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Illya Kuryakin glared at the device on the table. It was a brown rectangular object about the size of bread box. The face of the box contained a small window through which Illya could see two reels of magnetic tape. There were two wires coming out of the box in different directions, one ended in a standard wall plug and the other appeared to be something audio-related.
“What is this doing here?” Illya demanded, still glaring. Napoleon had summoned him to his hotel room with the cheerful glee of a child on Christmas morning but Illya didn’t see anything to warrant such enthusiasm.
“It’s a personal answering machine!” Napoleon said, smugly. “Not due out to the public for a few years yet, but I ran into this charming young -”
“I know what it is.” Illya cut Napoleon off before he could pick up steam on what was sure to be another long-winded tale of debauchery. “Every politician in Russia has one in his office. Why do you have one in your hotel room?”
Napoleon looked slightly affronted but also determined not to let Illya rain on his parade. He lifted his chin and walked over to the bar to pour himself a glass of brandy.
“For convenience, my dear Peril.” The decanter clinked against the glass as he poured. “If you can’t reach me on the telephone you can simply leave a message and I’ll get it as soon as I return. No more bothering the front desk to deliver overly encrypted messages to me.”
“Encryption is necessary. I can’t hand over confidential information to the concierge of every hotel in Europe.” Illya replied stubbornly.
“And now you won’t have to!” Napoleon said, as if this were a great triumph. Illya crossed his arms and gave him what Napoleon called his “you Americans are completely idiotic” look.
“No. Leaving state secrets on a tape for anyone to find is incredibly stupid.”
Napoleon threw up his arms.
“Obviously don’t recite the locations of all the missile stockpiles in Russia,” Illya shot him a dark look. “but a typical check-in or field report is harmless enough.” Napoleon flopped gracefully into an armchair.
“Why would I bother to call you with such tedious information?” Illya said flatly. Napoleon rolled his eyes and tried a different approach.
“We keep very different schedules, Peril. What if you have an update for me but I am… occupied... elsewhere.” Napoleon cajoled.
“I would find you. You always forget to remove the tracker in your shoe.” Illya callously ignored the reference to his partner’s nightlife.
Napoleon’s eye twitched very slightly at that.
“Humor me?”
“No.”
Napoleon tilted his head to the side and sent Illya a piercing look.
“Does everyone in Russia hate fun as much as you, or are you a special case?”
“Can I go now?”
“No, I’m not done sharing the wonders of American innovation with you.”
“It’s an answering machine, not the atomic bomb.” Illya replied dryly.
“Ah, but designing machines to improve our everyday lives is the backbone of American industry!” Napoleon stood abruptly, a gleam returning to his eyes. “Don’t belittle the impact such a small device can have on our lives. Just think of how much time we’ll save by cutting out so many of our tedious meetings!”
Illya didn’t miss the dig at his earlier comment. He gave Napoleon a baleful look.
“You’re saying that with this machine I wouldn’t have to listen to you talk as much?”
“That’s…” Napoleon furrowed his brow “one way of looking at it, I suppose.”
“I’m starting to see the appeal.”
3 DAYS LATER
Napoleon trudged into his hotel room dripping water and grime onto the intricately patterned carpets. He shed his night-op clothes in careless piles on the way to the bathroom. Twenty minutes later he was cleaned up and seated at the table in his bathrobe pouring himself a hefty glass of brandy. Halfway through his second glass he was relaxed enough to notice the answering machine sitting on the table next to the telephone. The conversation he’d had with Illya about it seemed like ages ago. Napoleon smiled at the memory and picked up the earpiece. He wound the reels back to their beginning, surprised at how much tape had been used. He pressed play and waited.
The first message seemed silent at first but when Napoleon turned up the volume he could hear breathing and a rustling sound like someone checking their watch. A smile started to tug at the corner of Napoleon’s mouth.
The second message was from Illya.
“Cowboy.” The message ended abruptly. Napoleon sat back, sipped his drink, and continued to let the messages play.
“Cowboy.” Illya again, followed by 15 seconds of angry breathing. Napoleon hadn’t actually expected Illya to make use of his personal answering machine. In fact, he’d figured the Russian would refuse on principle, or out of spite.
The next message had muffled music in the background and Illya’s words were obviously spoken through clenched teeth. Napoleon pressed the earpiece tight to his ear to catch everything.
“What are your shoes doing in the most notorious strip club in London?” Napoleon grinned to himself - Illya sounded downright pissed.
He sounded slightly strangled in his next message.
“Your… associate… at the strip club showed me the smugglers route under the club… as well as her-” he seemed to choke on his words. “I didn’t… Cowboy where are you?!”
Napoleon chuckled as he threw back the last of his drink.
The next message began with silence, followed by an irritated sigh.
“You’re on that boat, aren’t you.” It wasn’t a question.
The machine kept playing and Napoleon could hear a gun being loaded in the background.
“When I arrive I had better find either the stolen diamonds or your corpse.”
Napoleon waited patiently for the next message. As expected, it was mostly Illya breathing his rage into the receiver. After about 30 seconds of this Illya found his voice.
“THERE. WERE. NO. DIAMONDS.”
Too late, Napoleon tilted his head away from the earpiece to protect his ear.
To Napoleon’s surprise, the next message was from Gaby.
“Solo, you’d better check in soon. Illya is running out of furniture to break.”
Napoleon made a mental note to leave a significant tip for the hotel staff. He glanced at the haphazard pile of diamonds on the table. They’d probably prefer cash...
The answering machine kept playing automatically. In the next message Illya sounded like he was whispering through gritted teeth.
“Cowboy, I am getting tired of these fool’s errands you keep sending me on.” Then Napoleon heard a muffled voice in the background but he couldn’t make out what they said. “Librarians!” Illya muttered darkly and hung up. Napoleon could only imagine the kind of trouble his partner might cause at a public library.
The next recording almost didn’t catch the beginning of Illya’s message.
“WHY IS THERE A REPORTER ASKING ME IF I AM A LONG LOST DESCENDANT OF NIKOLAI ALEXANDROVICH ROMANOV?!”
Napoleon cringed - he had forgotten about that part of his scheme. He felt a little guilty for using Illya as a diversion, but it was either him or Gaby and she would have seen right through his plan. Besides, he was fairly certain Illya wouldn’t actually kill him. Probably.
He pulled a roll of film out of the pocket of his robe. This had all the evidence they’d need to shut down the smuggling operation. He’d give Illya a little more time to cool down before he asked him to develop it.
The final message on the answering machine was long, colorful, and in Russian. Napoleon was just starting to think up a plan to put a much greater distance between himself and the Red Peril when the door to his suite burst open to reveal a livid Illya in the doorway. The door crashed against the wall and then silence hung in the air as the two men stared at each other across the room. Illya’s fists were clenched at his sides and he breathed heavily through his nose, nostrils flaring.
Napoleon sat very still for a moment, trying to think of the right thing to say.
“I got your messages.”
That was not the right thing.
Illya gave an animalistic roar as he charged toward his stunned partner. Napoleon managed to leap out of the way just in time and Illya crashed into the small ornate table. The oversized Russian grabbed the table and threw it at Napoleon who frantically dove behind the sofa. The table crashed into a marble pedestal with a (rather tacky) bust of Julius Caesar on it. Wood chunks and marble shards flew everywhere. Napoleon stayed down and waited for the next attack but when it didn’t come he slowly peeked over the back of the sofa at Illya.
Right into the barrel of his gun.
“Whoa, hold on there, Illya…” Napoleon began, putting his hands up in surrender and slowly standing. Illya responded with a growl. Then his hand dropped and he fired every bullet in his weapon into the answering machine on the floor between them.
The two men stared at the now completely unrecognizable device in silence for a long moment. Then Napoleon looked up and gave Illya his usual cocky grin.
“Always a pleasure working with you, Peril.”