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A clap of thunder announced Napoleon and Illya’s entry into the lobby of London’s posh Dorchester Hotel. Drenched and shivering, blue with cold, they squelched a path to the front desk, leaving a trail of muddy bootprints on the lobby’s pristine marble floor. Guests scrambled out of their way, wrinkling their upturned noses at the foul aroma emanating from the men’s filthy attire.
Napoleon met their stares head-on. “Lovely weather we’re having, wot, wot?” he declared, flashing his thousand-watt smile. The guests suddenly found a dozen more interesting things to look at.
They approached the Front Desk Manager, who had followed their progress across the lobby with dismay. “May I help you, er…gentlemen?” he inquired, pasting on a smile.
“Solo and Kuryakin, checking in.”
“We have reservations,” Illya added, and sneezed, raining water droplets everywhere.
“I see. One moment while I check.” The manager bent down, tapping a series of keys on the hotel’s new electronic reservations system. “Ah, yes, Here you are, Messrs. Solo and Kuryakin.” He looked up, and this time his smile was genuine. “We’ve been expecting you. Welcome to the Dorchester.”
He held out their room keys, dangling them at arm’s length from his expertly manicured fingernails. Napoleon was pretty sure the man was holding his breath. “You’ll be in the Churchill Suite—it has a lovely view of Hyde Park.”
The senior agent accepted the keys with a tired smile. “Sounds perfect.” He produced a credit card from the tattered remains of his wallet, and watched the manager record the number. Their business concluded, he turned weary footsteps toward the elevator, dreaming of a hot shower, food and a soft bed.
“Mr. Solo?“
He turned back with a sigh. “Yes?”
“Pardon me for asking, but what in God’s name happened to the two of you?”
Heaven save me from the curious. “Nothing we couldn’t handle,” the senior agent ad-libbed. “A last-minute invitation to a shooting party up near Shropshire. It poured all week. Not the wisest piece of planning, I’ll grant you.”
“Ah.” The manager smiled in sympathy. “There’s no predicting our British weather, is there?”
“I’d be a millionaire if I could. Fortunately, it wasn’t a total waste of time. We did manage to flush out a few dozen birds, including a lovely brace of Partridges. A satisfying outcome, wouldn’t you say, Illya?”
Illya had been tapping his foot impatiently throughout the conversation. Now he seized the room key from Napoleon, and turned in the direction of the elevator. “Courtesy is overrated,” he snapped. ”I am going upstairs to take a long, hot shower and, hopefully, wash the vile stink of eau de peat bog out of my hair.” He stalked away, parting the guests before him like Moses at the Red Sea.
Napoleon shrugged. “He gets grumpy when he’s hungry.”
*/*/*/
By the time Napoleon completed the required security check of their suite, Illya was coming out of the shower, toweling his hair. “An extravagant expense, this suite, but the water is hot and there are clean sheets on the bed.”
“Heaven knows we deserve a little pampering after the week we’ve had.”
“I ordered dinner from Room Service. Steak and kidney pie, salmon en croûte for you and a Victoria sponge, if you’re interested.”
Napoleon’s stomach rumbled at the thought of food. “Interested? I could eat an elephant, I’m so hungry.” But first things first.
He took a luxuriously long, hot shower, and reveled in the feel of clean pajamas on his bruised flesh. A shave and several aspirin tablets later, and the senior agent felt almost human again.
Room Service had delivered their dinner in his absence. Illya was already halfway through the double serving of steak and kidney pie he had ordered.
“I see you were too hungry to wait,” Napoleon said. “Did you leave anything for me?”
“Of course, Napoleon. I am not without compassion. The Brussels sprouts are all yours.”
The senior agent tucked into his supper; the salmon en croûte was tender and succulent, and every bit as delicious as he’d expected. “Any word from New York?”
Illya nodded around a mouthful of pie. “I notified HQ of our success in dismantling THRUSH’s Shropshire satrapy. Mr. Waverly was generally pleased with the result. He has granted us twenty-four hours leave as a reward for our efforts.”
“Generally pleased? He should have been there for the firefight! Still, twenty-four hours off the clock is a nice bonus for our hard work.”
“It was uncharacteristically generous of him.” Illya chewed thoughtfully. “Oh, and MI5 has, after our repeated requests, agreed to provide intel on the security setup and armaments of the Shropshire satrapy we just dismantled.” He snorted his displeasure. “Six days we waited for that intel. You’d think we asked them for the Crown Jewels.”
Napoleon tsked. “I daresay, the information would have been more useful before we stormed the satrapy. Then again, look at all the fun we had blowing up Emery Partridge’s mansion.”
“It was fun,” Illya admitted with a grin.
Napoleon was taking his first sip of the Dorchester’s signature coffee—a fragrant Jamaican blend harvested in the Blue Mountains—when he became aware of a disturbance in the corridor. Someone rattled the handle of their door. He stood, signaling for silence. Illya slipped behind the sofa, weapon drawn.
The senior agent edged open the door, and checked the corridor in both directions. “Too late. Whoever was here is long gone.”
“It was probably the maid checking to see if we need extra towels.” Illya secured his weapon and sat down to finish his supper.
“Maids knock on doors; they don’t rattle them. Besides, she’d have to be one hell of a sprinter to move that fast.”
“Perhaps she is shy.” The Russian polished off the last few bites of steak and kidney pie and sat back, eyeing his empty plate with regret.
Napoleon bent down to retrieve something lodged beneath the doorjamb. “Hmm. What have we here? Looks like—a postcard?”
“A love note from one of your many female admirers, no doubt,” Illya sniffed. “Read it later. Your supper is getting cold.”
“Actually, it’s for you.”
“Me?” Illya looked up in surprise.
“Maybe you’re the one with a secret admirer.” Napoleon handed the postcard to his partner.
To: Illya Kuryakin c/o Dorchester Hotel
3 Savile Row, London. W1. Thursday, 12:00 noon.
J
Illya examined the card, turning it over and over in his hands. “It looks quite ordinary. Something you could buy at any tea room or news agent’s.”
“Any idea who sent it?”
He shook his head. On the front of the postcard was a stock photo of London’s famous Albert Hall. He stared at the image, willing it to speak to him.
Napoleon paced the floor, his supper forgotten. “I have a bad feeling about this, Illya. Who hand delivers a postcard? I’ll tell you who—nobody. They mail it. And how did the sender know you were staying at the Dorchester? UNCLE doesn’t exactly publish our itinerary.”
“Two excellent questions. Unfortunately, I have no answers to—“ Illya’s eyes abruptly lit with understanding. “Bozhe moy!”
The senior agent waited for an explanation, but none followed. “I’m guessing that little outburst means you’ve figured out who sent the postcard.”
A coy smile curled Illya’s lips.
“Well?? Are you going to tell me?”
“Tell you what?” He pulled the platter of Victoria sponge toward him and cut a slice. Lovely red jam oozed out from between the layers. “Mmm, raspberry.”
Napoleon rolled his eyes. “Can you please stop eating for five seconds and focus?”
“Of course, Napoleon. What were you saying?”
“Who? Sent? The postcard?!”
“Postcard?” He took a dainty bite.
“Yes, the postcard. The rectangular object in your other hand.”
Oh, that.” Illya smiled sweetly.
“Well??”
“You really must try this sponge, Napoleon. Shall I cut you a slice?”
The senior agent’s eyes narrowed. His internal radar pinged an alert. “Illya Nickovetch Kuryakin, what are you up to?!”
“Moi?” Illya clutched hand to heart in mock innocence. “You wound me, cher Napoleon. I am merely attempting to enjoy this very delicious Victoria sponge.” He paused to lick a dollop of jam off his fingers.
Napoleon’s head throbbed. He felt like he was wading through a veritable Shropshire peat bog of misdirection. “Come on, tovarisch, have a heart. It’s been a hell of a week and I’m too exhausted to play games. Just tell me who sent the damn postcard so I can go to bed.”
“Are you going to eat your slice, Napoleon? I will take it if you don’t want it.”
The senior agent pinched the bridge of his nose and counted to ten. It didn’t help. “Never mind. I’ll figure it out myself.”
The Russian smirked. “You can try.”
It only took Illya five minutes—how hard can it be?
Napoleon studied the card, trying to see it from his partner’s point of view. As far as he could tell, it was a perfectly ordinary postcard. No postmark. Nothing in the text to give it away. Not even a signature.
He looked at the address—Savile Row, London’s fashion district. Illya, interested in fashion? Illya, who wore the same cheap suit and skinny black tie to work every day? The guy who owned that god-awful burgundy blazer? Napoleon shook his head. The very idea was laughable.
It rankled him to admit it, but he was stumped. “Fine. Keep your little secret. I’m going to bed.” He limped toward the bedroom.
“Do not worry, Napoleon,” Illya called after him. “I promise, it will be worth the wait.”
*/*/*/
Napoleon was in the midst of a lovely dream—tea with Her Majesty the Queen and a complement of adorable corgis in the Palace rose garden—when the alarm jolted him from his slumber.
“What the hell?!” He crawled back to consciousness as the dream dissolved. “Damn it, who set the alarm?”
“I did.” Illya stood beside the bed, fully dressed, nibbling a slice of bacon and looking remarkably chipper for someone notorious for not being a morning person.
Napoleon, on the other hand, felt as though he’d been trampled by a herd of wild pachyderms. “Why?” he croaked. “We have the day off, or did you forget?”
“The invitation said noon, or did you forget? It’s already after eleven. We need to leave in fifteen minutes.”
Napoleon groaned and rolled over.
“Come, Napoleon! Sleep, like courtesy, is overrated. Get up!”
Too tired to argue, he fell out of bed and stumbled into the shower. He barely felt the water. Ten minutes and several aspirins later, he was more-or-less dressed and clutching a cup of coffee for life support. Illya stood by the open door, tapping his foot impatiently. Napoleon gulped down the coffee, praying that the caffeine would hit his system soon.
The pair set off down Park Lane at a brisk pace. The temperature had dropped overnight, and skies were overcast. Napoleon turned up the collar of his overcoat. “Are you going to tell me what this is all about?”
“It is not far,” Illya replied noncommittally.
The journey took them past rows of elegant townhouses, their front gardens bordered by ornate iron fences, and streets lined with fashionable restaurants and pubs. The smell of fresh baked bread emanating from inside the various establishments filled Napoleon with longing.
“I could use another cup of coffee,” he ventured hopefully. “And a Danish.”
”Must you always think of food?” Illya snarked.
They forged on, zig-zagging across Mayfair. Townhouses and restaurants gave way to banks and investment brokerages, tony art galleries and high-end hotels. Illya was a man on a mission, and the senior agent had little choice but to follow.
Promptly at noon, they arrived at the address listed on the postcard.
3 Savile Road turned out to be a rather unimposing multistory Georgian, nestled between a posh Gieves & Hawkes bespoke tailors’ and a Turnbull & Asser tie shop. Unlike the other buildings on the street, there was no discreet brass plaque on the façade to identify the occupants within. In the absence of a liveried doorman, a burly security guard stood watch at the front entrance. He looked out of place amid the genteel surroundings.
Just what sort of place is this? Napoleon wondered.
Illya handed his postcard to the guard. The man examined it carefully, spoke at length into a walkie-talkie, and nodded. “They’re waiting for you. Down one flight.”
Napoleon followed his partner into the foyer. It was a spacious room, paneled in mahogany, with a vaulted ceiling embellished in the Georgian style. An enormous stone hearth dominated one wall, flanked by a pair of club chairs upholstered in rich burgundy leather. The entire space screamed wealth.
“Come, Napoleon. We must not be late.”
He followed Illya down the long staircase, muscles aching from their forced march across Mayfair. “Have mercy, Illya. I’m sore, cold, sleep deprived, and I haven’t eaten. All I want to do at the moment is crawl back into bed.”
“Just a bit further.”
But Napoleon had reached his limit. “No! Damn it, Illya, this little game of yours has gone far enough. Either tell me what we’re doing here, or—” He froze. His eyes widened in astonishment. “Is that—John Lennon?!” He gaped in disbelief. “And the guy at the piano—Paul McCartney?!” He took in the rest of the scene in growing amazement. The lanky, mustachioed fellow on bass guitar—George Harrison. And the cheerful guy wielding his drumsticks like a majorette’s baton—Ringo Starr! John, Paul, George and Ringo??! The Beatles??! The actual Beatles!!!? He rubbed his eyes, certain he must be hallucinating. Nope. Still there.
In the overheated basement of a nondescript brownstone, illuminated by the glare of bad fluorescent lighting, the Fab Four were holding what looked to be an impromptu jam session. A half-dozen audio engineers and a cameraman surrounded them, recording the session for posterity.
Napoleon’s jaw hit the floor with a resounding thud.
Illya grinned. “I told you it would be worth the wait.”
The last notes faded away, and John Lennon laid down his guitar. “Illyusha! You made it!” He enveloped the blond in a rib-crushing hug.
The ensuing introductions were a blur of famous names and faces to Napoleon. Paul McCartney exuded a cheeky, boyish charm that made him think of schoolboy mischief. George Harrison, by contrast, radiated a quiet, almost spiritual charisma. Ringo Starr was pleasant and seemed rather ordinary—the sort of guy you’d meet for lunch at the pub. Yoko Ono lounged on the sidelines taking photographs, her slender body wrapped in a humongous fur coat despite the oppressive heat in the room.
“The Beatles,” Napoleon murmured, awestruck. “The Beatles!”
“Can I have your attention?!” a well-dressed older man—Napoleon assumed he was some sort of manager—shouted over the din. “I hate to break up this little love fest, but it’s gone twelve. It’ll take time to move the audio equipment up to the roof—assuming you fellows still want to do this?”
Silence fell. All eyes turned to the four musicians. Paul nodded hopefully, and John shrugged as though the answer didn’t matter one way or the other, but George resembled a deer caught in the headlights, and Ringo appeared ready to bolt.
Whatever’s happening, they aren’t in agreement about it, Napoleon realized.
As the silence lengthened, the members of the audio crew began to trade worried glances. Feet shuffled; someone coughed. The clock on the wall ticked away the seconds.
Abruptly, John clapped his hands, breaking the spell. “What the hell! Let’s do it!”
The crew sprang into action, shouting out directions, dismantling sound systems and disconnecting wires. They hefted the bulky equipment onto their shoulders and headed upstairs to the roof. The band members grabbed their instruments and followed behind.
Napoleon stared after them. “Jesus, Illya, the Beatles! How? I mean, how do you—?”
Illya smiled. “Alas, that is a tale for another time.” * He seized a pile of sheet music and sprinted away up the stairs, forestalling further questions.
A makeshift stage had been erected in the center of the roof, overlooking Savile Row and London’s West End. A frigid wind whistled through the exposed space, and the crew shivered as they performed the final sound checks on amps, sound boards and cameras. The audio engineer was busy wrapping the microphones in what appeared to be womens’ stockings in an effort to filter out the sound of the wind.
The project director steered Napoleon and Illya toward a bench on the perimeter of the stage. They managed, after some juggling, to squeeze in between Yoko Ono and Ringo’s wife Maureen Starkey. The band took their places, tuned their guitars, tested sound levels. John—who had borrowed Yoko’s fur coat—counted out the tempo, and the Beatles began to play.
“Get back,” Paul sang in his familiar, reedy tenor. “Get back. Get back to where you once belonged.”
The music washed over Napoleon like a balm—John and Paul’s intricate harmonies, the wail of George’s guitar, and the slightly irregular rat-a-tat of Ringo’s drums. Every note of the music was fresh and new. He listened in a happy daze. Beside him, Illya fingered the strings of an imaginary double bass.
A crowd began to gather on the street below—tourists on holiday, day laborers, shop girls on their lunch break and stolid businessmen in bowler hats, all lucky enough to be passing by at the right time. "It's the Beatles!" someone shouted. The news rippled outward like a shockwave.
Beside him, a blissed-out Yoko Ono sang along with the band in her piercing, atonal soprano. Napoleon was pretty sure his left eardrum would never recover from the experience. Between songs, she nibbled daintily from a bowl of wild strawberries. “Organic. Please have some.” Illya declined, but Napoleon—who had not eaten breakfast—gratefully gorged himself on the tasty morsels.
The band seemed to be enjoying themselves despite the earlier tension. Even the cold weather failed to dampen their spirits. Paul riffed on Danny Boy and God Save the Queen between numbers, while John strutted about the stage like a zoot-suited frat boy in Yoko’s humongous fur coat. His antics made Napoleon laugh for reasons he couldn’t explain. He wondered if Yoko had put something into the strawberries.
As word of the impromptu concert spread, the crowd on Savile Row grew in size, spilling out into the street and creating a massive traffic jam. The honks and squealing brakes of countless vehicles drifted upward, mingling with the music.
As the band played the opening chords of Don’t Let Me Down, the roof door opened unexpectedly, and two constables marched in.
“Cease this performance immediately,” the men demanded. “You are in breach of the peace.”
The project director stepped forward, and a brief discussion ensued. The constables listened, nodding occasionally, but they remained adamant. Traffic was badly snarled on the Row, they said, and neighboring businesses were complaining about the noise.
“Noise?!” The project director exclaimed. “Don’t you know who these guys are?! They’re the Beatles! The Beatles!”
“I don’t care if they’re the Second Coming! Stop the concert right now, or we’re going to arrest the lot of you!”
“We’ve got to do something,” Napoleon whispered fiercely.
Illya nodded. “I could not agree more.”
The agents rose, pulling out their UNCLE ID’s.
The constables gaped at the bright yellow cards. Napoleon thought they’d probably never seen a genuine UNCLE ID before. “What seems to be the problem, officers?” he inquired mildly.
“As we already told the other bloke, this is an illegal event. No one’s filed a permit to hold a concert. We’ve been ordered to shut it down.”
“Hmm, I see. Well, as it happens, we’re smack dab in the middle of an important operation here. Can you give us another half hour or so?”
“Operation?” The constable hesitated. “What sort of operation?”
“Covert surveillance,” Illya deadpanned. “Eyes Only.”
Napoleon smothered a laugh.
“We’ve heard nothing of an UNCLE operation scheduled for the West End,” the older of the two scowled. “Who authorized it? And why weren’t the proper authorities informed?”
“Information regarding the parameters of the op is strictly on a ‘need to know’ basis,” Napoleon declared firmly, “but rest assured that we have clearance at the highest levels of Her Majesty’s government.” His eyebrows rose significantly to emphasize the point.
The second officer—a baby-faced fellow who looked to be about nineteen—gasped. “You don’t mean—?!”
“Mmm-hmm. Naturally, the details must remain confidential, but UNCLE will be happy to submit a report to your superiors at the conclusion of the operation.”
“Well, I suppose that would be…”
“Cooperation between agencies is a hallmark of mutual respect, don’t you agree?”
"Uh..."
Napoleon patted the fellow on the back. ”Good to know we’re all on the same page.”
He escorted the constables to the door, and the concert resumed to enthusiastic applause. Thunder rolled in the distance; a few fat raindrops began to fall.
“More rain?” Illya grumbled.
“This is England, tovarisch.”
The band began a reprise of Get Back, the song that had opened the concert. This time, Paul improvised a cheeky new set of lyrics to parody the interruption. “You've been playing on the roof again, and that's no good, 'cause you know your Mummy doesn't like that! She gets angry! She’s gonna have you arrested!”
As the final notes faded away, the skies opened up in earnest. Rain poured down in sheets, inundating the rooftop in a matter of seconds. Umbrellas popped open, and the tech crew moved in swiftly to cover the expensive sound equipment.
“I'd like to say thank you on behalf of the group and ourselves,” John told the rapidly dispersing crowd. “I hope we passed the audition.” With that final remark, the band fled downstairs, laughing and chattering like schoolboys on holiday.
“That was fun.” Illya held the door open for his partner. “Coming?”
“Give me a moment.”
Napoleon stood alone under the door’s tiny portico, watching the rain fall. It was hard to believe that, a little over twenty-four hours ago, he and Illya had been fighting for their lives in the middle of a Shropshire peat bog. The battle seemed a world away.
He closed his eyes, filling his soul with the sound of the rain. His heart swelled with happiness. He felt relaxed, untroubled. Carefree.
He knew the feeling wouldn’t last. There would be another assignment tomorrow, and another one after that. Another evil megalomaniac dreaming of world domination, another THRUSH plot to take over the world. It was the life they had chosen, he and Illya, and they accepted the price without regret. Still…
For one hour, on a Savile Row rooftop, there had been no wars to fight, no evil THRUSH megalomaniacs to defeat, no untimely deaths to mourn. For one hour—one precious, blessed hour—all had been right with the world.
The door opened. “Come inside, Napoleon. You will catch your death out here.”
Sighing, the senior agent followed his partner into the building. The door closed behind him.
*/*/*/
Epilogue
The thunderstorm ended as quickly as it had begun. The sun was peeking out from behind a bank of grey clouds as Napoleon and Illya sloshed their way back down the rain-drenched streets to the hotel.
As they turned onto Park Lane, Napoleon’s communicator signaled an incoming transmission. “Solo here.”
“Mis-ter So-lo!” Alexander Waverly’s voice bellowed at them from across The Pond. “I’ve just gotten off the phone with that popinjay Forthington from MI5! He tells me there was an unannounced—and unsanctioned!—‘covert operation’ overseen by two of my agents in the West End this afternoon! You wouldn’t know anything about that, would you?”
Uh-oh. Napoleon winced. “Well, you see, sir, there were, uh…extraneous circumstances…uh, which necessitated…”
“Do get to the point!”
“Yes, sir.” He prepared himself for a scathing lecture on the appropriate behavior of an UNCLE CEA. “You’re not going to believe this, but…well, you see, uh… We were eating dinner last night in the hotel, when Illya…uh, received a postcard…”
“And did you gentlemen enjoy the concert?”
“Oh, very much! It was absolutely—!” He frowned. “Hang on. How did you know about the concert?”
The sound of a match being struck. A soft puffing sound. “Really, Mr. Solo, who do you think gave John Lennon your room number at the Dorchester?”
For the second time that day, Napoleon’s jaw hit the floor.
*/*/*/
* Author's Note: Illya’s history with the Fab Four can be found in my Slash story, Eight Days A Week.
The story can be found on AO3.
Here is the LINK: https://archiveofourown.org/works/444649