illya rubbed his aching forehead. “I get the message.”

“No,” Napoleon said. “I don’t think you do.”

At the door to the elevators they stopped and Illya squinted up at Napoleon from under his still-massaging hand. “Then what is the message? Speak slowly, please. I’m not at my best.”

Napoleon grinned, reaching up to tweak Illya’s tie. “Even so you’re worth any three other agents. Although you’re lucky Mr. Waverly didn’t realize how much you’d had to drink. I’m going to go down to the gym and soak the day away in the spa. You sure you wouldn’t rather join me than sit hunched on a stool in the lab all night?”

Illya, caught by his instinctive reaction – alarm – shook his head. “No thank you. I’ll work for a while. That usually gets rid of my headaches.”

The elevator doors opened. “Well, if you change your mind you know where I’ll be.” Napoleon waved and started off down the hall.

In the elevator Illya pondered his overreaction. There had been something a little strange, to be sure, about Napoleon’s behavior all evening, but there was nothing to be uneasy about in soaking in a spa with his partner; they’d done it countless times after missions that had left them more bruise than flesh. Why had it almost ... panicked him?

Perhaps it was only that face he thought he’d seen on the balcony of the embassy; that was what he really wanted to ponder right now. He could do that in the lab, alone. Soaking in the spa with his partner right now would only ...

Would only distract him.

Illya shook his head at himself, his own mental wanderings. You should just go home and get some sleep, hangover be damned.

He went to the lab, deserted at this hour, perched himself on a high stool under a strong light and examined the little plastic chip. The first problem, of course, was determining what method of recording Dr. Holberg had used; if he’d encrypted the data, that would be problem number two.