azdak

The Heir Affair



Warnings: As fluffy as a pair of dice suspended from a rear view mirror, and about as tasteful.



“Does it seem to you,” said Illya, pushing open a door and then peering round it when no-one shot at him, “that there's a distinct shortage of guards in this building?”

“Perhaps they're on lunch break,” suggested Napoleon, trying the next handle. This door, too, swung open instantly, as if eager to show off its unlocked state. Once again, no-one shot at them.

“You're sure she's on the third floor?”

“Positive. Of course, my informant could have been misinformed. Perhaps she's actually in the cellar.”

“There's no respect for royalty these days.”

“You're a fine one to talk, look what your country did to its Tsar.”

“Desperate times call for desperate measures,” said Illya, “But as I understand it, Count Falkenstein has not kidnapped the Princess in order to institute a Soviet Republic, he's just putting pressure on the girl's uncle to abdicate in her favour. With himself as eminence grise, no doubt.”

“Well, if she is up here, they seem awfully confident that she's not just going to walk out,” mused Napoleon. “Perhaps she's not as unwilling a prisoner as the reports suggest?”

“She may have fallen in love with her captor,” said Illya, who had spent enough time in Napoleon's company to know that there was no stupidity womankind would not descend to for the sake of Love. “That could be a problem.”

“Then she'll just have to transfer her affections to her gallant rescuer. Look, this is getting ridiculous, this is the last room in the corridor.”

Napoleon was professional enough to take the usual precautions when opening the door, even though the last fifteen had been patently unguarded, but this one, too, swung innocently open. Illya poked his gun and then his head through the doorway, and froze.

“Um, Napoleon?” he said faintly, “Did the reports say how old the Princess von und zu Hohenzollern was?”

Napoleon pushed past him into the room. Like the rest of the building, it was decorated in gold and white splendor, the walls lined with mirrors and Louis XIV furniture, but with one significant difference. In the middle of the ornate parquet floor of this particular room there was a wicker basket, and poking out over the edge of the basket was a tuft of dark hair and a pair of wide astonished eyes.

“Tatte!” said Prinzessin Zophia Magdalena Felicitas Maria von und zu Hohenzollern.

“Good grief!” said Napoleon. “Illya, it's a baby!”

“No wonder your observational skills are the envy of Section Two,” said Illya. “But look on the bright side, Napoleon. Now you will not have to persuade her to transfer her affections from her captor.”

At that moment the sound of shouting and running feet in the corridor outside suggested that their presence in the building had been discovered.

“Desperate times call for desperate measures,” said Napoleon. “Here, you climb out of the window with her Highness and I'll cover you.”

Illya would have much preferred to be the one to provide the cover, but there was no time to argue. He opened the window and looked out, relieved to see that there were as yet no guards outside. A thick layer of ivy provided an obvious way down, but he didn't think even he could manage the climb one-handed, and since the basket was certainly too heavy to hold between his teeth, there was nothing for it but to tuck the baby inside his jacket. He had been in many unpleasant situations during his career at UNCLE, but this climb, with the heir to a throne wriggling and screaming against his chest, not to mention constantly threatening to slip out of his jacket and plummet two floors to her death, was one of the worst. He was amazed when all three of them made it to the car alive.




“Mr Waverly?” said Napoleon into the communicator, as Illya raced the car down the mountain, “We've got the princess, sir. Er, you didn't mention at the briefing that she's still a minor. Very minor.”

“Yes, I'm sorry about that, Mr Solo, most remiss of Section III. I've issued a reprimand.”

“What shall we do now, sir? Count Falkenstein seems to have set some kind of private army on our heels.”

“Ah yes, Sidonia is something of an anachronism in modern Europe. It's an absolute monarchy and the aristocracy has the right to maintain private regiments, so you'll have to be careful. Obviously, you need to return the Princess to the care of her guardian, Baron Rosenau. What's that noise? There must be interference on the line.”

“It's the Princess, sir.”

“What? I can't hear you.”

“The Princess, sir!”

“I can't hear you...” There was a crackly sound and the line went dead.

“What's happened?” said Napoleon, “Shush, shush, shush. Why won't my communicator work?”

“It probably couldn't handle that many decibels,” said Illya, “They're very sensitive devices.” The car veered wildly round a curve and he added urgently “As am I. I can't concentrate on steering with that caterwhauling.”

“Coochy coochy coo,” said Napoleon rather desperately. “It's not working! What's wrong with her?”

Illya briefly shifted his attention from the winding mountain road and said “She's probably hungry. I know I am. But we have a more pressing problem - ”

“More pressing than than a starving banshee?”

“Much. One of the bullets must have hit the gas tank, we're going to run out any minute now.”

Napoleon looked around. On either side of the road thick pine forests stretched away as far as the eye could see. They could try to make it to Rosenau on foot, but with the noise the baby was making, Falkenstein's men would be able to pinpoint their position from miles away.

“Any sign of an inn?” he said, clutching at straws.

“There is a town coming up,” said Illya. “We could ditch the car on the other side and double back.”

“Unless you have a better plan,” said Napoleon, “I suggest we do that. At least that way we can get the baby fed. What do you feed babies anyway?”

Illya looked blank. “Milk,” he said eventually.

“She looks a bit big for milk,” said Napoleon doubtfully, “and anyway, we don't have a bottle. Don't they eat stuff out of little jars?”

“If they don't have any jars,” said Illya, “just order everything on the menu and see what she fancies. I don't mind eating leftovers.”




It seemed Illya's luck rather than Napoleon's was currently holding sway, for the town in which they were forced to take refuge proved to be the location of Castle Falkenstein, as evidenced by the enormous stone falcon over the bridge that led across the moat and the coats of arms displayed outside various shops (“Kartoffel and Krummbeer, Purveyors of Fine Vegetables, By appointment to Count Falk von Falkenstein!”). Illya had finally quietened the baby down by giving her the car keys to play with, so Napoleon went into the inn by the front door to book a room, and Illya and the baby came in via a window at the back. Claiming a slight indisposition, Napoleon asked to have a meal sent up. It turned out that babies mostly ate peas, delivered rather inelegantly to the mouth by way of the ear, the nose and the floor; and sometimes potatoes, if these were mashed into the gravy with a fork. The resulting mess looked as if Napoleon's slight indisposition had affected his stomach. Illya, meanwhile, had taken Napoleon's communicator to pieces and was attempting to fix the fault. The Princess, finally replete, fell silent, with an expression of profound concentration on her chubby face.

“What do you suppose she's thinking about?” Napoleon asked, half genuinely curious, half sentimental. “If she could say more than 'tatte', we could ask her.”

“If the lion could speak, we could not understand him,” said Illya. “Wittgenstein,” he added, without looking up from his work.

At the word “Wittgenstein” the baby's expression of concentration deepened and her eyes began to water. Fearful that she was about to start crying again, Napoleon picked her up, only to hear a sound reminiscent of one of Illya's explosions coming from her nether regions. This time Illya did look up.

“It seems we are up poop creek without a paddle,” he remarked.

“Shit,” corrected Napoleon.

“Mind your language, Napoleon, there is royalty present.”

Napoleon refused to dignify Illya's pitiful attempts at wit with a response. He had more important matters to attend to, for his nose was screaming urgent instructions to his brain. Unfortunately, they were all concerned with washing and wiping. He stole a glance at Illya, whose head was bent industriously over the communicator components. No chance of dumping the problem there, then. He sighed piteously – still no response from Communicator Man – and then carried the Princess, held firmly at arm's length, over to the basin and sat her in it. Her Royal Highness wriggled in protest until Napoleon hit on the idea of turning her round so that she could play with the taps, a stroke of genius that kept her occupied throughout the complicated process of removing clothing, until she managed to turn one on and a jet of water bounced off the basin and soaked them both. The baby howled. Much as Napoleon would have liked to join her, he confined his own protest to a few muttered swear words – Illya was still totally absorbed in his Meccano project – and continued the grim task of stripping and cleaning. Only once there was no vestige of Poop Creek on either her bottom or his fingers, and he was about to wrap the wailing heir to the Sidonian throne in a towel, did he realize they had no dry clothes for her. On reflection, that was perhaps not such a problem, since he could always wrap her in Illya's shirt, Illya being closer to her size than he was, but how to replace the diaper? The only item in the room that came close to being of the same material was a towel, which was much too big, but this proved to be a blessing in disguise, since Napoleon was able to use the knife strapped to his calf to cut the towel into several diapers. Fitting them, however, tested his ingenuity to its limits.

“How the hell do you fold this thing?” he complained, sucking his finger, which had been wounded in the struggle.

This finally gained Illya's attention. “I thought you were the expert on female undergarments,” he said disapprovingly.

“Not ones this big,” snapped Napoleon. “Come on, give me a hand here, you're the UNCLE origami champion.”

Illya came up with several creative ways of folding the material, one of which was not dissimilar to the paper crane that had gained him his title, but none of them could be satisfactorily secured with a single pin. The difficulty was intensified by the anxiety both felt about accidentally puncturing the baby – although, as Illya pointed out, she was already yelling so hard it wouldn't make much difference anyway. In the end they used Napoleon's belt – on the grounds that his contained no dangerous wires or concealed explosives – wrapped repeatedly around the towel like an insane version of cat's cradle. The ensemble was topped off by Illya's shirt, out of which the Princess's head poked like a tufty black carrot. Any member of the Sidonian social services who happened to catch sight of her would immediately whisk her off into care, but aside from that, they were pleased with themselves. One more crisis surmounted.

“However, we still have not solved the problem of what to do next,” said Illya, blowing his hair out of his eyes, “We can't leave the inn with her – two men and a baby are going to be far too conspicuous. And your suit is soaking wet.”

“Well, we can't stay here,” said Napoleon logically. “It won't take them long to track us down, what with two men and a baby being so conspicuous.” A sudden gleam came into his eye and Illya shook his head, alarmed.

“Oh no, Napoleon, I won't do it!”

“Do what?”

“Whatever it is you're thinking of!”

“Now, now, Illya, you know I wouldn't ask you to do anything I wouldn't do myself...”

“But?”

“But what?”

“There is always a but.”

“But since you are the smaller man -”

“I've already given you my shirt,” Illya protested, “and this jacket scratches.”

“Ah, but this time I'm planning to give you clothes.” Napoleon's voice was soothing, but the gleam in his eye was still disconcertingly bright. “Do you see the line of washing in that garden?”

“You mean that line of washing hung with women's clothes?”

“That would be the one. Solves all our problems at one fell swoop. You can be mother and I'll be the proud father, that'll explain where the dark hair comes from.”

“No. I absolutely refuse.”




Napoleon thought Illya made a surprisingly unattractive woman. His proportions were all wrong. Admittedly he was about the right height and blond, which was always a plus point in Napoleon's book, but his shoulders turned out to be much broader than Napoleon had realized, and whereas as a man he had been slight but muscular, as a woman he was – there was only one word for it – squat. And his forehead was too high, and his nose too beaky, and even with two pillow cases stuffed into his brassiere, he didn't look inviting. In fact, he looked as if he was going to hit anyone who propositioned him clear into next Tuesday.

“Try to look a bit more maternal,” said Napoleon tactfully.

Illya snarled.

“Oh well, the female of the species is more deadly than the male,” said Napoleon, “Perhaps people will think you're just protecting your young. Speaking of which...” and he handed over the baby.

Illya took her with such bad humor that the Princess, showing a degree of insight into human nature that would doubtless serve her government well in future years, began to cry, and held out her arms to Napoleon. lllya's glower deepened. He didn't want to be the one who had to look after the baby, but on the other hand it seemed thoroughly unfair that, on top of every other indignity, she should like Napoleon best. His one consolation was that Napoleon looked almost as ridiculous as he did. Sidonian citizens were proud of their heritage and the only things they had been able to liberate in the way of men's clothing were the decorative breeches and red stockings that constituted the Sidonian national costume. With a growl, he dumped the Princess into her “father's” arms and stalked out into the street. Even in the interests of verisimilitude, he refused to swing his hips.



As they hurried through the cobbled streets, heading for the main square from which, they hoped, a bus might depart to the country's capital, two of Falkenstein's soldiers hailed them from behind.

“Hey! You there! With the baby!”

“Who, me?” said Napoleon, with what he hoped was peasant slow-wittedness. Both guards had guns aimed at them, so there was no chance of making a run for it.

The senior guard's brow darkened with suspicion. “Here, you're foreign,” he said.

“Er, yes, how observant of you,” said Napoleon, quickly changing tack, “and may I say how delightfully comfortable your Sidonian peasant outfits are. No wonder the tourist industry is burgeoning. Come along, darling,” - taking Illya's arm - “we don't want to be late for lunch.”

“Oh no you don't,” said the guard, “I'm not falling for that line.” He lifted the Princess out of Napoleon's arms and handed her to his colleague. “I reckon I know who this is,” he said with satisfaction. “You're coming with me, sunshine. And,” - leering at Illya - “you're lucky I don't give you whatfor for inveigling an innocent flower of Sidonian womanhood into your evil schemes.”

The flower of Sidonian womanhood glared at him as if considering where a well-placed boot would do maximum damage, but the guard merely winked and said “You can thank me later, sweetheart. Come on, sunshine, Count Falkenstein wants a word with you.” Giving Illya a parting pinch on the behind, he frog-marched Napoleon off towards the castle, his colleague trotting rather nervously behind with the baby, who had once again started to howl.



The mission, Illya reflected, was not going too well. In the absence of a better plan – a phrase which frankly characterized the entirety of this affair so far – he supposed he had better find out if the castle had any vulnerable spots that might be breached a by night-time visitor with athletic climbing skills. That the night-time visitor would also need a rope was a problem he could solve later. Accordingly, he began to follow the walls that snaked through the town, and presently found himself in the main square, where market day was in full swing. Peasants in traditional costume mingled with eagle-eyed housewives shopping for vast families; tourists were photographing a quaint herd of sheep; pensioners lingered over wine-and-water at pavement cafés; children raced each other around a fountain at the center of the square, to the annoyance of the shepherd, who considered that they were upsetting his flock; and a queue of traffic was building up behind a wagon full of hay drawn by a donkey that stubbornly refused to budge from the spot.

In spite of the cacophony of horn-honking, bleating, braying, yelling, squealing, bargaining and arguing, and the heaving mass of color and motion that filled the square, a movement in the corner of his eye nevertheless caught Illya's attention. Glancing up, he saw a figure in red stockings scrambling along the battlements of the castle wall, hampered somewhat by a bundle clutched to its right shoulder, and above the noise of the market, Illya was sure he heard the familiar sound of a baby wailing.

“Napoleon!” he shouted. A couple of market women turned round curiously and saw Napoleon's progress along the wall. Their jaws dropped open and they began to nudge their neighbors, but Illya spared them no attention. He was pretty sure Napoleon had seen him, because he had started to turn his head, but he couldn't be certain, for at that moment Falkenstein's soldiers had appeared on the battlements. Instinctively, Illya reached for his gun, only to find himself fishing under his own skirts. He cursed, then looked around frantically for a weapon, unable to resign himself to the role of helpless onlooker.

Thirty feet above him, Napoleon wobbled precariously along the battlements, the soldiers behind him gradually gaining ground. He might, or might not, have made it as far as the moat, but this was a moot point, for well before he reached the bridge, Count Falkenstein himself appeared on the wall.

“That's far enough, fellow! Surrender or I'll open fire!”

Napoleon froze, then rotated himself awkwardly to face the Count. The entire market waited, enthralled, to see what he would do.

“It seems to me that what we have here is a Sidonian stand-off, Falkenstein. If you shoot me, you'll also kill the Princess.”

“The Princess!” gasped someone in the crowd, “He's got the Princess Zofia!”

“What, that baby up there?”

“That's the Princess!”

If Count Falkenstein had paid more attention to the mutterings of the crowd, he might have realized which way the political wind was blowing, but he was a hereditary aristocrat who had never seen any reason to listen to the great unwashed. Instead, he addressed his remarks exclusively to the enemy teetering on the wall in front of him, ignoring the crowd of breathless onlookers.

“That's a risk I'll have to take. If the Princess should unfortunately be killed during the capture of a dangerous criminal, the crown would pass to – oh, me! I'd hardly call that a stand-off, would you?”

Napoleon hesitated for a moment, then with sudden resolve lifted the baby above his head in a gesture that might have been surrender or might have been a threat. The market crowd goggled, then gasped in shock as he flung the baby out over their heads. The child's screams of terror could clearly be heard as she cartwheeled through the air – twenty feet from the ground – fifteen – five – to land with a thump in the arms of a squat young peasant woman with excellent reflexes and surprisingly strong arm muscles.

Up on the parapet, the soldiers let loose a volley of fire, their target no longer protected by the presence of the Princess. The noise ripped the crowd's attention away from the baby and they looked up in time to see the kidnapper topple from the wall. And land, with quite extraordinary good fortune, bang in the middle of the hay cart. The donkey, startled by the unexpected activity behind her, flattened her ears and broke into a trot. As the soldiers poured out of the castle gates, they were met by a barrage of vegetables from the outraged crowd. The wheels of history had begun to turn.



In spite of the success of the mission, Waverly received his two returning agents with a distinct lack of enthusiasm.

“Well, Mr Solo,” he said gruffly, “I suppose congratulations are in order, although I hope you aren't going to make a habit of fomenting revolution every time you're sent on a mission.”

“The Sidonian political system was thoroughly out-dated, sir,” said Illya supportively. “It was bound to bow to world-historical pressure to devolve power to the peasants and proletariat - even without Napoleon's help.”

“Quite so, Mr Kuryakin,” said Waverly, “and I suppose peasants with pitchforks are the traditional way of overthrowing a tyrant. Nonetheless, may I remind you that you were sent to rescue the heir to the throne, not to topple that throne.”

“It won't happen again, sir,” said Napoleon, “Though all things considered, I'd rather be a father of democracy than the father of a baby.”