saki101

This is the second part of a further continuation of the story which started with Blue Diamonds and continued in Black Sapphires and Baroque Pearls (Part I). There is also a connection with a ficlet I wrote entitled When the Cherries Bloom.

At the beginning of July I participated in picowrimo with the overly optimistic goal of finishing this story by the end of the month, which got revised to the end of August. Unfortunately, it isn't quite done yet.

Many thanks to utopiantrunks for listening to me mulling over the ideas for the plot and for helping me keep the POV straight. All the shortcomings are mine.


Title: Baroque Pearls (Part II)
Author: saki101
Fandom: Man from UNCLE
Genre: Slash
Rating: R-ish
Word Count: 10K
Disclaimer: MFU is not mine and no money is being made.

Note: This section is a further development of the story and doesn't stand alone.

Excerpt: From the top of the dark curtains, sunlight seeped across the grey ceiling. Illya kicked the covers off and stretched. The surf sounded rough. Anton stirred. Illya turned his head on the pillow.

“They’ve sent you back to me, haven’t they?” Anton asked, propping himself up on his elbow, facing Illya. Illya met his gaze. “What do they want?”



Baroque Pearls
Part II



From the top of the dark curtains, sunlight seeped across the grey ceiling. Illya kicked the covers off and stretched. The surf sounded rough. Anton stirred. Illya turned his head on the pillow.

“They’ve sent you back to me, haven’t they?” Anton asked, propping himself up on his elbow, facing Illya. Illya met his gaze. “What do they want?”

“Control of your company,” Illya answered. “Until you’re finished with Survival School.”

Anton raised both eyebrows. “Why?”

“Austen has been trying to reach you. He badgered your general manager until he promised he would forward the proposal to you. That’s when Leclef used the address you’d provided for emergencies and reached Mr Waverly,” Illya explained.

“Is it an emergency?” Anton asked.

“More an opportunity,” Illya replied.

“Details?”

“Some. THRUSH has a design for a superior automatic weapon and they want your company to manufacture it,” Illya replied.

“Have they tested a prototype?”

Illya shook his head. “Austen wants your company to make the prototype, too. Test it and if it works, begin manufacturing.”

“Has anyone seen the design?”

“Austen will only discuss it with you,” Illya answered.

“Do you think THRUSH has figured out what we did to them in London?”

“They may have, but we have no sign of it. Austen seems to consider our last dealings with him business as usual, seems to see no reason for hard feelings on either side,” Illya said. “And from what we can gather, Austen has advanced since we removed Sterling from the game. We may have done Austen a favour.”

Anton tilted his head and raised his eyebrows. “Hopefully, he doesn’t know we had anything to do with it. If he does, this is likely to be a trap. And if I go, I’ll lose the year at Survival School.”

“That’s why Mr Waverly suggested you give him and Hawthorne power to act on your behalf,” Illya said.

“Should I do that?” Anton asked.

“You agreed to risk your life when you joined UNCLE. You didn’t pledge your worldly goods,” Illya replied. “It’s your family business. A lot could happen to it before you graduate.”

“You think I have a chance of graduating?” Anton asked.

“You’ve gotten this far,” Illya replied. “Most of those who won’t make it, are already gone by this point.”

Anton smiled. “If Austen wouldn’t agree to deal with Leclef, he’s not going to deal with Hawthorne or Waverly. Austen would never believe they had the authority. But he would believe you did.” Anton brushed the hair back from Illya’s forehead. “He knows how I feel about you.” Illya’s brows drew together. Anton eyes came back to Illya’s. “You have the legal documents with you?” Illya nodded. “Then I’ll give the power of attorney to you.”

Illya pursed his lips. “Not sure what Mr Waverly will think of that,” he said.

“Once I’ve signed them, will you leave?” Anton asked.

Illya shook his head. “I doubt even Mr Waverly would risk upsetting Cutter that much.”

“Is Austen likely to wait two weeks?” Anton wondered aloud.

“He’s been told you’re travelling and the soonest the proposal could reach you would be in two weeks’ time. Leclef reported that he appeared to accept that explanation,” Illya said.

“Two weeks,” Anton repeated and looked down at Illya’s mouth. “I didn’t think to have them for months yet.” His brow furrowed and he looked back up. “Is this instead?” he asked.

“No,” Illya answered firmly. “That’s agreed. Two weeks before you go on your first assignment. If I’m able,” Illya said. There always needs to be that caveat, Illya thought.

Anton’s eyes closed. “I couldn’t believe it when I saw you at the shooting range,” he said.

“Cutter hadn’t told you about Sarkasian?” Illya asked.

Anton opened his eyes and shook his head. “No, I was still expecting to be his aide until Cutter introduced you at the reception.”

“Perhaps he does only have a few pages of your file,” Illya said. “Or he wanted to observe your reaction.”

“I thought you didn’t have full access to my file,” Anton said.

“Mr Waverly shared it with me before I left, although I can’t be certain it was complete,” Illya replied.

“Why do you think he did that?” Anton asked.

The lines between Illya’s brows deepened. He did not have a satisfactory answer.

“Did it have the information you were looking for?” Anton probed further.

Once again, Illya shook his head, glanced at the window. The walls around the curtains were glowing. Without looking back at Anton, Illya replied, “They’ve gathered data about some of the people in your past. People long dead.”

“Any photos?” Anton pursued. Illya nodded. “Any of them look like you?”

Illya had read each page carefully, reread the short biographies that had accompanied the photos. They appeared before his mind’s eye. The middle-aged father, handsome in his officer’s uniform; his determined expression caught in sepia tints. Dead, nonetheless, with millions of others. A candid snapshot of a cousin to whom Anton was engaged. The freckles sprinkled across her laughing face hinted at her ginger hair even in the black and white photo. Dead at eighteen of asthma while Anton was at university. A photo of the painting of Anton’s mother hanging in the corporate headquarters of Agincourt Freres, a thoughtful look in her dark eyes. Anton’s eyes. Asthma, a family weakness it seemed, claimed her, too, shortly after Anton finished his master’s degree in chemistry. He’d taken over the running of the company then. A photo of the portrait of Anton which had been painted at the time to hang next to his mother’s. Elegant in white tie and tails. His grandmother had worn mourning in her photo. The shadows from the lace veil had emphasised the stern look in her light eyes. They had reminded Illya a little of his own.

“You’ve kept whomever it is safe,” Illya said finally.

“Six months’ research with all of UNCLE’s resources.“ Anton shook his head. “As a scientist you shouldn’t be so resistant to your hypothesis being disproved.”

“I find the proof I have convincing,” Illya replied.

Anton started to shake his head again, then smiled. “Perhaps I have not been expressing myself clearly enough,” he said. He hooked his leg around Illya’s and leaned forward. “Let me try again.”

************

The air was still, the palms at the edge of the beach silent, when Illya and Anton walked to the diving centre. The waves smoothed away their footsteps as they passed.

“The prototype will have to be hand-crafted,” Anton said.

“How long will that take?” Illya asked.

“Depends on how many parts in the design are standard,” Anton replied. “And how complex the original parts are.”

“You have craftsmen for that?” Illya enquired.

“Every new design has to be created by hand first to see if it’s worth building machinery to mass produce it,” Anton explained, the fingertips of his one hand brushing past the fingertips of his other in a polishing gesture. “Our antique division does repairs for museums, creates unique weapons for collectors. After two hundred years, we need specialist craftsmen just to maintain our own collection.” Illya glanced at Anton and nodded, he could hear the pride in his voice.

“A range of time, then,” Illya said.

“If there are less than three new parts, a week should be sufficient unless they are quite intricate. You can extrapolate from there,” Anton replied.

“I’ll be able to assess whether the design is physically sound, but I won’t be able to recognise which parts are standard and which aren‘t.”

“You’ll probably surprise yourself. You must have cleaned and reassembled a wide variety of weapons in your career,” Anton said. Illya smiled thinking how well he knew his Special. “But Genet or Brecht can help you. They’ve both been with the company since they were young men and their fathers before them. They know everything we can manufacture, even from the old moulds which are not used now.”

“So if a number of parts are original, just the prototype could take weeks to produce?” Illya estimated.

“Even more,” Anton said.

“Could be a long mission,” Illya mused as they approached the diving centre.

“If the prototype works, making the machines to manufacture them could take months,” Anton agreed. “But we’d never really proceed to that point, would we?”

“It depends on what UNCLE might want to do with a genuinely superior design. Perhaps appropriate it. Perhaps have your company produce it for THRUSH with a modification which would allow us to track the weapons or disable them somehow,” Illya suggested.

Anton raised his eyebrows and followed Illya into the diving centre.

***********

“Have you been swimming?” Vijay asked when Illya and Anton sat down at his table, hair still plastered to their heads.

Reikko looked up from the papers she was correcting. “You almost missed dinner,” she said.

“It would be unlike Illya to let that happen,” Vijay commented, smiling at the laden trays Anton and Illya had before them.

“We went to check where we’ll do the underwater demolition class before it got too dark,” Illya said, pulling apart a roll and buttering it. “I had a look at the perimeter mines while we were down there. The model doesn’t appear to have been changed since I attended Survival School.”

“Thinking of an update?” Vijay asked.

“It would make a good weekend assignment after the class on Friday,” Illya said. “We’ve got the mess hall tomorrow, gardening and cleaning implements and supplies on Wednesday and the motor pool on Thursday. So the underwater work would round out this week. How’s your class going?”

“We’ve got some talent,” Vijay said and leafed through the stack of papers at Reikko’s elbow. “Try this one,” he said handing Illya a paper.

Anton glanced at it; his expression went blank. Illya lay the notebook page next to his tray and pulled a pencil from his jacket pocket. He ate with one hand and made notations with the other.


When Anton returned to the table with desserts and coffees, Illya looked up. “Not bad,” he said to Anton, handing Vijay back the paper. “But my familiarity with Puskin gave me an advantage.” Anton smiled as he sat down and continued writing his list of edible combustible chemicals.

“Want to help with mine?” Vijay said and passed Illya a partially deciphered text which had Reikko’s name decoded at the top.

Illya studied the paper as he sipped his coffee. When he set the cup down he took up his pencil and started writing rapidly at the top of the page, reciting as he wrote:

“Kare eda ni
karasu no tomari keri
aki no kure

“Reikko and I traded haiku’s when we first met,” Illya explained. “Before she knocked me unconscious.”

“On a withered branch
a crow is perched
an autumn evening,” Reikko translated.

“You gave them a poetry assignment?” Illya asked. Vijay nodded. “What other poets did you get?”

Reikko handed over the papers she had finished correcting.

“I’m beginning to see the connection between mathematics and poetry,” Anton said, crossing his leg and letting his foot brush against Illya’s calf. “Is music next?”

“It is,” Vijay said.

Illya leafed through the papers, “Shakespeare, Poe, Khayyam, Baudelaire,” he read out with interest. Despite his still damp hair, he was feeling warm. Illya tried telling himself it was the coffee.


*************

“Mr Agincourt has a point. If Austen is likely to accept any representative, it will be you. Proceed to London from Miami. We’ll arrange a meeting for two weeks from today through M Leclef,” Mr Waverly said.

“Not sooner?” Illya asked.

“M Leclef said the message wouldn’t reach Mr Agincourt for two weeks. Sooner might look eager or suspicious. Neither is desirable,” Mr Waverly replied. “And I pledged your services to Mr Cutter for two weeks.”

“Yes, sir.”

“I will advise Mr Cutter before the plane arrives to collect you that we are sending a notary to witness legal documents requiring Mr Agincourt‘s signature. Specifics are not necessary,” Mr Waverly added.

“I understand, sir,” Illya said.

“Give Mr Cutter my regards,” Mr Waverly concluded.

“I will, sir,” Illya replied. He listened for a moment more before removing the headset and switching off the radio.

Illya passed Mr Cutter coming in to the communications centre on his way out. “New York managing all right without you, Mr Kuryakin?”

“Yes, sir,” Illya replied. “Mr Waverly sends his regards, sir.”

Cutter considered Illya, then nodded. “Carry on, Mr Kuryakin.”

“Good-night, sir.”

*************

The aromas of fresh-baked bread and cardamom swirled out into the afternoon air when Cutter strode through the front doors of the mess hall on Tuesday. He didn’t stop until he was standing by the table nearest the kitchen where the five cadets in the advanced explosives class were huddled around an array of bottles, tins and plates piled with food. Illya was dangling his shoelaces in a cruet of vinegar.

Illya glanced up and Cutter nodded. “Try not to blow the place up. The foraging exercise isn‘t until after exam week,” he said and marched away.

The recruits’ eyes flicked towards the sound of Cutter’s voice and back to what Illya was doing with a heavy padlock he’d affixed to his chair. Illya motioned for the students to pull back and shield their faces. "Listen," Illya whispered from his crouched position. The chemicals sizzled along the laces looped around the lock. The side door slammed. When Illya told them to look, the lock hung open.

***************

The days were passing quickly, a week gone already, Illya thought, studying his face in the mirror. He spread lather across his jaw. His smile interfered with his task. He’d tried to ease out of bed without disturbing Anton. His arm had tightened around him. Illya had stroked it, as one would to settle a startled animal, before lifting it off his chest.

His smile disappeared. Whatever their cause, Anton’s feelings motivated him to achieve more than Illya had thought possible. Illya dipped the razor into the hot water in the basin, slid the blade along his cheek, swished it through the water again. The movement was easy. It had been a long while since he had awoken feeling so relaxed. Finally, he had gotten enough rest. Even if his sleep had been interrupted; rarely had it been interrupted so pleasantly so often. His body had adapted to the rhythm of it, responded just to the memory of it. Illya leaned down to rinse his face.

Wide hands grasped his hips. He could feel Anton behind him, warm from the bed. Illya reached out for the hand towel by the basin and straightened up, drying his face. He set the towel aside and caught Anton’s eye in the mirror. Illya usually had a gun trained on someone when they looked at him like that. Illya closed his eyes and released him. Anton bent his head forward, resting his temple against Illya’s freshly-shaved cheek. Illya could feel the breath over his shoulder, the hands moving upwards, one across his abdomen, one across his chest, pulling him closer. Illya took a deep breath. It hasn’t been more than a couple hours. Anton’s hands summoned their response, the fingers splaying wide. His lips whispered across the ridge of Illya’s shoulder to his arm. Seems longer ago. Illya leaned his head back against Anton’s shoulder. The lips changed direction, grazing along Illya’s neck. Illya turned his head to meet them.

He rested his elbow on the rumpled hand towel next to the basin, leaned his forehead against his arm. Anton’s kisses moved slowly down his spine, the tip of his tongue flickering against the skin. Anton knelt, one hand at Illya’s hip, one gliding up the inside of his thigh. Illya moved one foot, shifted his weight. Anton’s kisses dropped, hands griping, stroking. Honey trap, Illya thought. Caught.

**************

The sun had slipped below the waves while they were installing the modified perimeter mine. Illya stood on the rocks of the jetty to extract his communicator from the watertight pouch at his waist.

“Wait,” Anton said, patting his tool belt. “I left my torch attached to the mine.”

Illya held up his communicator. “Good you spotted it before I signalled to reactivate,” he said.

Anton nodded and disappeared beneath the water. Illya tucked his communicator back into the pouch and sat down on the rock, his feet dangling in the water, his head tipped back. The stars winked at the top of the sky, more becoming visible as the glow along the horizon faded. He picked out the constellations as the tide came in.

****************

All four envelopes Illya packed were bulging with notes, one filled with production details, the second with information about the company’s personnel, a third about the more public aspects of Anton’s family’s history and the last containing miscellaneous details about Anton‘s homes, travels, acquaintances, etc. All things he would be expected to know if he were what he was going to pose to be until the prototype was built and tested. If the prototype worked, the mission might well extend for weeks or even months longer, depending on what course UNCLE chose to take.

Illya placed a layer of clothing over the envelopes. In all that data there had been no clue about the person or persons he was convinced Anton was protecting, but the information he had was sufficient for the mission and that was all that mattered. His personal curiosity was just that, personal. Illya smoothed a couple ties across the top of his clothes and wondered whether he was resisting his hypothesis being disproved.

************

Illya shielded his eyes as he looked out over the turquoise water from the top of the steps to the guest quarters. There were clouds near the horizon, although the sun blazed in a clear sky directly overhead. Voices filtered through the trees. Illya greeted the pilot and the notary as they emerged from the palms. The pilot introduced Patrice Estragues from the Miami office, confirmed that the plane would be ready to depart in two hours and turned back into the palm grove.

“First time back at Survival School?” Illya asked as he led Mr Estragues up the stairs.

Patrice nodded, looked at the guest quarters, then down to the sea. “The scuba class was my favourite. Where’s the diving centre now?”

“On the bay,” Illya replied gesturing towards the curve of the beach before stepping inside.

Anton was waiting in the small room where he had never spent much time. It was bare now, ready for the next guest, except for the stack of papers on the desk which would soon be gone as well. He and Reikko had moved their belongings back to their barracks in the morning. Vijay had delivered his and Illya’s students’ assessments to Mr Cutter and already joined Reikko and her classmates at the mess hall. Anton and Illya would take Mr Estragues with them to join Vijay and the others for lunch as soon as the papers were signed and witnessed.

Illya’s purpose on the island was nearly achieved.

*************

Illya listened for a little longer to Vijay and Patrice Estragues discovering how many contacts they had in common from the months each had spent at different times in Tangiers, before he excused himself and went to the cockpit to give the pilot a break.

Mid-way to the mainland, a tailwind boosted their speed. Illya climbed higher. The small plane skimmed over the roiling grey clouds, in the sunlit blue above the storm. Flying is the best way to leave a place, Illya thought.


As they descended the metal steps to the wet tarmac, an agent called out Vijay’s name.

“Just behind me,” Patrice answered, looking about. “How’re the roads to Miami?”

“Some flooding on the coast,” his colleague replied. “We should be fine getting to the airport. Getting to headquarters will take a little longer than usual. Diversions.”

Patrice looked up at the clearing sky, nodded and stepped aside.

“Dr Mittal?”

Vijay was ducking his head to exit the plane. “Yes?”

“Message for you to contact Bombay immediately, sir,” the agent replied.


“I’m being sent to New York,” Vijay explained as he got into the car next to Illya. Illya raised his eyebrows.

Patrice turned from the front seat. “Change of plans?”

“Yes. Pleasant one. I haven’t been to New York in years,” Vijay replied.

“Give my best to Napoleon if he‘s around,” Illya said.

“Seems he’s heading there now from Montreal with a THRUSH communications device that is picking up their encoded channels,” Vijay explained.

“That’s not likely to function for long,” Illya observed.

“No,” Vijay agreed. “Napoleon’s recording the transmissions as they come in. He’s driving. Passed the border three hours ago.”

Illya checked his watch. “You should arrive around the same time,” he calculated.

**************


The rain had stopped when Napoleon pulled up to the side of the warehouse, his headlights extinguished. He adjusted his communicator and aimed it at one of the delivery dock doors. The well-oiled metal rose quietly. As soon as the car would clear, Napoleon drove up the ramp into the building, reset his communicator and twisted around to aim at the mechanism above the entrance. He kneaded the back of his neck while he watched the door descend. It hit the cement floor with a muffled thud.

The warehouse was dark, damp and nearly empty. The moon shone through the high back windows, streaking the shadows with swaths of grey light. Napoleon opened the car door and listened to the silence before he gathered the receiver, the recorder and the bag of food he had brought from the drive-through restaurant near the Thruway exit and carried them to the small office by the front door. Gently, he set everything on the desk, found the space heater and switched it on. The lights he left off and opened the blinds. The parking lot was deserted. He unwrapped the food, the crinkle of the papers raucous in the stillness. The receiver began to chatter. He checked that the recorder was working, pulled out his handkerchief and dusted off the desk chair. The relief team would arrive soon to guard the TRHUSH receiver safely away from headquarters until it could be checked for a homing signal. The chair creaked when he sat back and put his feet up on the desk, glancing again at the glowing hands of his watch. He could drop off the tapes he’d already recorded and let the code breakers at headquarters get started while he got some sleep. Napoleon bit into the cold hamburger. Illya should be back at headquarters by morning.


**********

Lily greeted Napoleon with a warm smile Monday morning. “It’s good to have you back,” she said as she pinned on his badge.

“It’s good to be back,” Napoleon agreed with a grin. There was a spring in his step as he headed for the elevators, the bag of warm, chocolate croissants in his hand leaving a delicious aroma in his wake.

When the door to the office slid open, Napoleon stepped inside and beamed at the head bent over Illya‘s desk. It took a moment for the dark colour of the hair to register.

Vijay looked up, smiled broadly and stood. “Napoleon Solo, I presume,” he said, extending his hand. “Vijay Mittal, Bombay.”

Napoleon took the proffered hand and nodded while his brain searched through mental files. He glanced at his desk in case Illya might be there.

“Mr Waverly suggested I wait for you here,” Vijay added.

Napoleon’s eyes returned to Vijay, brightening with recognition. “The encrypted book. Yes. THRUSH received several unpleasant surprises thanks to you. Starting right at the airport. Illya said you were the best.”

Vijay’s smile grew wider.

“Perfect timing, your being here, we’ve got a ream of urgent decoding to do,” Napoleon continued. “I was listening to it all the way down from Montreal and wasn’t able to find a pattern. Seemed there were several different codes being used,” Napoleon opened the white paper bag and held it out to Vijay. “Help yourself,” he said. “I got plenty. That’s always the best plan with Illya.”

“Sorry, I forget myself,” Vijay apologised, before reaching into the bag. “I was working on the tapes you dropped off last night until quite late and I need more caffeine.” He drew out a large croissant and a napkin. “Illya sends his best.”

Napoleon circled his desk and sat down, open paper bag still in hand. “Sends?”

“Ah,” Vijay said, leaning against the desk and studying the large croissant. “You haven’t spoken to Mr Waverly yet.”

Napoleon folded his hands in front of him on his desk and gave Vijay his full attention.

“We went straight from the flight off the island to Wilcox Field. Illya flew to London and I here, to help with the decoding,” Vijay explained.

Vijay Mittal. The full file was at Napoleon’s disposal now. The advanced cryptology class. Napoleon stood back up. “This is wonderful for us. Did you make any headway last night?”

“I cracked the simplest. Probably for low-level classified. I sent it down to Section Four before I left. You’re right, there are at least three codes, but I haven‘t had any breakthroughs this morning.”

Napoleon patted Vijay on the arm and gestured towards the door. “More caffeine. I haven’t had enough yet either. Shall we go down to the canteen and fix that? We can eat these down there.” Napoleon grabbed the bag off his desk. “So how was Survival School?”

Vijay held up the pastry in his hand and raised an eyebrow.

“Just drop it back in. It will taste better with coffee,” Napoleon said, holding out the bag. “Or carry it, if you prefer. My meeting with Mr Waverly isn’t until ten.” The office door opened as Napoleon approached. “Sometimes it’s best to take a break, when you’ve been staring at cyphers too long.”

“True,” Vijay said, lowering the croissant into the bag, dusting off his hands and following. “And I wanted to ask you about someone Illya said you met in Kyoto.”

“Oh, who?” Napoleon asked as he ushered Vijay into the corridor.

“Someone in my class - and Illya’s. My aide, actually.” Napoleon pricked up his ears at the tone. “Illya said she knocked him unconscious when they met. He was exaggerating, perhaps -” Vijay looked at Napoleon. Napoleon shook his head, taking note that Illya appeared to have confined his revelations to his own condition. “I’d love to hear the rest of that story.”

“Yes,” Napoleon said as the elevator doors opened. “I’d love to tell you how a group of geishas knocked Illya out,” he continued when he saw the elevator was empty. He pushed the button for the canteen. “But Survival School stories first,” Napoleon added.

“It was a very full fortnight,” Vijay agreed. “Starting from the first night when Illya bested his own record after the marksmanship qualifications.”

“Did he,” Napoleon replied, thinking a little target practice might be in order.

“Yes, Mr Cutter asked him to demonstrate that he could still do it.”

“Oh?”

“One of the cadets suggested that it couldn‘t be done. They were very proud of their own top marksman,” Vijay explained. “You should have seen their faces when Cutter offered Illya his gun and called him ‘Mr Kuryakin‘.”

“Illya used Cutter’s gun?” Napoleon asked as the elevator stopped.

“No, his own. That was how Cutter asked him to shoot. The gesture certainly caught the students’ attention,” Vijay continued as the doors opened. “So did Illya’s performance.”

Napoleon shook his head and smiled. “I can imagine.”

“The best cadet was very good,” Vijay allowed. “That he could come as close to the record as he did was impressive, but Anton has a long way to go before he could beat Illya. Or you.”

There was a hitch in Napoleon’s smooth stride. He covered it with a smile. Vijay was likely to think it was at the mention of his record. In over a decade, only Illya had beaten it. “It’s been a long time since you’ve been in New York, hasn’t it?“ Napoleon asked. He had enough to assimilate for a while.

“Years,” Vijay agreed as Napoleon held the door to the canteen open.

“What didn‘t you get to do last time?” Napoleon asked.

“It was summer. I‘ve always heard about the ice skating in Central Park,” Vijay replied.

“Excellent. What else?” Napoleon smiled.

Vijay hesitated. “I doubt we could get tickets.”

“Can‘t know until we try. To what?” Napoleon said.

“The Rockettes,” Vijay replied.

“A man after my own heart,” Napoleon said as they joined the line. “It’s short notice, but let me see what I can do.”

“The codes may not allow,” Vijay cautioned.

“If you have to work too late tonight, we’ll skate tomorrow,” Napoleon said. “You know, all work and no play, et cetera.”

Vijay grinned as they poured their coffees. “Thank you,” he said, then glanced sideways at Napoleon. “So tell me about Reikko.”

****************

The sign read “Agincourt Freres” in neat, block letters. Gloved hands held it and hundreds of eyes passed over it as people streamed out of customs. Illya moved towards the man in chauffeur’s uniform complete with cap pulled low. Illya’s coat and jacket were unbuttoned, his Special readily accessible in the holster under his arm. The chauffeur reached out for his suitcase when Illya stopped in front of him.

“Carry your bag, guv’nor?” Mark asked.

Illya’s lips turned up a little. He saved his questions for the car.


“What are you doing in London?” Illya asked when the car pulled away from the kerb in the morning twilight.

“Being a glorified errand boy, at the moment,” Mark said and winked in the rear view mirror when Illya raised his eyebrows. “We closed The Deep Vault Affair in Geneva two days ago. April left for New York yesterday and I’ll leave tomorrow once I brief you and see you on your way. Do you have a letter for a Mr Stephens?”

Illya pulled a packet of letters from his inside coat pocket and extracted one. He handed it over the seat.

“Brilliant,” Mark said, glancing at the top address. “That should satisfy the building manager. HQ will start installing increased security once Mr Stephens sees this. I’m assuming the letter authorises it?” Mark looked in the rear view mirror again. Illya nodded. “There’s a rather good system in the building already and Agincourt has additional wiring in his flat.” The car stopped at a traffic light and Mark turned around. Illya raised an enquiring eyebrow. “Haywood paid a call on the local office of Banham.”

“That doesn’t say much for their security,” Illya remarked.

“Oh, Haywood claimed to be from The Security Service,” Mark said.

A smile tugged at Illya’s lips. “They aren’t amused when they catch us doing that,” Illya observed.

Mark turned back to the road. “Well, we hardly ever do. Mr Hawthorne condoned it and assigned Haywood and another Section Three agent to be security for the building. Staunch Mr Stephens said he will be happy to grant them access as soon as he has written confirmation that Mr Agincourt engaged our firm.”

“And which firm will Haywood and comrade be representing?” Illya asked as they turned onto the motorway.

“Knightsbridge,” Mark replied. “Plainclothes security. Very exclusive. Never advertise.”

“Which would explain why no one’s ever heard of them,” Illya surmised.

“Exactly.” Mark held up a thick manila envelope. “This one’s for you. It’s got the latest gathered on your dinner partner, Mr Austen.” Illya leaned forward to take it. “Tonight. Seven thirty at the Ritz. Nice and public.”

"It doesn't sound like I'll be back in New York anytime soon," Illya said. He sat back, opened the envelope and began to read.

**************

Illya pushed the door shut with his foot, set his suitcase down and switched on the light. The drapes were closed, but the windows had been open recently. A fresh bouquet of roses and lilies stood on the table behind the couch, a note propped up against it. Illya surveyed the room before he went to the table, ran a finger along its surface, rubbed his thumb and index finger together. Dustless. He opened the note, read the few formal lines from the staunch Mr Stephens about the preparations carried out pursuant to M Leclef’s instructions and dropped it back on the table.

Coat and jacket shed, Illya bolted the door and swept the flat thoroughly. It didn’t take very long. He remembered the lay-out from the spring. The texture of the couch. Illya wandered back to the kitchen, took an apple from the bowl of fruit on the counter and opened the refrigerator. He sunk his teeth into the apple. Fatigue was descending. He smiled through the bleariness at what must have been the standard order for restocking the flat after an absence. He made a caviar sandwich, finished the apple, drank some water and headed for the bedroom. He needed sleep before the meeting.

**********

It was seven forty when the maitre d’ led Illya to Austen’s table. Austen’s face was flushed when he looked up; his martini glass wobbled when he stood to shake Illya’s hand, but his voice was calm. Illya gave him credit for that.

As soon as Illya’s vodka had arrived and dinner and wine were ordered, Austen lifted a cardboard tube from beside his chair and took out a roll of paper. Illya unrolled the blueprint and began his analysis.

Austen coughed. Illya glanced up and lifted one hand. The blueprint curled in on itself with a hiss. The waiter set down their starters.

“Well?” Austen said when the waiter had retired.

“At first blush, the design appears sound. It needs more scrutiny than I can give it here to be certain,” Illya replied. He finished his vodka and reached for an oyster. “Under what conditions has the prototype been tested?” he asked.

“I told Agincourt in my proposal that there is no prototype,” Austen began impatiently. Illya set the empty oyster shell down and took another. “I want your firm to make it,” Austen said in a quieter voice.

“Surely you have your own facilities?” Illya asked, reaching for a third oyster.

Austen leaned forward. “I want the best craftsmen,” he replied. “Change unsettles some people,” he added, sitting back. He hadn’t touched his prawns.

Illya lifted his serviette from his lap, wiped his fingers, dabbed the corners of his mouth, took a sip of water before he looked directly at Austen. “There are options with regard to materials,” he said. “Even with the least expensive, the prototype will be costly. Payment in advance will be required.” Illya’s fingers closed around a fourth oyster shell.

“I want the best materials,” Austen said. He downed the last of his martini.

“Are you certain?” Illya asked, slipping the shell back onto his dish. “Just because a new design is functional doesn’t mean it will be superior to existing models.”

Austen studied Illya's face as he spoke. “No,” he said and took a breath. “But I want to give the design the best chance to perform well.”

Illya took another sip of water. “If it does do well, but the cost is too high, it might not be worth a slight improvement.”

Austen’s flush grew deeper. He leaned towards Illya. “It won’t be a slight improvement.”

“So you have tested a prototype,” Illya said and raised another oyster to his lips. He noted the pulse in the vein at Austen’s temple as he tipped the shellfish into his mouth.

“No.” Austen took a deep breath. “It’s the design. I’m sure the improvements are significant.”

Illya was lifting the last oyster. He swallowed it before he answered, Austen’s eyes intent upon him. He set the empty shell down and wiped his fingers. “Then I propose two prototypes. One of economical materials, the other of the best and a comparison of their performance.”

Austen nodded, the colour in his cheeks losing their purple tinge. “Can they be built simultaneously?”

“Almost. But it will require more specialists’ time and be more expensive,” Illya said.

Austen nodded again. “How long will it take?”

“That will depend on the number and complexity of the original components,” Illya replied, leaning back in his chair.

“How soon can you tell me?” Austen asked and looked up at the waiter when he took Illya’s plate away.

The waiter eyed the full dish in front of Austen and asked, “Shall I bring you something else, sir?”

Austen’s brows drew together. He glanced at the glass bowl in front of him and his eyebrows raised. “No, that’s fine,” he said and picked up a fork as the waiter set a salad in front of Illya.

“We shall have to go over the design in detail to see,” Illya replied, lifting a cube of cheese and a walnut from the greens.

“How long?” Austen pressed, his fork poised in the air.

“Perhaps in a week,” Illya answered. He watched Austen eat the prawn and understood that a week was acceptable. “Unless we have to check our retired machinery for matches. It would save time if we could confer with the designer,” he added.

“Not possible,” Austen said simply.

“No longer with us?” Illya enquired and drank some of his wine.

“Inaccessible,” Austen replied.

“Well, not more than two weeks and possibly only one,” Illya amended, setting down his wine glass. “You do realise that we’ll need the blueprint.” Austen nodded. “Of your breakthrough design.”

“I’ll be watching,” Austen said.

Illya’s lips curved upwards as he nodded. “Payment for the prototype in advance,” he clarified.

“Prototypes,” Austen corrected. “It’s a good idea. Make it both ways.” He took a long swallow of his wine.

“You haven’t seen the cost estimate yet,” Illya cautioned, wondering whether the paper could be poisoned or the tube booby trapped.

“I’m willing to pay for the best,” Austen concluded and raised his glass to Illya. “To our success,” he said.

Illya inclined his head and lifted his glass. “To success.”


***************

The Bentley was in front of the hotel. Mark jumped out and opened the back door for Illya. Illya slipped inside, tube in hand. Mark was behind the wheel a moment later and they were heading towards Piccadilly.

When he’d finished checking his clothing for bugs, Illya snapped the two he found in half and dropped them out the window. “Do you have gas masks in the car?” Illya asked.

“Yes,” Mark said opening the glovebox. He tossed one over the back of the seat. “I hate these things,” he added, taking off his cap. He slipped the mask over his head at the next traffic light. “Where are we going?”

“The Embankment, then east, bridge pattern,” Illya replied.

“Something going in the river?” Mark asked.

“Possibly,” Illya replied and opened one end of the tube.


****************

Midnight came, but sleep did not. The jetlag wasn’t surprising, but annoying nonetheless. Times like these, Illya missed his oboe. He poured himself another vodka and checked his watch. The flight to Lyon was mid-morning. About two more hours on the train from Lyon to Clermont-Ferrand after that. His bag was packed, the tube next to it by the door. He drifted through the sitting room, sat down at the piano and began to play Gershwin.

****************

Illya stretched out his legs and watched the countryside change as the Lyon-Clermont-Ferrand train wound its way east. Always on the move. It had been a luxury to be in one place for two weeks on the island, sleeping and waking to the sound of the waves. Beneath him, the train’s wheels rolled along the rails. His body remembered other rhythms.

***************

“I am sorry for the inconvenience,” the steward said as Illya ducked under the scaffolding surrounding the front door to follow him into the chateau. “We didn’t expect any guests for a few more months," he added, gesturing at the scaffolding blocking the main staircase. "So the only way to your suite is through the kitchen and up the servants’ stairs.”

Illya cast his eyes around the high cold room and imagined there were more than two ways to move around the old stone building.

“Pardonnez-moi, M Perrault, Monsieur,” a short, brisk man said, interrupting their passage through the kitchen. He nodded briefly at Illya before continuing. “Where shall we serve dinner, sir?” Illya inhaled deeply. The warm air surrounding them promised gustatory pleasures to come.

Perrault turned to Illya, noting his smile of appreciation. “The dining room is unavailable, I regret to say. Your suite adjoins the music room. You could dine there or in your sitting room, as you prefer.”

“The music room will be fine. Merci,” Illya replied, choosing it, sight unseen.

Perrault nodded solemnly and the other man seemed pleased.


“M Leclef wasn’t able to give us much notice, sir,” Perrault remarked, leading Illya through the sitting room, to the boudoir and on to the bathroom. “There are balconies off both these rooms and the music room, but they aren’t much use this time of year,” he continued, returning to the bedroom and flicking one heavy, blue drape briefly open and then shut again. The draught made the flames in the fireplace flicker. “The central heating should have been working by now, but the installation of the new furnace has been delayed twice. Hopefully, we will have it before the end of the month. At least we were able to get the small water heater reconnected,” Perrault said moving to a large mirror on the wall opposite the balcony doors. “This is the entrance to the music room.” He grasped a knot of wooden flowers on the frame of the mirror and opened the wall panel partway and then re-closed it. “The main entrance is further down the corridor which is, as you saw…” He shrugged his shoulders in conclusion. Only a small section of the hallway next to the backstairs landing had been clear of ladders and tarpaulins. “And this is more private. Mme Agincourt preferred it,” he concluded quietly.

“Anton’s mother?” Illya asked, thinking it unlikely he would get much information in response.

“His grandmother, sir,” Perrault replied. “Shall I send you Mansart to help you unpack, draw a bath?”

“No, need. Merci,” Illya said, reaching inside his jacket. Perrault turned towards the door. “I have a letter for you,” Illya explained, holding out a thick envelope.

“Thank you, sir. Mansart will bring dinner in a half hour,” Perrault said, turning back to accept the envelope.

Illya undressed and brought his suitcase into the bathroom before locking the door and allowing himself to relax in the bath. His rooms were clear and it appeared that the case had not been tampered with while he met with Leclef and then Genet and Brecht at the factory or else it had been tampered with most expertly. Illya doubted it could be done without his being able to detect it. He eased himself into the hot water. The cast iron bathtub was narrow and deep. He let himself sink down until the water was up to his chin and closed his eyes. All three of the men had agreed the design was functional, clever even. They had nodded their heads as they poured over the blueprint. Essentially, they had all said, “Let’s see,” but Illya observed their excitement as they tapped the outlines of the original components, recognised one old part after another that they had not seen in years.


Illya was knotting his robe as the rap on the door sounded. When he opened it, Perrault stood at attention, a package under his arm. The servant from the kitchen stood behind him carrying a tray heavy with china, silver and crystal. Illya stood back for them to enter. Perrault indicated the music room with a slight inclination of his head and the man headed across the room, setting the tray down on a bureau in order to open the panel. When he had passed through and closed the panel quietly behind him, Perrault held the package out to Illya.

“I am instructed to deliver this to you,” Perrault said.

Illya accepted the package, read the address. “It is for M Agincourt,” he observed.

“Yes, it arrived several weeks ago. M Agincourt wrote, in the letter you gave me, that the contents are for you, sir,” Perrault replied.

“Merci,” Illya replied and waited as Perrault was clearly not yet done with his mission.

“I am instructed to give you a tour of the house and grounds as soon as is convenient for you, sir,” Perrault continued.

“How long do you estimate that will take?” Illya asked.

“Longer now, of course, because of all the construction, and depending on how much history you would like as we proceed, but an hour and a half or two for the house and another two for the grounds and out-buildings.”

“I have a meeting at the factory at four,” Illya said.

“Yes, the car is prepared to leave at three-thirty,” Perrault said.

“So, in the morning, after breakfast,” Illya replied.

Mansart returned quietly from the music room. “Would you like to check if you need anything else for dinner, sir? I took the liberty of selecting the wines,” Perrault enquired.

“Thank you, no,” Illya answered.

Perrault smiled faintly. “Breakfast at eight, sir?”

“Parfait,” Illya responded and kept himself from smiling in return at the precision of the arrangements.

“Bon appetit, monsieur,” Perrault concluded and withdrew. Mansart nodded to Illya and followed. Illya waited until he heard their steps on the stairs, then turned the key in the lock on the door.

His mood changed with the clicks. There was no tinniness to them, no resonance from hollow wood. The door had a veneer on both sides, of olive or lemonwood Illya thought, its panels carved with leaves and berries and thorns, a newer addition, only a couple centuries old. Illya drew the skeleton key from the keyhole and let the brass disc swing into place over it, keeping out draughts and prying eyes. The key had far more notches that even a front door key, and the door itself, beneath the decorative veneer, was thick and solid. Mahogony Illya had guessed when he’d inspected the edge of the door earlier. The bore for the bolt went deep into the wood. More the door to a strong room or a safe haven than a boudoir, Illya concluded. He smiled in admiration and pocketed the key.

************

Illya pushed his chair back from the small table on which Mansart had set out his dinner. It was not only the fine wine accompanying the meal which produced the feeling of drowsiness. He closed his eyes, listening to the embers falling through the grate. He stretched his legs out under the table and leaned his head against the high back of the chair. On his tongue, the taste of cheese was predominant, the last of a parade of flavours, arranged to complement one another. He hadn’t touched the dessert; he wanted to save it, to savour the bouquet of other tastes in his mouth.

A log broke. The flare of light played over the backs of his eyelids and dyed away. Illya bestirred himself. The fire would need more wood. He opened his eyes and reached for his wine first, upended the glass and poured the rest of the red wine into it. There was another bottle on the table, its cork wedged into the neck. A pale wine, for the dessert.

Illya loosened the tie of his robe and sighed. He hadn’t seen the cook when he walked through the kitchen with Perrault, only Mansart. Illya wondered whether the meals were always like this or if there had been something in the tone of the letter he had delivered to Perrault which had affected the level of service. Anton had shown Illya the letters before he’d sealed them into their envelopes and he had noted the very formal phrasing in the one to the steward.

The flames were low, the chill from the outside wall was encroaching on the warm circle by the hearth despite the drapes being drawn. Illya had inspected, then reclosed the shutters over the glass balcony doors before he sat down to eat. They were nearly as thick as the doors to the corridor. They had been painted a light hue, the pockets at the side of the casements not large enough to accommodate the additional thickness of veneer. The wood had scars on the outside which the paint didn’t hide. Illya had run his fingers over them, making guesses as to which weapons had caused them. They hinted at many stories. Old ones. The fittings on the shutters were thick with iron brackets for bars to be lowered across them. Illya hadn’t found the niche where they were stored yet, but he thought they would still be in the rooms somewhere, too comforting to discard.

He put more wood on the fire. Leaning against the mantle piece, Illya sipped the last of the red wine and studied the room to see if he could identify where the other exit might be.

**************

It was dark when Illya left the factory on Tuesday. Brecht and Genet had gathered the parts in stock and made significant progress in identifying those they had the machinery or moulds on hand to make. Several machines would need to be taken out of storage and serviced. They were waiting for a reply from the smaller factory in north London which had stores of parts and a number of older model machines transferred from Birmingham decades before. They decided Genet should start work on one component which would certainly need to be handcrafted and make it out of a high carbon steel and platinum alloy. Illya wanted to bring the part with him when he met with Austen next. He thought the rareness of the platinum might attract Austen despite the cost of the alloy. Brecht estimated that they would have recommendations for materials for the two models ready by the end of the week. Once decisions were made, Leclef thought costings could be prepared in a day or two. It had been a satisfying meeting.

**************

There were no lights on in the chateau when the car pulled up. The headlamps revealed Perrault waiting at the front door.

“The electricity is out, sir,” he said when Illya came up the steps. “The electricians didn’t finish the rewiring before they left.” Illya nodded, accepted the torch Perrault handed him. Illya followed Perrault through the hall to the kitchen, the way unfamiliar again in the dark. “Mansart will bring your dinner in a half hour, sir. Fortunately, the hot water heater is not electric,” he added as he opened the door to the bedroom and set about lighting several candles and resettling their glass chimneys over the flames.

Illya slipped off his overcoat, jacket and shoes and headed for the bathroom. “Matches are next to the basin, sir,” Perrault called before Illya shut the door. Illya had already spotted them.


Mansart was coming in from the music room when Illya emerged from the bathroom. “Your dinner is served, sir,” he said. “What time would you like breakfast tomorrow?”

“Nine will be fine,” Illya answered.

Mansart nodded once and was out the door. Illya locked it after him and dropped the key in the pocket of his robe. Perhaps tonight he would stay awake long enough to find the other exit.

*************

The air was chilled. Illya burrowed further under the covers.

The mattress dipped. An arm curved around his waist; warmth spread along his back as Anton moved closer, the underside of his chin brushing the crown of Illya’s head. Their bodies relaxed in a familiar configuration. Sleep tugged at Illya, but the urge to push back was stronger. He could feel Anton responding. Illya rubbed his face against the pillow, smiling. Anton leaned over and kissed his neck, let Illya roll onto his back and continued kissing down his chest. Illya’s body lost interest in rest. His hands moved over Anton’s shoulders. The rigours of Survival School had defined the muscles, made the broad shoulders broader. Illya dug his fingers into them and raised his knee.

“Impatient,” Anton chided and kissed lower, shifting his weight onto one hand to grab behind Illya’s knee with the other. “Wouldn’t want to keep you waiting,” he teased, sitting back on his heels. Illya heard him licking his fingers and angled his hips upwards.

His ear was sore. The lips nuzzling his earlobe nudged against the earring. Conflicting sensations twined together. “Be careful what you‘re doing,” Illya whispered.

“Always,” Napoleon murmured. The voice ran along Illya’s nerves in strange directions.

From behind, Anton pushed farther, his arm holding Illya fast against him. The sensations rippled outwards at each stroke, overlapping, overwhelming. Illya leaned back against Anton‘s chest, filled and aching, wanting even more.

Napoleon nipped lightly at Illya’s earlobe, tracing the back of the earring with the tip of his tongue. His knee parted Illya’s thighs, slid upwards until it pressed against his groin.

Anton thrust again and Illya tightened like a bowstring.


There was a rap at the door. Illya swatted at the air, throwing the blankets back. The room was cold. There was another knock. Illya sat up and shivered. “J‘arrive,” he called, sliding out of the bed and grabbing his robe.

“Breakfast, sir,” came the muffled response from the other side of the door. Illya tied the robe’s belt strategically and unlocked the door.

**************

Illya told Mansart he wouldn’t need the car on Wednesday. There was material to memorise before his next meeting with Austen in London and a role he needed to play as a privileged member of the Agincourt household for whoever might be watching. Illya glanced out the balcony doors at the clear November sky. A stroll through the grounds in the afternoon might do for the latter, but first an exploration of the passage behind the other exit he had finally located the previous evening was in order.


The bookcase creaked when Illya swung it back into place. He made a mental note to use gun oil on it. He had taken his shoes off before he stepped into the music room and set the torch on the mantel piece. The mirror above the fireplace reflected a smudged face and cobwebs clinging to his hair. A quick bath before Mansart brought lunch would be necessary, he decided.


It was warmer outside than in, Illya noted as he left the house after lunch. Much warmer than it had been in the passageways except behind the fireplaces in the music room and the kitchen. Wars and revolutions make for interesting architecture.

The clipped evergreens retained a pleasing symmetry around the statuary and the dry fountains in the formal gardens. Autumn flowers still bloomed in the urns and some of the flower beds, others lay empty, their soil churned and dark. Illya meandered along the geometric pathways towards the small vineyard and beyond through the stubbles of the wheat fields to the old mill. It was where the longest passage he had followed let out, the sound of rushing water identifying it. Perrault had proudly pointed to the mill wheel from the edge of the vineyard the day before, explaining that the bread for the chateau was made with flour ground there from wheat grown in the chateau’s fields, the excess being sold in the local market.

The stone mill was picturesque, its machinery silent as it lifted and poured the water of the stream. Illya considered picking the lock to the building, but decided against it. The harvested fields made him visible from a considerable distance. He settled for a visual examination. The lock was set in the door, old but unrusted. If he left via that route, he would probably be able to pick it from the inside. He walked up the slope and peered in the low window at the nearly empty room, a pile of cloth sacks on a long wooden counter and two stools being all there was in terms of furnishings. The passageway probably came out beneath the room. He could see the recessed iron ring for a trap door in the floor. If the mill door couldn‘t be unlocked, the window could serve as an exit into the fields.

There was a bench built into the outside wall of the mill, next to the window. Originally meant for those waiting for their grain to be milled, it was now likely only a place where those taking a walk down to the stream could rest. In the music room, there was a picture of two very young children perched on it. Illya sat and looked up the hill to the chateau. Clouds were rolling in from the east, hastening the early twilight. No electric lights showed in the windows of the house; perhaps the electricians hadn’t yet installed the circuit breakers. In the photograph, it had been a bright summer day. The little girl’s curls had caught the sunlight as she turned to plant a kiss on her cousin’s cheek. Anton had looked sideways at whoever was taking the photograph, his dark hair falling over his forehead, a shy smile on his tanned face. Despite the age difference, Illya had been sure who the children were, had recognised the girl’s smile from the photo in Anton’s file. There were dozens of framed photos in the rooms. Most of them of dead people.

A wind was picking up, rustling the sere leaves in the vineyard. Illya stood, pulled his coat around him and headed back to the chateau.

***************

Reading by candlelight, even by the three large ones burning in the tall candelabra positioned behind his chair, was hard on the eyes. Illya took off his glasses and pinched his nose. He set the stack of notes he’d been studying on the table next to the dagger and the remains of the package Perrault had given him. The chunk of amber set in the weapon’s hilt glowed in the firelight. Illya picked up the knife, balanced it on the palm of his hand. It was out of its sheath and quivering deep in the wood of the closed shutters an instant later.

Illya retrieved the dagger and walked back to the chair, stood beside it and aimed. He had to tug hard to extract the blade this time. He turned the knife in his hand as he strode across the room, positioned himself in the doorway to the boudoir and threw.

He opened the shutter, felt along the outside of the wood. A tiny pucker in the paint told him where the tip of the knife was. The flicker of the flames made the wings of the wasp caught in the amber seem to flutter. Illya grasped the hilt, pushed down and up several times. The gash in the wood was wide by the time the blade was free. Illya ran his fingertips over the new scar in the old wood; it was deep, but it was only one more.


***************

Illya was seated at the table in the hotel dining room looking out over Hyde Park when Austen came back from using the telephone. Illya had overheard a few words of Austen’s conversation as he passed the cloakroom on the way in. The urgent tone of his questions had conveyed more than the words.

Austen stopped a step away from the table. “I thought you were still in France,” he mumbled.

“Then why are you here?” Illya asked.

A waiter appeared to pull out a chair for Austen. He sat without taking his eyes off Illya.

“The wine list, please,” Illya said and the waiter disappeared. “Yes?” he asked, returning his attention to Austen.

“We had an appointment,” Austen replied after a slight hesitation.

“Which is why I’m not in France,” Illya said, pleased that his departure via the old mill had gone unreported. He had hoped the watcher wasn’t among the house staff. Illya took the wine list from the waiter and handed it to Austen. “Something celebratory, I think.” Austen blinked and took the list.

***************

The conclusion should be coming soon.