He had been, well, not exactly shocked by what he heard. War often brought more animalistic impulses to the fore, and men, so far from wives and homes often forgot in times like that. He had been surprised though by the apparent distaste that Mr. Waverly’s voice carried. The interruption of the intercom had given him the opportunity to observe his superior without his knowledge. There was something in Mr. Waverly’s face that had told him that he wasn’t too far off in his assumption that the news of Gillian St. John’s daughter had been unpleasant. The receptionist informed them that Mr. Waverly’s expected visitors had arrived and were currently awaiting admittance. With his permission the office door slid open and two figures entered. The first warranted a cursory examination, an older man, graying hair dressed in the US army uniform of a colonel, his stride speaking of years of military service. He had seen this type many times before in Russia and here in the US, someone who was well aware of his power and used it ruthlessly. It was the second that was more of a surprise. He felt Napoleon’s reaction to the figure as well, a subtle shift in his seat, a slight in drawn breath were all that he needed to know that his partner was seeing the same thing he was. Well, maybe not exactly the same thing, since they thought differently. But there was definite interest on Napoleon’s part, despite the knowledge of whom this young woman must be.
He found his eyes traveling over her figure, clad in the same Army green as the Colonel, the only difference being the lesser number of ribbons and the lieutenant’s rank on her shoulders. The colonel stopped in front of Waverly’s desk, shooting the two agents a swift glance, but she didn’t look anywhere but straight ahead. Her stance was one of rigid correctness and absolute stillness as she waited. Illya found himself wondering what her voice would be like as he looked her over once more. There was something about her rigid posture that struck a chord in him. Intrigued he looked at Napoleon, to find his partner’s eyes glued to her as well. Interesting, he mused.
“Waverly.” The colonel greeted the older man coldly. Obviously he was not pleased at being summoned here.
“Colonel Jessup, thank you for coming here.” Waverly returned the coldness with a mild greeting. “Allow me to introduce the CEA of UNCLE New York, Napoleon Solo and his partner, Illya Kuryakin.” The colonel sent a cold glance their way. “Gentlemen, Colonel Ira Jessup and Lieutenant…” he looked at the girl for a moment, “St. John.”
“Hard to ignore an executive request.” The colonel ground out. He took the file he carried and handed it to Mr. Waverly. “Here are the records you requested. As well as the lieutenant.” Jessup sneered. “Why you would request a female for this assignment, I have no idea. Granted as a secretary she’s quite talented. But I wouldn’t use her for anything else.” The barely veiled disgust in his voice crackled in the room bringing both Illya and Napoleon up right, ready to speak. The lieutenant however didn’t react, letting Illya know that she was well used to this condemnation.
Waverly waved a hand negligently. “Be that as it may, I have a use for the lieutenant.” He didn’t reach for the file now laying on the edge of his desk.
“Well, I have done as requested and delivered her to you. Now, if you don’t mind, I have a unit getting ready to head out , so I will leave you to your…” the look he sent around the room reeked of dislike, “business. Gentlemen.” He turned on his heel and stalked out of the office without waiting for Waverly. The snick of the door closing rang loud in the silent office. Waverly stared at the lieutenant still standing at attention before them. Illya had to give her points for her composure, she hadn’t moved or even blinked in the time she had been in the office. Her eyes were firmly fixed at a point just beyond Waverly’s head, seeing nothing around her. Waverly let the silence run on for a few minutes while he looked at her steadfastly. Then he humpfed once more and tamped his pipe.
“A singularly unpleasant sort Jessup.” He spoke at last. Then turned his attention to the lieutenant. “At ease Lieutenant.” At his command she relaxed only slightly, her hands snapping to rest behind her back, feet shoulder width apart, but there was still no reaction on her face, nor did her eyes waver. “Do you know why you are here, Lieutenant?”
“I received orders to report for temporary assignment to a civilian operation, Sir.” Her voice came as a surprise, soft and slightly husky, and completely impersonal. Illya caught the glance that Napoleon sent his way and returned it with one of his own.
“But no specifics?” Waverly prompted.
“Sir, no sir.” She answered still refusing to look at him or to expound on her knowledge. Waverly tamped his pipe rather sharply on the desk in annoyance.
“I said at ease, Lieutenant. This isn’t the military therefore ceremony is not necessary.” He growled in slight frustration.
“Sir?” She still didn’t relax.
“Damn it girl, this is not the time for your obstinacy.” His growl intensified. If he hadn’t been watching her so intently, Illya might have missed the tiny tightening of her shoulders or the momentary flick of her eyes to the floor.
“Permission to speak, Sir?” she replied finally.
“By all means, Lieutenant, speak.” Waverly ground out around the stem of his pipe. Illya suddenly had the desire to be elsewhere rather than be privy to this discussion. There was a tension in the room that made him distinctly uncomfortable.
“Why have you brought me here?” This time her voice wasn’t impersonal, in fact it fairly rang with tightly controlled anger.
“That should be fairly obvious, even to you. I have need of your particular—talents.”
“My talents.” She spoke softly, the word rolling off her tongue in the same inflection that Waverly gave them. For a moment the uniform she wore seemed to disappear forgotten in the emotion that gripped her as she continued, the scorn in her voice like acid. “My talents. Since when have you been interested in any talent I might have? Or is it perhaps that you need a new secretary? Odd, the one currently outside this office seems efficient enough.” She paused, “Or is it something else? That’s it isn’t it? After all this time you finally have a use for me.”
“Enough of your insolence, girl.” Waverly rose from his seat anger flushing his face. “You would do well to remember to whom you are speaking.” Just as quickly as the flash of anger had come it was gone, her posture tightening once more into military correctness.
“I will do as ordered Sir, render any and all assistance required of me as an officer in the United States Army.” Her tone left nothing to interpretation, it was as chill and cold as a wind from the Siberian Steppes. Another growl had Waverly in his seat, waving his pipe toward a chair.
“Have a seat Lieutenant. That’s an order.” She pulled a chair from the table and sat stiffly in it, not relaxing her posture one bit. For the first time she allowed her eyes to flicker over himself and Napoleon. Their light blue color a surprise given the color of her tightly contained hair. With auburn that color he would have expected her eyes to be green, Illya mused to himself.
“Recently, THRUSH has begun to show an interest in ‘things’ of a certain nature.” Waverly began the briefing.
“Things, Sir?” Napoleon asked.
“Things Mr. Solo that defy logical and scientific reason…” Waverly started to explain. An inhaled breath from the lieutenant interrupted. Waverly raised an eyebrow at the sound. Her eyes were wide and she leaned forward for a second before returning to attention. “Yes, Lt.?”
“That explains why you brought me here. If THRUSH is experimenting with psychics then, you DO need me don’t you?” there was a hint of satisfaction in her voice as well as a bit of confusion. She actually started to smile but caught it. “This must really be difficult for you. After all this time, to have to admit that *I* was right…” she almost whispered.
“Be that as it may, latest intel shows that THRUSH has started kidnapping people with certain abilities.”
“Documented or hinted?” she asked ignoring Illya and Napoleon completely. Her voice was sharp with interest.
“Both. They disappear for several weeks only to resurface miles from where they were last seen.” Waverly motioned at the file that Illya still held and he obligingly opened it to show several pictures of the “missing” psychics. “As you can see in the file, the missing include several mediums, a known precognitive and a purported telekinetic. The last taken was the telekinetic. When each reappears, their ‘talents’ for the most part are completely gone. Three of the so-called mediums are currently undergoing psychiatric evaluation at Bellevue. One of the mediums recently committed suicide and the telekinetic is completely catatonic. Whatever THRUSH experiment they took part in is a particularly nasty one. Not one of the kidnapped appears to have ‘survived’.”
“May I see that?” she asked Illya, indicating the file. He quirked an eyebrow and slid it across the table. She picked it up and quickly scanned the information in it. For a moment she appeared to be thinking. “Well, I have an explanation for that. None of these are truly talented.” She pulled each picture out of the file and laid it on the table. “Madame Zarda was debunked three years ago, caught using special effects in one of her séances. Same with these two. Mr. Tonashi, while able to predict a few things, has never had a reliable premonition. He usually claims that the knowing changed the outcome. Ms. Thomas, the telekinetic, has had some minor success in directing attention ‘away’ from the object she is trying to move, long enough for her to move it with physical assistance.” Closing the file, she looked at Waverly. “If they are experimenting on psychics, at this rate, with the lack of true talent they are using, I would say that their experiment is bound to fail. So why the concern?”
Waverly met her eyes, unflinching. “We need to know what it is that they are doing.” He let his words sink in. The change in her was immediate.
“You want to use me as bait. Bait so that your…” she looked at Napoleon and himself. “ agents can get inside and steal whatever it is they are working on.”
“Yes.” Was all Waverly said. She thought for a moment.
“I suppose that you can justify this somehow. Pulling me into your intrigues, making sure my ‘orders’ leave me no choice but to go along with your game. Damn you Father. Gods, what a fool I have been, thinking that I could avoid your world.” She laughed a bitter hurting sound. “All this time, I thought I had finally gotten away from you.” She sighed. “My guess is that you have the cover well established, and just needed the sacrificial goat to tie to the stake. Well your goat can’t exactly escape the duty chosen for it. Very well, since you have left me little option and fewer choices, I’ll play your little game, follow my orders. But once this is over, I never want to hear from you again.”…..
“Mr. Kuryakin, sir?” the co-pilot’s voice broke the replay of memory. He sat up straight in the soft chair. “Sir, we will be on approach in about thirty minutes. I have spoken with UNCLE HQ to inform them of our landing time. Mr. Solo will be waiting along with the limo to take you to HQ.” the young man stood a few feet away in the cabin knowing better than to wake a sleeping Section Two agent. Illya ran a hand through his hair, noticing as he did so, the slight tremor that ran through it.
“Thank you.” He replied adjusting himself to ease the strain of his back. He reached behind him to pull the long aluminum crutch from its place. With a deftness that spoke of years of use, he fastened the forearm brace in place and standing carefully, leaned his weight into it. The co-pilot moved forward to offer a hand as he stood, having provided this service for the CEA before. Illya smiled tightly at him and slowly made his way to the rear of the jet. Maneuvering his way into the restroom there, he leaned against the door, staring down at the crutch he now used. His hand knotted into a fist and he thumped it against the almost useless piece of flesh that was his right leg. He stared into the mirror over the small sink and wondered, not for the first time, what she would think, how she would react when she saw him.
He bowed his head refusing to look into the mirror over the sink. Tears slipped silently down his face as he dared to hope.
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On to Chapter Seven