Quelle Belle Vie Affair (Teaser)
By Vicky L
Note: This excerpt is PG, but the rest of the story contains hetersexual sex, light bondage and reference to off-camera torture, and is not suitable for children. I personally rate it a mild "R."
Please keep this in mind before requesting the full story from vladeckk@gmail.com
It was a big house in the Garden District. Not the biggest, and not the best address, but big enough and good enough to command respect. There were plenty of bedrooms, dining rooms, libraries, and billiard rooms, and a music conservatory that had been featured in the Sunday section of the Times-Picayune. In front, a two-story sweep of windows overlooked an even grander sweep of lawn; in back, a garden threaded its way up the trunks of magnolia trees and flowered back down onto neoclassical balconies and patios.
There were servants quarters that dated to a time when the word did not mean hired help, paintings chosen for just the right combination of collectibility and color scheme, and furniture from three centuries mixed together in the style commonly referred to as “more money than sense.”
There were a lot of places to hear things, and there were a lot of things to be heard.
Holly Doucet climbed onto the back of her favorite leather armchair, grabbed the edge of the built-in bookcase behind it, and pushed herself up and over the top. Pressed down flat behind the three-inch molding, she could listen to the voices coming out of the air conditioning vent with almost no danger of being spotted from below.
“That girl’s been in my office, Tom.” Uncle Walter’s voice had an edge to it. The one that said twelve-year old girls should be neither seen nor heard. The one that made Aunt Patrice’s face turn gray.
Her Daddy’s voice came out like butter. “Don’t be foolish, Walter. Holly’s got no reason to mess around up there. It was probably just mixed up from that ol’ U.N.C.L.E. agent, and he isn’t gonna bother anybody any more.”
“Maybe. But you keep her downstairs, you hear? You know the rule. No gators, no wives, no kids.” No Negroes, no Catholics, no Jews. But those things didn’t need to be said.
“Sure, Walter….” Her Daddy changed the subject, as he always did when Holly’s name came onto Walter’s lips. Like the way he sometimes stepped in front of her to keep Walter’s eyes away. She felt a little spurt of pride mixed with guilt, because she had been spying, just a tiny bit. And once you started spying it was hard to stop. She sat upright on the bookcase and put her ear against the vent.
Her Daddy was still talking. “—I told you blowing up that office last year was risky, even if it was a cute way to fudge the body count. Now they’re down here again, like the stink on ugly.” There was a pause and a rattle of ice cubes. Holly bit down on the knuckles of her hand. “Not that I mind cutting those nosy parkers up for you, but sooner or later they’ll get smart and send a crew that’s too hot to handle. In the end, there’s more of them than there is of us.”
Walter laughed, making a sound like a hyena. “Only when they buddy up, Tommy boy, and that they never do. Those gu’mint agencies will chase each others’ tails round the bush to kingdom come. Anyhow, I keep telling you, three more weeks and this will all be behind us. I just firmed up the schedule with Central. After that, this two-bit little satrapy’s gonna be chicken feed to us.”
“Well, that is good news, though I’ll miss New Orlins in a way. It’s been a good fifteen years.” Their glasses clinked, then her Daddy’s voice came again. “Speaking of our project, if you’re about done with that colored boy, I thought maybe we could collect him and Patrice and head up to the lodge for some off the record fun tonight.”
“You got traps to check?”
“Naw, Big Ed already cleared ’em. He said we got a nice one, though, about three-foot long. I thought Patrice could do it up for that guy from Central when he comes.”
“You know three weeks is too soon. She could maybe give him the one she’s working on now. I think she’s painting that one. A nicely mounted gator could be just the thing. Why don’t you bring the van around ’bout 9:00. I’ll tell Patrice to quit the bar early and meet us at the warehouse.”
“It’s a date. But there’s still one matter I need to talk to you about.” Now her Daddy’s voice had that edge. Holly tasted blood, looked down at her knuckles and switched hands. “Holly’s been asking about Candy again, and I’m pretty sure Patrice put her up to it.”
Silence. Holly picked another knuckle.
“Well, hell. I guess we’ll have to have a talk with her at the lodge then. But you know I’ve said this before. You really ought to get rid of those pictures. It’s a foolish risk keeping them around.”
“Oh now, I think they’re safe. Safe as those precious records you’re saving up for Central. Anyhow, I like to take them out and look at them once in a while to remind me what a bitch she was, and how hard she died.”
“Served you right. Marrying the Queen of Twelfth Night, for Christ’s sake.” He did the scary laugh again. “Still, you did end up with the only debutante in town could ever hold her own tongue.”
“How’d a pitiful creature like that produce my blond little angel, I never will know.”
“You are kinda dark, Tommy. Could be she catted up the wrong tree.”
There was a crashing noise. Then something Holly couldn’t hear. “OK, OK. You know I didn’t mean it. Put that thing away. Go find the princess and we’ll take her to lunch at Arnaud’s in honor of our imminent success.”
Holly caught the sound of footsteps and a door as she vaulted off the bookcase and into the easy chair below. She brushed dust off her overalls and buried her nose in To Kill a Mockingbird.
“Well, there you are, honey.” Daddy caught her up in his arms. “Goodness, you’re as cold as ice. Where is that girl Ellen? Why didn’t she bring you a lap rug?” He set her down and held her at arm’s length. “You OK, honey? You don’t look so good.”
“I’m all right. Just cold from reading.” Holly straightened her feet on the carpet and hid her hands behind her back. “I think I’d like to lie down for a while.”
“Well, you do that, honey.” He kissed her head. “Uncle Walt and I are going out for lunch. You want anything from Arnaud’s?”
“No, thank you.”
“I’m gonna be out of town tonight, but you can have Charlie take you to that glamor film you’ve been wanting to see.”
“OK.”
Holly Doucet walked her father and her uncle to the door and watched them get into the Cadillac. Then she climbed slowly up the stairs to her room, sat down on the bed and cried her last three cries. Once for her father. Once for her mother. And once for herself.
Rain poured onto the neon-lit street, splashed across awnings, ran down gutters, puddled red, orange, and blue against the curb, and crowded into overflowing storm drains to be pumped out to the sea. Water cascaded over signs propped in the middle of the sidewalk, dripped down billboards promising “Live Tonight,” shoved tourists and the sound of jazz off the pavement and back into the dubious shelter of one clip joint after another along the glittering reach of Bourbon Street.
Napoleon Solo tugged his trench coat up and hat brim down and sloshed past rows of cigarette-lit doorways to where neon tubes gave way to strings of colored light, and signs were hand-drawn chalk on slate. His footsteps slowed before a glowing green alligator wagging its tail up, down, up, down.
A half-dozen middle-aged women had also chosen this spot to come to rest, huddled together under a sagging green and yellow canopy. They might have been waiting out the downpour, if they’d faced the other way. Instead, they jostled up one after another, peering through the open doorway, sipping booze out of waxed-paper cups.
Napoleon snagged on a heavily made-up redhead. “Pardon me,” he asked, “is this the Marais Celeste?” Even in French, “Heavenly Swamp” was an odd name for a bar.
“Sure is.” She jerked her chin toward an unlit sign and flashed a smile that pricked the hair on Napoleon’s arms. “Excuse me a minute, but it’s my turn to peek.” Her pink-gloved hand clutched his elbow for support as she pushed up on the toes of her pumps, peering over the brunette at the front of the pack.
“If you don’t mind my asking,” Napoleon retrieved his arm, “why don’t you go in?”
The redhead arched painted eyebrows. “Too cheap,” she admitted, echoing Napoleon’s sentiments. She pointed to a chalkboard sign propped under the alligator in the window.
No Carry-ins No Exceptions
“Beaupré will have our heads if we bring go-cups.” She waved her drink. “So we stay in the doorway.” She squeezed over a bit, offering Napoleon a chance to see inside.
The Marais Celeste had the appearance of a locals’ hangout, with a polished cypress bar stretching down the right and green plastic booths lined up on the left. There were about thirty customers, mostly female, mostly arrayed around a yellow baby grand where a pianist was dragging them laboriously through “I’m in the Mood for Love.” The ceiling was hung with Spanish moss, the walls mounted with dead animal heads. All the comforts of home.
Napoleon didn’t much like the prospect of having to shove his way in and out through the door. He offered the ladies a general smile. “Perhaps I could invite you all inside for a drink?”
He escorted them past the doorway, hefted coats and umbrellas into a cloakroom window, and led the way to the bar. Behind its gleaming surface, two identical, sharp-eyed women waited side-by-side beneath a pair of matching bobcats. The women had dark braids coiled tightly on their heads and white lace collars wrapped around their throats. Napoleon put their age somewhere between forty and seventy-five. Under their gaze, the street ladies froze like bunnies being tracked by snakes.
“Beaupré!” the redhead squeaked, attempting to hide her go-cup against an inadequate bosom.
Napoleon slid a twenty across the bar.
“Miss Beaupré?” He used his smile. “Would you please provide these ladies with a refill of…whatever it is they’re drinking?”
“Don’t got no wood alcohol—” one Miss Beaupré began.
“—but we can find some sloe gin I bet,” the other finished.
That sounded good to the redhead, who abandoned her game of hide the cup. “Gee, thanks—?”
“Napoleon,” he told her. “Solo.”
“Napoleon Solo.” She blew him a kiss and fell in line for the drink while Napoleon scanned the room. He didn’t find what he was looking for. The street ladies collected their replenished cups and giggled off to the piano. Napoleon sketched them a salute.
“Dis here be yours, cher.” Beaupré passed him a glass. He sipped it cautiously. Bourbon, thank heavens. Not bad.
“Thank you.” He leaned against the bar. “Tell me,” Napoleon glanced between them, “are you both Miss Beaupré?” He worked his smile again—the likable young rake. The sisters stared back—not fooled for an instant.
“Gauche,” said the one on his right.
“Droit,” said the one on his left.
“Nobody call us Beaupré but dem yats.” Meaning the born-and-bred locals.
Gauche gave him a speculative look. “Vous êtes un Acdienne?”
“Not Cajun,” Napoleon
answered in French, “but I’ve been down here many times.”
“Ah, Canadien.”
Napoleon winced; he wasn’t supposed to be so transparent. He took a ten-dollar bill out of his wallet. “I was wondering whether you’ve seen a man with a moustache tonight?”
Gauche slid the bill behind the bar. “No moustache, cher,” she told him.
“Hardly no man a-tall,” Droit added, “since we got dat beb piano player.”
“Nothing but ladies, cooing like doves—”
“—drinking like fish—”
“—and chantent comme les pigeons de mer.” They chuckled together.
Napoleon couldn’t agree. Seagulls sang better than this crowd.
“Merci.” He turned and scanned the room again. There were a few men in the bar, mostly neglected and sulking into their drinks. Definitely no moustache. One of the more sober looking walked casually to a side door at the end of the bar and disappeared.
“Avec
plaisir—”
“—cher.”
His eye was caught by a floor-to-ceiling terrarium built into the rear wall. Tiny green lights twinkled around an enormous sheet of plate glass holding back a jungle scene of twisted branches and vines. The overgrowth trailed down onto a brackish pond and artificial sandbank where a five-foot long alligator basked in the glow of an underpowered sun lamp.
Napoleon squinted. “Is that thing real?”
“King Bob—” Gauche told him.
“—Le Roi du Marais Celeste.”
Bob didn’t look like much of a king, but then, the Marais Celeste wasn’t much of a kingdom.
Napoleon lifted his glass to the Beauprés and walked his bourbon in the direction of the piano where a score of ladies jostled together, branding the yellow surface white with their drinks. A lengthy bench held the beb pianist, bracketed by a pair of beehived platinum blonds, both on the wrong side of forty, each with an arm around his waist.
The pianist sat very erect, picking out Peggy Lee’s “Fever” for a heart-faced soloist with blood-red fingernails.
Romeo loved Juliet, Juliet she felt the same
When he put his arms around her, he said Julie baby you’re my flame.
Thou givest fever, when we kisseth, fever with thy flaming youth
Fever, I’m afire, fever yea I burn forsooth.
Napoleon eyed the singer appreciatively. She had hazel eyes and rich black hair pulled up into a French twist. Her dress was a form-fitting red, lined with just a touch of gold along the low-cut bodice. Nice figure. The voice was pretty good, too. Napoleon considered the possibility of a duet. The women in the crowd were immune to her charms, however. They shifted and chattered in neglect. One of the Beehives got up to powder her nose, and Napoleon slid partway into her seat. He tossed a quarter into an overflowing jar.
“Buy yourself some lessons,” he suggested.
“Big tipper.”
Illya Kuryakin glanced in his direction and hit a wrong note. “This is harder than it looks.” He shifted to prop up the remaining Beehive, now molded, eyes closed, to his right shoulder.
What a lovely way to burn.
Heart-face finished setting herself on fire, and Illya shook out his hands. He eased his sleeping seatmate forward to rest against the treble keys.
“I’m surprised to see you,” he told Napoleon. “I thought this was Paul Matthews’ affair.”
Paul Matthews had done the New Orleans advance work. In typical Paul fashion, the Aussie had left a file that was less than half a page long—just long enough to hint that there was more than bayou décor contributing to the creepy atmosphere of the Marais Celeste.
Napoleon shrugged, reached out, and fingered a boogie-woogie bass line. The crowd at the piano began to break up. “Change of plans,” he told Illya. “Paul dropped off the face of the Earth last Wednesday. Or at least, off the face of a boat near Chicago.”
“Who dropped him? Them or us?”
Illya and Paul had a colorful history. On their first mission, Paul had accused Illya of being a Soviet traitor who murdered his partners and slept with his boss, and Illya had handed Paul over to the KGB to be shot. Illya’s remark was about par for the course.
Napoleon tsk-tsked. “Not so long ago, people said things like that about you.”
“They still do. Regularly.”
True enough. “I take it he hasn’t washed up here?”
“No.” Illya shook his head and stifled a cough. “And I’ve been waiting for nearly five days. I saw him last in October. He was wrapped in brown paper and tin foil and claimed to be an extra large Russet potato.”
Napoleon had heard about that party. “Well,” he looked at his fingers, “we can’t all be Jiminy Cricket.” He watched two men break away from their dates and disappear through the side door. It was beginning to look like a pattern.
“Rhett Butler,” Illya said icily. “And only because Miss Shea persuaded me to escort her as Scarlet O’Hara.”
Napoleon believed it. Alice Shea was Gordon Hutchinson’s secretary, and Hutch was CEA. When it came to persuasion, Alice had few equals.
Illya took up Napoleon’s bass line and played something that was probably a boogie, sticking to the bottom half of the keyboard. “What was Paul doing in Chicago, anyway? He is supposed to be an accordionist with the Cajun band that comes on at 10:30.”
“Presumably following a lead from down here. I was hoping you’d fill me in.”
Illya scowled. “I’m just the entertainment. Nobody tells me anything.”
“Well, keep your eyes peeled. And if someone offers you a ride north, turn ’em down.”
“Where would I be without you to think these things through for me.”
“Dead,” Napoleon reminded him. “Twice.”
That netted a glare. “It was once only. I had the first situation under control.”
Napoleon recalled an ugly scene in the desert and marveled at Illya’s definition of control. Still, there was no point in bickering. “OK, once,” he agreed. “No need to get all prickly about it.”
Red fingernails wrapped themselves around Illya’s eyes. “Nick, sugar, that was wonderful.” Heart-face put her mouth to Illya’s ear. “Play another one for me, honey.”
“Hello, Patrice,” Illya said glumly. “You’ll have to release your headlock, first, so I can stare at the keyboard.” She moved her hands to the collar of his turtleneck, running her fingers over the cloth, straightening it unnecessarily. Illya steadfastly ignored her.
“How do you do…Patrice?” Napoleon stood and took one of her hands in his. It was delicate and smelled of jasmine and—something else—paint thinner? “I’m Napoleon Solo, an old friend of Nick’s. You have a lovely voice.” His eyes said other parts were lovely, too.
The freshly powdered Beehive shoved onto the bench while Illya started something soft and unsingable. At the bar, the Beaupré twins handed out pairs of drinks and collected cash in unison. Not identical, Napoleon noticed. Mirror images—one right handed, one left.
Patrice scanned Napoleon up and down like a cat with a new dish of cream.
“How lovely to meet you, Mr. Solo.” Patrice’s voice spoke of the deep south. Mississippi, or Georgia, maybe? Definitely not the sharp local dialect. “I’m Patrice Doucet. Maybe you can convince Nick to comply with my wishes?” Her free hand slid possessively to Illya’s shoulder.
Napoleon did his best to look like cream. “I’m afraid he hardly ever listens to me. May I buy you a drink instead?” He gazed at his reflection in her eyes. “And please, call me Napoleon.”
“Why, aren’t you a darling.” She removed the hand Napoleon was holding and touched the fingernails to Illya’s cheek. “Yes, please. But I must warn you, my heart belongs to Nick.”
Illya kept his eyes on the piano. “I thought it belonged to your husband.”
Patrice smiled. “Why, that’s funny, so does he!” She let Napoleon lead her away while Illya struck up “Que Sera Sera.” Ladies around the room gaped their mouths open and swam in his direction.
Napoleon picked up a Sazerac—and a look of derision—from the Beaupré sisters. He led Patrice to a booth with a view of the side door just as another man ducked through.
“So.” He tried a seductive smile. “What’s a nice girl like you doing in a place like this?”
She sipped the drink and held it next to her cheek: red fingernails, white skin, red lips, framed against black hair. Her perfume was an alluringly unsubtle musk. There was something a little feral about her, overall. But no harm there. Napoleon had a wild streak of his own.
Patrice’s eyes glinted green and gold. “My brother, Tommy, owns this bar, and I’m the manager.” She leaned back invitingly and waved at the room. “What do you think of our décor?”
Napoleon dragged his eyes from her cleavage to the heads on the walls. “You have a good eye for trophies.”
He expected a riposte, but Patrice only nodded. “It’s all my work, even the taxidermy. We’re in a lot of travel guides.”
Napoleon offered her a cigarette. “Doucet’s a Creole name, isn’t it?” He lit hers and took one for himself. “How do you come to be running a Cajun bar?” From what he knew, the French Creole were hardly buddies with their bayou cousins.
“Oh, the Cajun bit’s just for tourists, and it’s an excuse for Tom to keep his baby.” She sucked in smoke and blew in the direction of King Bob. “Anyway, it hardly matters nowadays; French has been outlawed in school for decades. People who count speak English and live in the Garden District.”
Napoleon wondered what Gauche and Droit would make of that. He suspected they didn’t live in the Garden District, and thus wouldn’t count. “There are some lovely old mansions in that part of town.”
Patrice rolled her eyes. “Yes, but darling, you wouldn’t believe the upkeep in this climate. We have to repaint every year, and the gardener works almost full time just trimming the weeds.” She leaned forward, tapping her cigarette on a snapping-turtle ashtray. “For two cents, I’d chuck the whole thing and return to Jackson, but Walter and Tommy won’t hear of it.” Her chest rippled in an elaborate sigh. “You know how it is—men and business.”
Napoleon knew.
A broad black hat appeared alongside the table about four and a half feet off the ground.
“Good evening, Patrice. Father’s asking for you.”
Under the hat was a very erect, very blond little girl, wearing a sleeveless black cocktail dress with long gloves and a six-strand pearl necklace. Napoleon recognized the look. “Breakfast at Tiffany’s” was the height of fashion right now in every New York restaurant.
“May I ask you to present me to your gentleman friend?” She turned bright blue eyes toward Napoleon. “Or shall I introduce myself?”
One of her black-gloved hands held a shot glass of bourbon. She offered Napoleon the other, along with a mischievous smile. She looked about ten.
“Napoleon Solo.” He put her glove to his lips. “Do I have the honor of addressing Miss Audrey Hepburn?”
“This is Holly Doucet,” Patrice said sourly. Side-by-side, Napoleon could see a resemblance, Patrice’s heart-shaped face echoed in Holly’s elfin one.
“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Solo.” Holly did a curtsey that had cost someone a bundle in ballet lessons. “I hear you’re a friend of Nick’s.”
“That’s right,” Napoleon agreed. That news had traveled remarkably fast.
Holly beamed at him. “Then we have something in common already.” She turned toward Patrice. “Daddy’s quite livid. He’s having trouble with the chickens.”
Patrice smoothed her face into a smile. “All right, darling.” She watched Napoleon out of the corner of her eye. “I think you’d better have Charlie drive you home. Don’t you have studying to do?”
“Mais oui.” Holly smiled innocently. “I’m waiting for Nick to help me with my French.” She didn’t seem to expect Patrice to approve.
Patrice didn’t; she frowned. “Grown men don’t like to play school with little girls.”
“Don’t they?” Holly cocked her head. “We’re meeting after he’s done at the piano. What game shall I suggest instead?” She glanced at a tiny gold watch. “Do you want me to tell Daddy you’re busy?”
“No thanks.” Patrice slid out of the booth, stepped around Holly, and draped an arm across Napoleon’s shoulders, providing an intimate view of her bodice. She squeezed him a little. “Another time, perhaps?”
Napoleon admired the scenery and resisted the temptation to squeeze back. “At your service.” He watched her go, amused in spite of himself.
Holly climbed into Patrice’s spot and studied Napoleon without speaking.
Napoleon put out his cigarette. “I, ah, got the impression French was outlawed in the schools.”
Holly took a sip from her shot glass of bourbon. “Only in public schools, Mr. Solo, and only if your parents speak it at home. At the Louise McGehee school for over-privileged girls it’s de rigueur.” She couldn’t possibly be ten, Napoleon thought. Maybe an undersized twelve?
“Is Patrice your mother?”
Holly’s eyebrows went up. “My mother died two years ago, when I was ten. Patrice is my father’s sister by birth and his cousin by marriage. I think that’s enough burden of kinship between any adult and child, don’t you?”
A little more than kin and less than kind.
Holly was watching him closely. “Are you truly a friend of Nick’s?”
“Uh huh.” At least as much as anyone. He had the oddest feeling she was weighing his character and he fought the temptation to sit up and straighten his tie.
“Do you find Patrice attractive?”
Now there was a loaded question. “Yes, very,” Napoleon said seriously. “But it’s been a long time since I let my eyes make up my mind.”
Holly’s lips curved up in a smile. She started to speak, then stopped herself, still cautious. She was probably a gold mine of information about this place, but Napoleon couldn’t bring himself to press her. He sipped his bourbon instead and wondered what sort of life she led in the shadow of Marais Celeste. There was a slightly brittle quality about her. In a grown woman he’d have called it desperation, but in a child it was hard to say. Maybe it was just part of the movie star act.
Holly checked her watch, stood up, and touched a black-gloved finger to his wrist.
“In that case, I hope your heart will tell you to be very careful.”
It did indeed. Napoleon left his glass at the bar, collected his trench coat, and walked into the rain. Outside, he read the note Illya had slipped him: “10:30, Kate’s.” There was a bar by that name a couple of blocks up Bourbon Street. Napoleon had half an hour to kill.
He turned to examine the tail-wagging neon alligator. It didn’t took like a Thrush agent, but there were plenty inside who did. Napoleon read the chalkboard sign again:
Live Tonight
Nick Curry - From Russia With Love
No Carry-ins No Exceptions.
He wondered if Illya knew he had Paul Matthews to thank for his cover.
Kate’s was a more traditional Bourbon street bar. The neon was bright, the lights low, and the girls serving drinks couldn’t have mustered one legal outfit between them. Napoleon dodged a couple of expensive propositions and sat in a dimly-lit corner to nurse a whisky and listen to the band. The singer was an elegant, dark-haired lady with a rich contralto that drifted through the room like smoke and called to Napoleon like nicotine. He wished he could close his eyes and drift along with her.
Illya materialized on schedule, holding a triple-decker sandwich and a glass of orange juice.
“I came through the rear entrance,” he answered Napoleon’s look. “Kate is my landlady. She’s on retainer to Section Three, so the place is reasonably secure.” That was news to Napoleon. He wondered what other bits of information he’d missed when he picked up this case.
Illya settled into the chair on Napoleon’s left, extracted a frilly toothpick, and started to eat, somehow managing to make neat work of the enormous pile of meat, cheese and bread.
Napoleon cocked an eyebrow. “Don’t they feed you back there?”
“I’m sure if you were thinking things through, you would advise me not to eat in a Thrush satrapy.” He watched the waitresses as they moved among tables, flirting outrageously with the customers.
“I like this bar,” Illya said. “It is refreshing to watch the patrons fondle somebody else for a change.”
Napoleon chuckled. “You’ve attracted some dedicated fans.”
“I have never been handled so much in my life.” Illya coughed and shook his head. “I’m reduced to wearing an ankle holster—so don’t expect fancy shooting.” The scaled-down gun that fit an ankle holster was no match for a Walther P.38.
Napoleon clucked at Illya’s pitiful look. “It’s the novelty. They don’t get many blond Russian pianists in this neck of the woods.”
“Well, it has to be something.” Illya nodded at the band. “They certainly aren’t interested in my technique.” No doubt about it. The music here was better than at Marais Celeste.
Illya finished the first half of his sandwich, ate a pickle, and started in on the second half.
“So,” Napoleon asked casually, “how was Tibet?” Illya hesitated an instant and then carried on eating. For a moment, Napoleon thought he wouldn’t answer.
“Cold. I nearly lost a hand.” The backs of his fingers were still raw. “But on the bright side, everyone survived. Tell me, do you read all the files, or am I specially blessed?”
“My lofty position in the department carries with it certain responsibilities. Hutch had me book your flight home.”
Illya lifted his eyebrows. “Whatever for?”
“Beats me.” Though he suspected he’d been appointed Soviet babysitter pro temps. “Maybe Alice told him to take a hike. He’s been working her pretty hard.” Napoleon imagined the little redhead telling off their CEA and suppressed a grin. She might actually do it someday.
“If she did,” Illya smiled, “I am sorry I was not there to see it.”
“He also had me close out your file.” Illya’s expression turned wary. “You seem to have neglected to get medical clearance.”
“I arrived Tuesday and left Wednesday. There wasn’t time.”
Napoleon let that hang while Illya coughed again.
He shifted forward in his chair. “Illya.” Napoleon pinned him with his gaze. “Dance around Hutch and the medicos all you like. I applaud your dedication to duty. But my life depends on knowing how fit you are.”
Illya thought about it, sipping his juice. “Some frostbite,” he conceded, “and a mild case of bronchitis. Dr. Nguyen gave me antibiotics for it. I’m fine outdoors, but bar smoke makes me cough.”
“Thank you.”
“It was mostly lack of time,” he added morosely. “It’s been years since I played piano. Prior to Wednesday, my repertoire consisted of Bach, Chopin, ‘Lillie Marlene,’ and ‘It’s a Long Way to Tipparary.’”
“I see you’ve branched out.”
“I’ve been trading French lessons to Holly Doucet in exchange for advice on popular music.” He sighed. “They had to send me, Napoleon, sick or not. The way Paul arranged things, no one else fit the description.”
“He certainly set you up.”
“Yes, he did. Pity I never got a chance to thank him. Do you suppose he’s really dead?”
Napoleon was trying not to suppose. Oversized and under-restrained, Matthews had spent four years at U.N.C.L.E. just begging to be throttled. It was amazing he’d lasted this long.
“No corpse.” Napoleon shrugged. “But I believe they found a six-foot two-inch hole in Lake Michigan. Someone from Section Three is running it down.”
“Drowning is really too good for him.” Illya thought a minute. “I suppose,” he said slowly, “if you sent me back on medical grounds, I could detour north and help look.” That was as close as Illya would get to admitting he was worried.
Napoleon couldn’t do it. “I need you here.”
They stopped and listened while the singer wove a melancholy story. Napoleon closed his ears to the words and enjoyed her clear, sweet tones. It didn’t matter what tale of woe she told; there were plenty to go around.
“Tell me about your Heavenly Swamp,” he said at last. “I got the impression it’s not a nice place to visit and you definitely wouldn’t want to live there.”
Illya shook off his gloom. “It’s what we used to call a widow’s bar,” he said. “Couples come in. The ladies stay downstairs to drink. The gentlemen go upstairs to gamble and sleep with whores.”
“Or hatch plots for world domination.”
Illya nodded. “You met the lovely Patrice.” His voice was sarcastic. “She manages the business. Her husband, Walter Doucet, has a small mention in our files and makes an appearance at least once every night. Her brother, Tom Doucet, owns the bar and may or may not be Thrush. I’ve never seen him do anything but throw live chickens to the alligator.”
“Are you serious?”
“Oh yes.” Illya did his impassive Russian face. “At 10:15, before the Cajun band comes on. They have a surge of tourists at that time.”
“Charming.” Napoleon paused. “I had an intriguing chat with Holly Doucet. Is she always like that? Twelve going on twenty?”
“For the most part. She’s rather well educated for an American. I gather her mother was an actress, and encouraged her to read classics. She spends afternoons by the piano, quoting Greek tragedy.”
“Maybe she wants you to become well educated for a Russian.” Illya didn’t seem to think that was funny. “She’s genuinely fond of you. Your name came up early and often.”
“I’m a bit worried, actually. Holly’s undertaken some sort of vendetta against her family and assigned to me the role of mysterious foreign spy—you, by the way, are now my dashing assistant. I’ve ignored her hints, but if Marais Celeste is involved with Thrush, the situation could become complicated.”
It could indeed. Napoleon sipped whiskey and continued down his list. “What about the Mademoiselles Beauprés? I liked them.”
Illya’s expression turned sour. “They are beyond my estimation,” he admitted. “But their story makes alligator feeding sound tame. Patrice claims they are Siamese twins whose father chopped them apart when they were four years old.”
Napoleon winced, remembering their left and right handedness. “That makes a kind of sense. Do you think they’re Thrush?”
“I cannot tell you, Napoleon. I made the mistake of speaking French, and they didn’t care for my accent. They called me a Parisian whore.” He shrugged. “We haven’t exchanged two words since.”
Apparently Napoleon’s accent was more to their liking. “Perhaps you’ve grown on them,” he chuckled. “They called you a doll.” Or perhaps they didn’t buy Illya’s cover and wanted to keep him at a distance. For that matter, it was hard to imagine anyone buying Illya’s cover, except maybe the besotted Patrice.
A graceful lady with olive skin, high cheekbones, huge dark eyes, and short black hair approached their table—the singer from the band. She wore a shimmering gold gown and held a steaming cup and saucer in one elegant hand.
“Good evening, gentlemen.” Her voice was honey-sweetened wine. She placed the cup in front of Illya. “I’ve brought your tea.” Now there was a bosom that would be equal to any concealment. Napoleon tried not to stare.
“Thank you.” Illya glanced up by way of introduction. “Kate—Napoleon, Napoleon—Kate.”
Napoleon stood and offered his hand, feeling the warmth of her touch spread up toward his heart. “Enchenté.”
Kate pushed him gently into his seat and took the chair on his right. “In New Orleans,” her smile was the envy of angels, “a white man does not stand up for a lady of color.” She gave Napoleon an appreciative look. “Though he may lay down for her, if it’s very, very private.”
Napoleon felt the heat reach his smile. “Then I can at least half approve of your customs.” Her chuckle was better than a dozen one-night stands.
“Kate,” Illya cut in, “has been treating my cough with tea brewed from hemlock.”
She tsk-tsked and patted his arm. “From ginseng and licorice.”
“It is somewhat effective.” He switched to Russian. “But it tastes like dung. She is Paul’s girlfriend, by the way.”
Napoleon was surprised by a heavy wave of regret. He changed it into a flood of relief. Better to leave this one alone while there was still enough blood left in his brain for straight thinking.
Kate frowned suspiciously at Illya. “I’m sure you’ll want to thank the chef,” she said. “Drink up and go on in the kitchen.” She lowered her voice. “There’s a man with a moustache asking for you.”
Illya finished his tea as Kate moved off to chat at another table. “Tell me,” he asked sharply, “do you pursue every female who crosses your path?”
“Not at all.” Napoleon watched their hostess with a wistful smile. “Only the very special ones.”
They rose together and headed for the kitchen.
Moustache was a heavy, florid man somewhat past his middle years, pale now and squirming anxiously in the light of a single yellow bulb.
“Did you bring the money?” He was waiting in the small private kitchen that had stairs leading up to Kate’s apartments. It was a cheerful, slightly shabby place with white metal cabinets and a red arts déco table surrounded by four sturdy chrome chairs. Illya made a circuit of the room, lowered the window shade, and leaned against the cast iron sink, arms crossed, missing his shoulder holster. He needed to be more careful to change after working at Marais Celeste.
Napoleon and Moustache sat down in the chairs.
“I brought the money.” Napoleon dangled a white envelope like a fat worm on a hook. “But….” He laid the bait down, sliding it back across the marbled red surface as Moustache’s hand darted forward. “…I need the story first.”
The man licked his lips. “I already told that big guy, Matthews.”
“Again, please.” Illya’s voice was firm.
“I work for LaSalle’s.” Moustache’s eyes tracked Napoleon’s hand. “It’s a placement service for apprentice chefs.” He rubbed his jaw while the wall clock ticked away seconds. Illya added sixty of them to the five days he’d spent waiting for information. After that, he was ready for answers.
“You assist those who wish to learn the New Orleans technique of cooking with too much grease?”
Moustache glanced up nervously, missing Napoleon’s frown. “Nearly three months ago a man brought a list of candidates for us to place. Young men with dubious credentials.”
He paused, massaging his jaw once again. Illya started to speak, caught a dry glance from Napoleon, and shrugged. By all means, try it your way.
Napoleon's way was all sympathy. “So naturally,” he smiled, “you refused.”
Moustache appeared shocked at the suggestion. “Of course not. I raised our fee.”
“I see…. And you placed the apprentice chefs?”
“Fifteen of them, in the best restaurants in town, on three month internships. After that, they can get jobs at fine restaurants anywhere in the world.” He twitched in the direction of the money. “But a little while ago, my boss found out, and something terrible happened to him.”
“Dead?”
“No.” Moustache shook his head. “He changed his mind.”
Napoleon’s smile stiffened a bit. Perhaps it had finally dawned on him that this might all be a practical joke. If so, Illya did not envy Paul.
Moustache took the icy look personally. “You don’t understand! One minute he was eating dessert with my contact and me, swearing to expose the whole scheme. The next he was in favor of it.”
“Perhaps somebody greased his palm,” Illya offered, “as well as his food.”
“That’s just it! His food!” The man was nearly in tears. “They’re putting something in food to control people’s minds.” He gripped the metal band around the table. “This week they’re testing it here in town, and next week they’re sending those chefs all over the world. They’re going to make people change their minds about things. Elections, atom bombs, God knows what!”
An instant brainwashing drug?
“That sounds very alarming….” Napoleon started.
“I have proof!” Moustache insisted. “But I need money.”
Napoleon’s hand got to the envelope first. He pressed it flat against the table. “What proof?”
Moustache reached under his shirt and removed a small waxed bag, half full of white powder. Illya plucked the bag from his fingers and poured a small amount into his hand—an unexceptional white crystal, reminiscent of salt. Dry, with no obvious odor.
“Sugar?”
“They call it Lagniappe powder because it’s like sugar but with a little something extra. That’s why they only put it in desserts. Try it. You just need a tiny bit.”
Illya frowned. It seemed harmless. But then, so did rat poison, and Illya had no wish to play rat.
Napoleon released the envelope and rose to his feet. He drew his gun, flicked off the safety, and cocked it with a theatrical click. Then he pressed the barrel to Moustache’s head and nodded in Illya’s direction.
“Oh, very well.” Though he didn’t find the prospect of taking Moustache with him all that comforting. And he doubted Napoleon would shoot, in any event. Illya measured a pinch of the stuff into his palm and licked it off. For a drug, it was remarkably well disguised.
“Sugar.”
Moustache, at least, took Napoleon’s threat seriously. He stared cross-eyed at the P.38. “W-wait a minute,” he stammered, “and tell him something to change his mind.”
Illya closed his eyes. He felt light-headed and his face was beginning to sweat. It occurred to him, now, that if Moustache was telling the truth, he’d exposed himself badly. Illya suppressed his anxiety. Napoleon had many failings, but malice wasn’t one of them. Rather he was too aggressively nice, a bit too inclined to meddle in private affairs. But he had little idea of the pitfalls surrounding a Soviet. There was the constant danger of recall and arrest, the very real threat to family and friends, and no telling what might trigger disaster. A bad report, an unguarded remark, some bureaucrat’s urge to create a diversion. It could be anything.
Illya opened his eyes and waited, maintaining a carefully neutral expression.
“Paul Matthews,” Napoleon said smugly, “is your favorite person on Earth.”
A joke, naturally. Illya frowned, both relieved and annoyed. He liked Napoleon. The man was level headed and good with people. Brilliant, even, except where women were concerned. Determined. Efficient. But he was also capricious. Even Paul, who couldn’t exhale without a sarcastic remark, took a more logical approach to assignments. With Paul, sarcasm was mostly a smoke screen. Underneath he was refreshingly linear. You could trust Paul. In fact—
“Chyort.” Illya choked off the thought. Could he possibly be thinking of Paul? Worse yet, would he have to admit it? Suddenly the Lagniappe plot sounded a great deal more sinister.
Napoleon read his face and put away the gun.
Illya scowled at Moustache. He stepped forward, crossing his arms and postponing an impulse to break the man’s neck. “Are the effects permanent?”
“Not for a dose like that.” Moustache shrank in his chair. “A teaspoon lasts about a week. Repeated doses usually make it permanent. And the suggestions have to be made within fifteen minutes of taking the drug. I heard them talking.” He put his head in his hands. “I don’t want to be part of this. Please let me take the money and go.”
Illya turned the waxed bag over and examined the opposite side. A small bird was stamped in the corner. He tossed the bag to Napoleon, who tucked it into a pocket.
“Who is your contact?” Illya asked. “And where is he keeping the drugs?”
Moustache’s face drained of color. “It’s a—” He swayed slightly. “It’s a local businessman by the name of Walter Doucet. I think they’re keeping drugs at the restaurants—but I really don’t know.”
Napoleon waved his payoff envelope under Moustache’s nose.
“We need the names of the restaurants and apprentice chefs.”
The man’s hand flashed out. “Antoine’s, Brennan’s, Galatoire’s.” This time, the money fell into his grasp. “Masson’s Beach House.” Moustache tore open the envelope and counted the cash. Illya felt his eyebrows go up; crime apparently paid. “Arnaud’s, Commander’s Palace—” The money disappeared into his wallet. “I-I can’t remember, exactly, but I have a list in the car.”
Napoleon walked to the back door, lifted the shade, and stared into the rain.
“Well,” he sighed. “It’s a beautiful night for a stroll.”
Illya took a moment to retrieve his P.38 from upstairs. When he returned, Napoleon and Moustache had switched off the light and were waiting in their overcoats, peering through the darkened kitchen window into the service yard between Kate’s and the alley.
Napoleon glanced his way. “Our friend thinks he might have been followed.”
Now he tells us. “I’ll go first and see if it’s clear.” Illya’s hat and coat were still dripping by the door. He pulled on his hat—the coat was too heavy to maneuver in—and drew his gun, sheltering it under his sports coat.
“Ready.”
Napoleon swung the door open slowly, gun in hand. The unlit yard was a solid wall of water falling straight from the sky.
Illya counted to three and then dashed through the door, running half-blind in the rain. But he’d paced this off before. Five steps down from the stoop. Twelve across the yard—he made it thirteen, sloshing through ankle-deep water. A hop onto the trashcan—holster the gun. His hand felt for the top of Kate’s chain-link fence. Then a short vault—either up and over to land in the alley or sideways onto the post anchoring the neighbor’s wooden fence. He twisted right, opting for the fence, slipped on the wet wood, and pitched forward, catching himself, outstretched along the top rails. Probably should have walked through the gate. He clung for a moment, mindful of the neighbor’s two dogs, but they appeared to be taking a break. Not even dogs would be out in a rain storm like this.
Illya maneuvered up onto the post, found his balance and crouched, gun ready, peering into the downpour. This was madness. He didn’t see anything threatening. He couldn’t see Napoleon. He couldn’t even see Kate’s. He couldn’t hear, either, above the pounding of rain and the muffled jazz beat from the bars. And he kept breathing in mouthfuls of water. His cough hit and he started to fall as the dogs punched back in on the clock. He grabbed the edge of the fence and swung down to the alley, dodging muzzles that flashed up past his face. The dogs began shredding his hat.
Illya froze as a gun pressed itself under his ear.
“Don’t startle me like that.” The gun pulled away.
“Sorry.” Illya leaned against the fence, trying to get a dry breath. “Next time I’ll whistle.”
Napoleon tucked the gun under his coat, eyeing teeth through the gaps in the wood. “Don’t they bark?”
“Guard dogs are trained not to. Not until you are cornered or dead.”
“Charming.” A hand patted his shoulder. “Are you all right?”
Illya straightened. “More or less. Your drug seems to have left me a bit dizzy.” He looked around. “Where’s Moustache?”
“With me—” Napoleon glanced quickly right and left. No Moustache. “C’mon.” He pounded off down the alley. Illya gave him a couple of meters—as far as he could see—and then matched him stride for stride. The water grew deeper, halfway up to their knees, before dropping as they came to the street. The night was brighter here and visibility was better beneath a gas lamp that hissed and spat at the rain. Both agents slowed to take advantage of the cover provided by large, yardless buildings at the end of the alley. A short distance away, Bourbon street pulsed to the music of Dixieland and the light of passing cars.
A yellow sedan was parked alone on the street, counter to traffic, with its left wheels on the curb and right wheels in what now was a running river. Beside the car, Moustache was fumbling with keys. Napoleon strode into the light and leaned over Moustache’s shoulder. Illya couldn’t hear what he said, but Moustache leapt back, dropping his keys in the gutter.
Illya retreated a pace into the alley as a man with a sawed-off Remington shotgun stepped out of the shadows, pumping the hand guard and shouting out indistinct orders. Napoleon turned slowly, head cocked, and let his P.38 drop with a splash. The man moved forward, putting the shotgun to Napoleon’s chest before tucking the stock under his arm and extending a hand.
Illya hesitated, biting his lip. Darts were risky against a man in position to fire. And this man might well have a backup—someone remaining in shadows as Illya had done. He pressed closer to the wall of the building and edged forward, squinting out over the street.
Napoleon reached his left hand into his coat, extracted a wallet, and passed it over. Wrong side, Illya noted. That isn’t his wallet. Where was the Thrush backup? Illya hoped the false wallet wasn’t loaded with gas. In this rain it would be ineffective.
There! The glint of a rifle, in the opposite alley.
The wallet flipped open with a pop and a flash, and the gunman threw it away, howling. Napoleon knocked the shotgun aside into the gutter, stepping up to attack.
“Stay low!” Illya fired—once at the rifle and once at Napoleon’s gunman, who slumped to the sidewalk. A rifle bullet slammed into the building behind him. He joined Napoleon and Moustache crouching beside the sedan as the rear window shattered. Moustache’s car provided some cover, but their position was weak, pinned under the light, with no other vehicles nearby, and one vaguely dry hand-gun between them. Illya edged sideways, risking a glance past the rear bumper. A taillight exploded and he threw himself back.
“Keep him busy!” Napoleon called.
Oh sure. Illya reloaded with bullets, holding a spare magazine in his hand. Then he lay down on his back and slid under the car, shivering as the cold water rose over his chest. Drat. He hadn’t realized the curb was so high. He squeezed onto his right shoulder, soaking the last bone in his body and wishing he’d saved more ammunition. Still, the dunking had its advantage. Moustache’s engine was warm and would draw the man’s night scope. He squirmed between the rear tires, rubbing water and mud from his eyes. There was no real chance of stopping the rifleman by shooting blindly out into the rain. But Illya’s job was sitting duck, not sniper. He unscrewed the flash suppressor from his P.38, squinted, and started to fire.
Sixteen shots. Illya laid down the first eight in quick succession, hoping Napoleon would stay out of the way, snapping the spare magazine in as he fired the last round. Eight shots. A half-dozen bullets tore into the back of the car. Seven. A shot ricocheted off the tail pipe and parted the wrong side of his hair. Six. Two wild rounds hit the engine over his feet. There was a hiss and the smell of hot motor oil. Five. The tire in front of him exploded with a bang, and the car sagged toward the street, threatening to pin him. He rolled to his back, slithering sideways. Four. A shot tore the sleeve of his sports coat. It was time to withdraw. Three. Illya squirmed to the curb, and wriggled onto the sidewalk. Moustache was huddled between the front door and their unconscious assailant, chanting a prayer. Two. Illya twisted onto his stomach and continued firing around the remaining rear tire. He couldn’t see a damn thing, and Napoleon was out there, so he aimed at the ground. One—
The alley on the opposite side of the street burst into a string of explosions.
Fireworks? Illya jumped to his feet and dashed around the sedan, running for all he was worth. He reached the opposite side of the street and flattened himself against a wall, breathing hard. He’d lost track of the target, which was a pity. Any moment now that rifle was going to cut him in two. He would have liked to have seen it coming. He reloaded with a wet magazine on the off chance it would fire.
The smoke cleared fast, revealing Napoleon flattened against the opposite building and the Thrush rifle abandoned on the sidewalk between them. Napoleon moved sideways, edged cautiously around the corner and started picking his way down the alley. Illya went after the rifle. Three rounds left in the clip. He holstered his P.38 and walked back to the building, leaning against the stucco, tipping his head up and letting the rain wash the mud from his face. There was no point in looking for shelter. He had nothing left to keep dry.
Napoleon waded toward Illya alone, looking snug in his trench coat and hat.
“What was that?” Illya waved at the site of their fireworks display. “It sounded like bullets.”
Across the street, Moustache had retrieved his keys and was again fumbling with the car door. It looked like he was planning to leave. Illya wondered briefly whether the rifle was too wet to fire. He lifted it and blew out the front tire. Apparently not. Good thing there weren’t any police in this town.
“Old Boy Scout trick.” Napoleon tapped his watch, grinning. “I blew up a magazine loaded with blanks.”
He must have been a remarkably well-armed Boy Scout. Illya peeked at the watch. “Is that the new shirt-button detonator system Section Eight’s been promoting?”
“Mmm.”
Now Moustache was squeezing into the driver’s seat. There was something endearingly optimistic about a man who would flee on two wheel rims.
Illya raised the rifle. He would let Moustache pull forward and then hit the other rear tire.
He glanced at Napoleon. “The shirt buttons that have a 3.6 percent chance of exploding each time they’re exposed to an electro-magnetic field?”
“They what?” Napoleon’s expression was worth two dunkings under a car. His hand clutched his coat. “Are you serious?”
Illya nodded. “Per button.” It paid to read the full lab reports, not just the memos. He leaned toward Napoleon’s ear. “If I were you, I’d temporarily suspend tucking in shirt-tails. Or avoid thunder storms. Or both.”
Napoleon stared at him.
Moustache cranked the sedan’s engine.
A shower of sparks burst into the sky. Light flashed and a hubcap slammed into the building beside them, bringing with it a very loud boom. The yellow car crackled and burned.
Illya looked at Napoleon, who shrugged. They watched the fire take hold while the roaring in their ears faded away.
“C’mon.” Napoleon tugged Illya’s arm. “This is bound to attract attention, even in New Orleans.”
Illya nodded, pushing wet hair out of his eyes. They made a circuit and approached the car cautiously. The shotgun man lay next to the burning sedan, looking substantially dead. Illya ducked in, felt for a pulse and then quickly backed away from the flames, shaking his head. “I think he’s out of a job.”
They waded together toward Kate’s, Napoleon surreptitiously stripping off shirt buttons under his coat. When he’d finished, he patted the pocket containing their sample.
“One of us had better get this stuff up to New York tonight.”
“One of us.”
“While the other one stays here and plays for his supper.”
Napoleon left for the airport while Illya indulged in a long hot shower. Kate brought him a robe—Paul’s, he realized, the thing hung on him like a blanket—and a mug of her hideous tea, this time thick with milk and honey. Illya sat cross-legged on the narrow bed tucked into his small garret room and drank the bitter stuff gratefully. Even up here, the air was heavy with smoke, and he had to admit it, the coughing was wearing him down.
Paul’s robe. The thought brought a twinge of guilt. Kate had also been waiting for Paul. He called the Australian to mind, wondering just how much damage the Lagniappe drug had done to his sanity. Tall, brown-eyed, curly brown hair, perpetually grinning—Illya exerted some effort and changed the thought to smirking. Enthusiastic—gratingly enthusiastic—about nature, first, and almost everything else, second. Indiscreet beyond belief. There had been times when Illya would have quite cheerfully murdered him. There were other times when Paul’s blunt, laissez faire attitude compared favorably to Napoleon’s intense, self-centered competitiveness.
Illya sighed. He wasn’t sure how much the drug was affecting him. Why couldn’t Napoleon simply have brainwashed him into liking Kate’s tea?
“You’re hot.” Kate took her hand away from his forehead. He hadn’t noticed it was there, but he missed it, now that it was gone.
“It’s my constitution,” he said truthfully. “I’m always like that.” He smiled. “In Paris, I was the envy of Madame Gisette’s School for Ballet because I could eat all day and never gain weight.”
“Did you study ballet?” Are you queer? Illya shook his head. Kate hadn’t meant it like that.
“I was at the Sorbonne before I joined U.N.C.L.E. The girls were my neighbors.” He smiled again at the memory. A very charming group of ladies. True, the bathroom had often hung with their stockings, and they threw shoes if he so much as mentioned croissant. But theater women had refreshingly liberal ideas. About Communists. About sex. About Communists and sex. His education that year had involved so much more than mathematics.
She brought a damp cloth and patted his face. It occurred to him to resent being fussed over, but the cloth smelled beguilingly of bay leaves and mint, and Kate was extremely disarming. There was something almost Gypsy about her. He felt at home here in a way he had once felt at home with the Gypsies. That had been Paris also, but a lifetime ago, during the war. They were good people, rough, even cruel on the outside, fiercely loyal and kind underneath….
Illya sat up abruptly, pushing the cloth away. What on Earth was he doing? He was not normally given to wool gathering. Was he really that ill? He didn’t think so. He’d been light-headed since tasting the Lagniappe crystals. Perhaps this was an effect of the drug.
He should try to sleep it off, but he had to tell her first.
“Paul’s missing, Kate.” Three easy words, but he’d omitted a few. “Presumed dead. Napoleon didn’t have details.”
She was quiet a moment. “How dead is presumed?”
“That’s difficult to say. Most of us practice presumed a few times before it actually happens.” She winced and he kicked himself. Couldn’t Napoleon have done this? He reached for her hand. “Have you heard from him since Wednesday?”
“No.” Her fingers were cold. “That’s a long time, even for Paul.”
“Yes, it’s a long time.” Too long. Illya’s stomach twisted before he blocked the response. He had plenty of experience losing agents. Paul was no different from the rest. Damn Napoleon and his drug.
“You should be careful with security Kate. Thrush may know about us here.”
“You mean, if he’s been tortured, he’s probably told them our names.”
Illya looked in her eyes. She was reasonably calm. “Yes,” he said. “That is exactly what I mean.”
Suddenly he needed action. “I’m going to the bar.” Illya jumped up and looked at his watch. 12:00. Kate’s would be busy for four or five hours, but Marais Celeste emptied out early. There was a chicken coop under a rear window that would provide cover for watching the building. When it was quiet he’d go in through the window or up the stairway inside. Illya reached for his holster. The time had come to find out what went on upstairs at Marais Celeste.
“Tomorrow.” Kate pushed him back to the bed. “Monday morning is better. Everyone in town will be sleeping it off. And we’ve got to do something about that cough.” She walked out of his room and softly down the stairs.
Illya put his chin in his hands. She was right. He wasn’t thinking clearly, which was rather unusual. Charging into the bar would not help Paul. And the cough was a problem. Perhaps he should call Dr. Nguyen and ask for codeine or something similar? But he barely knew her—barely knew anyone here in the States. She might yank him out of the field for a day he couldn’t afford. He dry swallowed a couple of the antibiotic tablets she’d given him, and lay down in the bed, hoping sleep would clear things up. It usually did; he was an excellent sleeper.
Kate returned with another steaming mug. This one smelled really foul. “Drink up.” She drew a gun from under her skirt. “And move over. I’m going to keep watch.”
Illya drank and squeezed next to the wall. His cough vanished. The room started to fade. He ought to say something to Kate.
“Spasibo,” he muttered.
“Pazhalooysta. Cpokoinoi nochi.”
That’s the first 15 pages out of 88. If you'd like to read the rest, email me at vladeckk@gmail.com . Print versions may (?) still be available from:
Lisa Madden lisaeve@apk.net