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My partner didn’t even have the decency to hide his smirk as we made our way from Napoleon’s tomb back to our hotel.
“Alright, laugh it up,” I said, when I just couldn’t take it any longer, “I suppose you’re named for some irreproachable peasant ancestor, who never traveled more than 100 versts from his beloved potato farm and never cracked a smile in his life.”
“Actually, no,” Illya, at least, did smile. “I’m certain even you’ve heard of the person I’m named after. These days, he may be better known than poor, outmoded Bonaparte.”
I felt my brow furrow, “Who?”
“Duke Ellington,” he grinned. “Fortunately for me, my parents thought it would be impolitic to publically advertise their love of American jazz music.”
And with that he walked on, leaving me to pick my jaw up off the sidewalk.
He whistled as he walked, and I caught a few bars, ‘It Don’t Mean a Thing.’
God, I wish I could tell when Illya Kuryakin was lying.