SquidgeWorld Archive

Napoleon Solo stood on the edge of the cliff hanging above Lake Geneva.  He was trying to escape the celebration currently taking place in the hotel.  He pulled out the telegram from his pocket that he had been carrying for months.

Regret to inform you death of your mother stop Natural causes stop Arrangements already made stop No need to return stop.  Dr. Ralph Bender 

Solo wadded the paper and let it drift down the mountain.  It was time to let it go.  He was now alone.  He no longer had anyone who could be held hostage to him.  He had never actually known his father and now his mother was gone.  Peacefully by all accounts.  It was not as if they had been particularly close.  She had never approved of his marriage nor his career choice made after the death of his wife.

Now he was here, staying at the Grand Hotel du Perc, during the Christmas season.  A season he had not celebrated in years.  Napoleon heaved a deep sigh, gave one last look at the view and headed back to the hotel.  He had a job to do, for which he was grateful.

A sleigh pulled up to the entrance.  Napoleon entered only to trip over a large pile of luggage.  A young lady appeared, swathed in fur.   “My luggage,” she cried.

“I’m sorry.  I didn’t see them,” Napoleon said, straightening the fallen luggage up. 

“That is quite all right.”  Her words spoken in English held a hint of an accent. 

Napoleon’s eyes traveled from her well-turned ankles, up shapely legs, past a well wrapped body to an elfin face, large blue eyes, red, red lips her blonde hair coiffed to perfection.  In her hand was an unlit cigarette.  Being the gentleman that he was, Napoleon pulled a lighter from his pocket.  “Napoleon Solo,” he said introducing himself.

She took a puff on her cigarette.  “You may call me Angelique.”

Napoleon gave her a brilliant smile.  Perhaps this assignment would be worthwhile after all.  That evening they spent time wining and flirting shamelessly.  They talked about everything yet said nothing.  Eventually they ended up in her room for the night. 

In the early morning hours, Napoleon made his escape to his room.  Angelique was undoubtedly THRUSH, and with equal certainty she knew he was U.N.C.L.E.  After checking his room to make sure it was clean of listening devices, Napoleon removed a box shaped cigarette case that was his communicator.  Adjusting the dial, he tuned into a open channel.  “Open channel D – London relay,” he requested.

“U.N.C.L.E.  London, here,” came a no-nonsense feminine voice.  “Have you anything to report, Mr. Solo.”

Napoleon slipped off his shoes and leaned back on the bed getting comfortable. “Nothing positive.  I think I have been made, however.  Can you send someone to assist me?”

“Mr. Solo, you do realize this is the Christmas season?” The English accented voice held disbelief, as if he should know that they would have no one available.  Silence prevailed as he stared at his communicator.  “There might be someone,” the voice said hesitantly.  “Fresh out of Survival School.  Will he do?”

“If you have no one else, I guess he will have to do,” Napoleon answered in a clipped tone.

“He will arrive this afternoon.”

“How will I recognize him?”

“You won’t.”  The voice held a hint of amusement.  “He will recognize you.  U.N.C.L.E. London out.”  The connection was broken.

Reluctantly rising, Napoleon put away his communicator and then undressed.  If his backup was not showing until later he might as well get some rest.  He had not gotten any in Angelique’s room, he remembered with a smile.

After a few hours rest, Napoleon was up and out, hoping he could spot his fellow U.N.C.L.E. agent first.  Angelique had finally vacated her room to join him for a very late lunch. The cheerfulness of the guests and his forced cheeriness in return was driving him crazy making him edgy.  Angelique had invited him back to her room for another rematch, which he had regretfully declined. 

Napoleon still had a sly smile on his face as he reached for the light switch in his room, when he realized he was not alone.  His hand went for his gun at the same time as he spotted someone sitting in a chair at the far side of the room, the stranger’s gun already pointed his way.  Napoleon moved his hand away from his holster and shut the door to the room, and was gratified when the other man holstered his gun as well.

“You sent for me, I believe?”  A lightly accented voice said in English.  The young man rose gracefully from the chair and held out his hand.  “Illya Kuryakin – London.”

“Napoleon Solo,” Napoleon responded, noting the young man’s slight stature, his blond hair, blue eyes, his somber facial expression.  He couldn’t have been more then twenty-one – twenty-two at the most.  Two years younger then Napoleon’s twenty-four.

“I know,” the voice was curt and he did not seem happy.  “What is it you need of me?”

“Sorry to take you away from your Christmas celebration,” Napoleon said sarcastically.

“It was no problem.  I have no one…” the young man left it at that.  “I will not be missed.”

That brought the American up short.  He had been so immersed in his own melancholy that he failed to consider someone else might also feel the same.  Feeling ashamed, but careful not to show it, Napoleon waved him back to his seat and sat on the bed to explain.  The young man, Russian by the sound of his name, listened intently, offering helpful suggestions.  Soon they had a workable plan.

~mfu~

It was the day before Christmas, and Napoleon was pacing next to the car parked on the mountain road, waiting the Russian’s arrival.  The plan had gone without a hitch.  He had kept Angelique well occupied, while Kuryakin completed the mission.  As a rule Napoleon preferred to work alone, but he had to admit that the Russian had proven an asset.

Napoleon tensed when the touch of metal connected with the back of his neck.

“Darling, you weren’t planning on leaving with out saying good-bye?”  Angelique purred.

He relaxed and she pulled back slightly, her gun unerringly aimed at his chest as he slowly turned around.  

“Why Angelique!” he exclaimed in fake surprise.

“Okay, Solo.  Where is it?” Angelique asked, her voice hard.

“You hurt me to the quick,” Napoleon responded, moving closer as she moved back.  “I was with you the whole time.”

A tap to her shoulder caught Angelique off guard and a hand sneaked around the other side, relieving her of the pistol she held.  She moved away, pulling her fur coat closer around her.  Her eyes wavering between the blond-haired man, who had wisely stepped back and now held her gun, to the devilishly handsome Solo.

“You took your sweet time,” Solo remarked.

“Well, you did not actually look like you needed help,” The Russian said placidly.

The two men ignored Angelique, much to her pique, and Kuryakin got behind the wheel of the car while Napoleon took the passenger seat.

Angelique looked through the window.  “Well, darling, all’s fair in love and war.  May I have my little pistol back?”

Napoleon noted the exasperated expression on the Russian’s face, then turning back flashed her his charming grin.  “Not on your life…, darling.”

Kuryakin put the car in gear and they drove away, leaving Angelique standing alone in the middle of the road.

~mfu~

The two agents arrived at U.N.C.L.E. headquarters London on Christmas Eve and turned in their reports.  The voice Napoleon had heard over his communicator belonged to an attractive brunette. 

“I’m very sorry, Mr. Solo.  I already have plans for this evening,” she informed the American when he pressed her to join him for a late dinner.  “It is Christmas Eve after all.”

Napoleon took the rejection rather well, considering.  “Oh well, at least tell me were I can spend the night.”

“I’m afraid what with it being Christmas, everything is booked,” the brunette said sympathetically.

Kuryakin, standing nearby during the conversation, spoke up hesitantly, “You can stay with me.”

Napoleon cast a searching look at the young Russian, causing him to fidget.  “Thank you,” he said accepting the invitation.  With a final smile for the brunette he followed the Russian out.

~mfu~

The two agents stopped for something to eat before arriving at Kuryakin’s small flat.  “I am sorry.  It is not very big.  You may have the bed.  I will sleep on the couch,” Illya said as he pulled down the Murphy bed from the wall.

“I could take the sofa,” Napoleon offered, his eyes going from the narrow bed to the lumpy sofa that along with small tree atop a well-worn dresser made up the furnishings in the small room.

“No.  No, I would not feel like a good host if I let you do that.”

Napoleon sat gingerly upon it, testing the mattress.  “This will be fine.  Thank you.”

Illya stood there nervously.  “There are wash towels in the WC and extra blankets in the bureau.”  He headed toward the flat door.  “I will see you later.”

Solo looked at him in surprise.  “Where are you going?” he blurted out without thinking.

Kuryakin turned back somewhat embarrassed.  “It is Christmas Eve.  There is a Russian Orthodox Church not far away.”

“I didn’t think Russians attended church,” Napoleon joked, the joke falling flat.

A corner of Illya’s mouth turned up slightly.  “It does not hurt to hedge one’s bets,” he offered somewhat apologetically.

The two men stood there awkwardly.  One who had lost faith and the other who admittedly should not have any.

“Would you mind if… I joined you,” the American asked hesitantly.

The Russian gave him a piercing look, as if to look into his very soul.  A soul Napoleon had thought lost years ago.  A warm smile flashed across Kuryakin’s face as he recognized the sincerity in the request.  “I would be honored.”

~mfu~

Upon Solo’s return to New York, he requested three days leave for personal business.

With flowers in hand, Napoleon found himself at his mother’s gravesite in Wisconsin.  He had stopped to see her attending physician, quite a bit younger then she, not surprised to find that the two had been more than Dr./Patient.  Napoleon knew his mother’s taste, of course, and that she never lacked for companionship.  It was this that had made it easy for him to go off and pursue his own activities.  She had never needed him and he sometimes wondered if she had ever wanted him.

His attendance of the Russian mass had been most illuminating, though he had understood not a word.  Something he planned to rectify.  The Russian, Illya, had sat throughout the service, his eyes closed in peaceful repose. 

After the service they had returned to the flat, the solemnity of the occasion affecting them both.  No words were exchanged, none were needed.   Silently, the two men got ready for bed, each thinking thoughts they did not care to share.  Napoleon lay awake most of that night, listening to the quiet breathing of his host.  For the first time in a long while, Napoleon finally understood the meaning of the Christmas season.  Gradually a feeling of peacefulness settled over Napoleon as if something he had been missing was finally set free.

Napoleon’s flight to New York had been early the next morning and Illya had graciously offered to see him off.  The two shook hands before Solo boarded the plane.

“Thank you,” Napoleon had said earnestly.  “For everything.”

He turned back before entering the plane and saw the light of understanding and compassion in the Russian’s eyes and had oddly did not resent it.

Things would be different now.  No longer would he be as reckless and unconcerned as he had been.  It was as if he had rejoined the Human Race.

“Good-bye, Mother,” Napoleon said solemnly as he laid the flowers down upon her grave.  Standing up tall he stood there for a few minutes more before turning to walk away.

One trivia note: in the May 12 draft of The Double Affair/The Spy with My Face, we're told that Solo's mother lived in Wisconsin and died of natural causes in 1956.  See William Koenig’s web sitehttp://members.aol.com/Wmkoenig/unclepg.htm